Men, Men, Menly Men

I make poor choices in men.

From my 8th grade boyfriend Billy (who was older and already in high school and who wanted way more than a 13 yr old was ready to give) to the man I met when I was 38, newly divorced and as raw as a 13 yr old... I make poor choices.

A stalked me and my girlfriends one christmas vacation when we went caroling, sneaking around behind us and noting details to share with me afterward to prove he'd done it.  Ahhhh, Jr. High.

B had a juvenile criminal record,  Oh, High School.

C had a girlfriend back home.  Hello College.

D hid debt and despair under credit cards and fast cars.  Welcome to adulthood.

E forgot to mention that he wasn't actually divorced... or that he had a son.  And here we go, grownup style!

F couldn't separate love from control; power and shame from attraction and commitment...but he hid it well for 14 years of marriage.  Oh, wait, THIS is "grown up style"... ok... gotcha.

G made believe that a pierced penis and a job as a correctional officer was the same thing as "strong" and "safe" and "brave" and "authentic".  Steve was wrong.

and H? H convinced himself that love and control were the same... that attraction and attachment were equal to love and commitment: and he nearly convinced a 38 year old divorcee that it was so. Ahhh, this is life!  The learning of your own infallibility and how you play out your own mistakes time and time again until you LEARN something.

ouch.

I will rewrite my own story though, and I will write about my discernment, my patience, my authenticity and transparency.  I will write of my open and welcoming spirit that does not long for whats missing but that waits for something more to add to an already peaceful perfect life.  I will write of confidence, of humor, of acceptance and joy.  And I will write of men.  Of Menly Men.  Of MY men...and of my good choices.

Another piece of my heart...

Its graduation time.  Caps and gown and speeches and parties time.  Pride and relief and anxiety and confidence time.  Deep thoughts time.

I watched my third child walked across the same stage that her siblings had done in past years; and applauded as she accepted her diploma from the same high school that her siblings had; and I cried, just like I did for her siblings. Mom of 3 graduates, and another 14 years before my fourth and final child makes that same walk.

But someone else special to me graduated too, from a different school on a different night.  And although I didn't watch it happening, I've seen the photos and video clips and cried the same happy momma tears for her.  She is my... well, step-daughter I guess - for lack of a better word.

I'm not married (nor ever was) to her father.  I've never lived in the same house with her, never spent more than 2 or 3 nights in a row with her under my roof.  I've never fought with her over homework or chores, curfew, language... I've never taken her to or from school or camp or lessons, I've never taken her to a doctor or picked up a prescription from a pharmacy for her.  Never taken care of her when she's sick.  But I have prayed for this child, cried over her and for her, had long dramatic conversations in the car with her, seen her build relationships with my children, and call them her siblings, and seen her fall in love with the new baby brother her father and I brought into this family.

When I first met her, she was 11.  Long skinny arms and legs, wearing a knit winter cap over her blondish hair and sitting on her daddy's lap.  She was tiny, this girl - and now at 18 she barely hits 5' even and has to have any formal wear tailored down to fit her extremely petite self - because she rocks the curves of a taller woman in spite of her lack of height.  I'm so proud of her, but feel like I need to stay backstage, in the wings, offering only a hug and a smile when she comes to me.  She is so fortunate to have a tight relationship with her mom and her step dad - she is well loved and cared for and has had all the support and encouragement and opportunities you could imagine.  There is very little room for me as a parent, as the mom of her brother, as the partner (former) of her father.  He isn't as involved in her life as I think he should be anyway, so my presence is even of less value due to that.  But none of that lessens my actual love for her.  My love for her is so big...

I love her drama, her crazy talent, her wild emotions, her hour long showers that turn into 2 hour long bathroom sessions, her perpetually messy life, I love it all.  I worry about her - about the hospital stays and the therapy and the medications and the always real concern for her well being.  She is not my daughter, and nothing like the daughters that grew in my womb, she is loud and theatrical and her emotions fling like rainbows from her soul...and I SEE her - and I love her, and I'm so happy for her...and I'm sorry to be part of something that hurts her, confuses her, pulls her in different directions.  But none of it diminishes my love for her.

Happy Graduation, daughter of my heart, and may only good things come to you to balance out the "not good" that you've had more than enough of.

I love you!

D

The Napping House

The boy fell asleep halfway thru singing about his lost blue lazer-light.  I don't know how that is possible, but it is, and he did.  I suppose if I can fall asleep halfway thru praying, then he can fall asleep halfway thru singing.  Besides, he's only three so he can kind of do whatever he wants and it's still within the norm.

The dog is asleep too.  He is pressed against my right thigh, all warm and heavy and doggy-ish.  He occasionally twitches or sighs and I am feeling envious of the napping that is going on around me.

I tried to nap 3 times already.  The first time was after our 4:18 am fiasco with the leaking pull-up.  But the boy was awake enough, after the rudeness of my cold hands on his bare body as I wrestled him into dry clothes, that he couldn't fall back asleep.  His constant thrashing and twisting, combined with the irresistible nature of his tender little kisses and pleas for hugs made "napping" impossible for me as well.  Later around 10, when I realized we weren't going to make it to church in spite of being fully dressed, made up, and with keys in hand; I tried to lay down with him.  Cue the giggling and the kissing.  Man does that boy love to kiss his momma.  Add in the dog barking because 10 am is actually a busy time outside and there were any number of things that needed to be barked at.  Finally I bribed the boy with a movie and a snuggle on the couch at about 1 pm.  Cozy blankets, a few pillows, a dvd on very low volume...and I did doze off; however it was with the unfortunate rasp of Cruella DeVille snaking its way into my semi-sleep and so when the boy slithered off the couch and promptly stepped on a lego (and cried) I was brought harshly to consciousness.  I might possibly had developed a wee bit of a cranky nature by then.

Now it is after 3 and when I put him up in his own bed and told him I was setting a timer for 10 minutes so I could "wash dishes" before we went to the store, I did not expect myself to catch a second wind.  But I did.

So I sit; in this quiet, dark, napping house. I try to not think about the long evening hours ahead, but instead about the hours I spent with my little guy today;  how he showed me his "yoga" and how he made me do push-ups, and how we played legos and how I gave him fruit snacks for no reason at all, and how much I love this little boy...and the dog...and our little safe space in this life, even when everyone else gets a nap except me.

What else can I do?

Some time ago I told you, "something happened and I have to tell you some important thing!" and then life happened and I never got around to telling you...  but now, too late on a work night, after one glass of wine too many, I have to tell someone, anyone, because I can't stop thinking about it and so this is what happened.

First of all, I did something illegal.  So... Yeah.   Ok.  Remember when I stored some boxes at C's house? And then I moved and I thought I got all of them but last summer she called to tell me her daughter found a couple more.  So I went and got them and brought them home and opened them to see what it was that I hadn't even thought about enough to notice I was missing...and they were *M's boxes.  Boxes full of her clothes, shoes, pictures, art work, some toys, all the DCF paperwork, the contracts, my initial notes from her placement, a record of doctor visits...her state ID cards, her medical record number...

I cried.

A lot.

For a week.

Because what else could I do?

And then I saw the light.  I saw her medical record number.  And... I did that illegal thing.  I went to work where I had promised to never do the very thing I was doing... and I looked her up.  Because what else could I do?

She was 10 months old when she was placed with me, she was just 2 years and 3 weeks old when they took her back.  I loved her for just over a year...  Now? She will be 9 in just a couple of weeks.  

The last note in her record was from a couple years ago.  She was maybe 7...she was presenting to the ER because a teacher reported possible sexual abuse.  The notation states she is learning disabled, slow...like her mom.  She lives with her father though.  The report cleared her father...and recommended further DCF follow up.  I read it all at work, silently and stoically, and secretively, and then I went to the employee bathroom and threw up.  Twice.  Because what else could I do?

Once upon a time I had a little brown girl in my arms and in my heart, and now I am broken...and so is she... 

So I pray... Please, pray with me, for her.  Because what else can I do?

Freedom

Freedom tastes like sourdough bread from the farmers market, still warm; an ice cold glass of moscato; feta cheese, grape tomatoes, and basil that was grown from your own garden...

Freedom smells like a cranberry chutney candle; freshly mown grass in the warm spring air, your own warm skin in the middle of the night...

Freedom feels like waking up slowly before the alarm; the first hot shower after a camping trip; crisp clean sheets after a long day...

Freedom sounds like a million peepers on a summer night; an amateur street guitarist; the cadence of saying "yes" whenever you want to; the air on your skin...

Tell Me Who I Am

Two years ago - floating, flailing, failing... Who am I? Where do I belong? Alone, orphan, single, abandoned, struggling...

One year ago - in the middle of cousins and aunties and uncles, surrounded, enveloped, drowned in love, people with the same eyes, same nose, same tilted mouth, the lilt of accent that sounded like home to my ears...

Today - lonely, longing, afraid, insecure, settled in mind yet unsettled in soul, searching and aching, reaching out and pulling back and tethered to the shore of conformity...

And what to do? Stay and be in the safety of misery? Run to the unknown yet familial comfort? 

Can you ever really go home again?

I think not...but I wonder, what else is there to do? 

A Soft Place To Rest

I called her in absolute desperation.

I try to consider calling on God, but in the moment, when the pain is so cellular, I call her.

I am laying prone on the floor, cell phone pressed painfully tight and surprisingly hot to my ear, alternating sobbing huge hiccupy gasping sobs with monosyllabic grunty acknowledgements of her words so she knows I am listening, knows I am breathing, knows I am "here".

These are things she says to me, words that illuminate my dark bitter dumping ground of emotional agony:

~ your kids? They are good people!

~ you don't have money for that tuition for him? But you give So. Much. More. than any amount of money...

~ you have ethic and morals, you give 110%!

~ I know who you ARE. I was there! I saw you...

~ you are understanding, compassionate, you have so much self-worth!

~ I will always remind you, of what a good person you are, what a good mom you are, I KNOW you, you listen to ME!

A friend like her? A friend for close to 15 years? She is worth, as a famous 'book' is known for saying, far more than rubies or Gold... This friend has sat with me in sorrow and grief, held me like a child in her arms and let me scream out my unfathomable pain.  She has seen me broken and destroyed, and seen me rising from the ashes, and seen me somewhat nearly whole, complete, crossed to the other side.  So when she tells me that I am good, that I am strong, right, validated, believed, accepted, NORMAL,  I have to believe her.  

I slide into sleep this night with acid tears sliding from my eyes, trailing the contours of my face from my eye to my temples and leaving silvered trails of anguish reaching into my hairline.

As I weep, I hear her voice: I will remind you...  And I want to say this: oh Holy Spirit thank you for this friend of mine, thank you for your very presence in her voice tonight.  I am saved because of her.

There is a story here...

He keeps trying to write in the sand but the waves slide relentlessly over his work and erase his efforts.   Randomly he gets one word done and snaps a picture.   I watch him in sidelong glances from where I am sitting in the sand several feet above the tentacles of the highest wave.

In between glances, I gaze out into the wide, wild, endless Hawaiian ocean spreading before me and I try to breathe away the last 7 years of stress.

I see him again, this time trying to pose and take a selfie in front of his word but the waves comes and wash it away and also gets his butt wet.   He writes "Marry Me" in the sand, over and over and over again but the tide keeps washing it away, and finally when he gets it done and poses, the water just comes right up and drenches him.   I wonder if this is an omen?

I choose this moment to leap up and run a few feet closer to the tide line.   I scrawl my own word with a fierce defiant pressure, using my index finger and hurrying before the next wave comes.   I write, "REGRET".

I am left waiting, wave after wave, for the ocean to come and claim my regret, to take it away from me, to erase it.   I wait far longer than I thought I would, much longer than Mr. Marry Me, but when a wave finally does break high enough and come rushing toward my word, it only erases a portion of it.

There is a story here I'm sure...

Regret

Regret tastes like foamy Guiness Stout; coffee on the hot plate too many hours; long expired milk.

Regret smells like plastic melting in a campfire; sweaty gym clothes forgotten in the trunk of a car; dogshit on your shoe.

Regret feels like accidentally brushing against stinging nettles; the stitch in your side from running too far, too hard; an invisible eyelash in your eye.

Regret looks like a forgotten sock, buried in dust bunnies, underneath the couch; a shopping cart full of toilet paper, coffee, wine, and lean cuisine; the star filled night sky - as endless as...regret.

Rejected

I failed.

I knew it would happen and steeled myself for it as best I could, but that rejection still managed to hurt like heck - and all the other feelings that go with the pain: fear, disappointment, shame, and even plain irritation.  If only I had navigated the situation a little better from the beginning!  Driving away from the inspection station with that bold red rejection sticker on my windshield had me cringing behind the wheel all the way to work... What? You thought I was talking about something else?

C'mon universe, I could use some protective energies here while I'm waiting for my repair appointment next week - I really really really don't need a ticket OR a towing/impounding bill!  I need grace... Just a smidge will do - thanks in advance! 

Contagious behavior

Everyday I ride a shuttle from a parking lot into my work.  Typically it's the same core group of people depending on who's late or early.  Since I sit at the front of the shuttle, it's become my habit after getting to work and trekking to the door from the drop site to swipe my badge to open the secure door and then just hold it open and let others go inside first.  Most people smile and say thanks, but there are two in particular who now, after months of this, try to take the door or encourage me to go ahead if them.  I smile and say, "it's ok, it's a good way to start the day by being nice to others!"  Occasionally one of them will GRAB the door and push me in, in a silly way, and we laugh and then I open the second door and usher them ahead of me. Ha!

Today, we got off the shuttle, the core four of us, and I am not joking here, the same two ladies RAN (in their dressy shoes and coats and carrying their pocketbooks and lunch sacs!) ahead to open the door! Funniest thing I've ever seen and I was laughing as I walked thru the door ahead of them.  But as we all went our separate ways, one sweet lady said, "it's contagious behavior, being nice to people..."

Yes, yes it is, and I intend to spread that stuff everywhere!

All the "feels"

I'm here!

It's me, waving in the dark...

I have all the hugs you need!

I am so broken tonight - just devastated, completely crushed...

Oh God, it hurts too much, too much, too much!

I'm sorry, it's not your fault baby, it's just how it is, our life, and none of it is your fault.

I will get up again in the morning, smiling, but tonight can't end quick enough!

I love you Cuz...

Those are all things I've said in the last few hours of this day - this Spring day - this endless God-forsaken day.  And they are all things I've said before, and will likely say again - but all of them? At once? On the same day? In that same order? God, please, not another day like this one, please...

Oh, well, yeah, I've said THAT before too.

It's time for a change I think...maybe time to embrace these kinds of days for what they are and what changes they bring  and what benefits they have...time to spring forward instead of springing back in fear...time to see what GOOD lies ahead in the midst of surprise and fear and sorrow.

Time to feel it - all those "feels"... And then to actually do something about it.  We DO have time for that.  We do.

Dear Momma

Tonight I miss you.  I miss you often, of course, and at certain times I miss you more than others, but tonight I am desperate for you.  

I wish that I could pick up the phone and just talk, cry, hear your voice soothing me, get your advice and encouragement, your love.  You've been gone for 20 years now, and I need you more than ever.

I don't know what I'm doing, momma.  You've done all of this before so tell me what to do now... You were gone before I ever knew I'd need you for this.  I don't know how to stop, back up, start over - I don't know how to go forward, to step out and believe that it will all be ok in the end.  I don't know how to go on... 

I imagine us sitting together, cups of creamy steamy coffee in front of us, you with a cigarette dangling from your fingers and a circle of smoke floating above you.  I see us at my kitchen table and the sun coming in thru the French doors and warming us.  (But, really, would you smoke in my house?) The dog will be in your lap, the baby will be in mine, and I will cry into his wispy hair.  You will stub out your cigarette and blow smoke off to the side (mom! Are you smoking near my baby?) as you reach out to grab my hand and hold it. I feel your dry skin, your firm grip, and I draw strength from you.  Maybe if I imagine it enough, I can pull some measure of strength from my imagination into this mess I so badly need you here for.

Be with me, but more than that, be with my son.  Whisper into your grandsons heart, be the voice in his head  that I can't be, be the lifeline he needs in my place - he won't listen to me, he won't hear me, and I'm so afraid of losing him.  Help him, momma, please... He won't let me.  I don't know how to be his momma, but you did it for two boys so surely you have the insight I need. 

I love you momma... I miss you...

For all of you, all at once...

I would slay any dragon for the sweet words you speak.  You give me courage immeasurable...

I would lay down my life to be back in your arms - to be back in your arms 10 years ago when I could have made things different... No, 15 years ago... No, 20 - that's right, it would need to take us back 20 years to make it right, but still, I would give everything I have now just to go back with this knowledge and insight...

I felt your prayers wash over me and I have to tell you the power of your good and honest prayer was a physical presence for me.  God was here, in my mouth and in my hands and in my perception and insight and emotions - He was here and it was better and I was protected.

I love you so... I see who you are and how you don't care (and yet how you ache and desire) and the mean and the kind and the hard and the soft and the tough and the weak - and oh God I love you so... You and I are bound by blood , by common experience: times when we were shaped into who we are - yet we are also separated later on by lives so drastically different which  shaped who we were into who we are NOW... But our very heartbeats thrum to the same rhythm of loss and regret and abandonment, who else could ever truly understand us but each other?

Oh how i hate hate hate you and how he love love loves you - it cuts deep, like the scars on my arms that were there before we even met - his love and my hate.  His love wins.  And it always will.  I will forever taste bitterness with you.

I ache for your strength.  I know the demons you battle and I cannot figure out how you so gracefully navigate them.  I sit closer to you, text you more often, and invite you out repeatedly just so I can borrow your strength.

I am in awe of you.  I've given my children everything with no reward and you are there on your own with the daily drama and the 40 hour work week and the evening classes and papers and exams and that smile - oh that smile!!  I want to smack your parents into the next life so they can see the tremendous beauty that is YOU!

This year, this new year... I will honor all of you.  

Listening

I putter in the kitchen, slightly unwillingly but nonetheless doing it. The sounds of laughter and voices drift in waves from the living room and I want to be back there in the middle of it, joining in, not here in the cold kitchen with the dirty dishes, dried up dips, shriveled olives, and sticky floors. It's always the mom-job though, the clearing and cleaning and puttering, and I resolutely put on some holiday music and begin scraping and combining and tossing. As I work, the sounds from the living room become sweeter than any music I could ever find on the radio though, and I turn off the old JVC and start listening. I listen to this blended family of his-n-hers-n-theirs and as always my heart is shattered into fragments of love, loss, guilt, regret, resolve, and gratitude. I don't know where this family is headed, any one of them, but I know every decision and choice I make will impact each of these precious souls. And some days I don't want to make any choice or decision at all for fear of hurting these good and sweet people currently present. The laughter is near constant, puntuated by the variety of voices telling stories, remembering past moments, and those who add embellishments. The low rumble of the older boys sets the foundation: the two college boy-men with their facial hair and endless legs and appetites. The girls voices rise and fall in a dance around them, piercing giggles from the two younger sisters in high school and the slightly fuller voice of one of the boys' college girlfriend. And weaving it all together is the bird-like chirp of the toddler that connects them all to one another irrevocably. The staccato laugh of one will set off peals of laughter from another which causes the wheezy breathlessness of a third and on and on until they are rolling on the floor with tears streaming down their cheeks imploring each other to "Stop, stop, I'm dying! Please stahhhhp". And that is sometimes what I say to myself - with tears streaming down my cheeks - Stop. I'm dying. Please stop. I so very much love these half grown people, and the tiny little toddler that ties them all together with his little bird voice and his wet kisses and undeniable self righteous demand for attention. And yet... I am alternately full of gratitude for the partner with which I share these amazing spirits, and full of the desperate need to let go of a relationship that just doesn't work. I want to listen to my heart, but all I can hear is the laughter and love of these children.

Sifting

When I first came, I held my agenda tightly, in fisted hands, and spoke it out loud.  I was serious, focused, meaningful.  I was "with purpose"...

When I first came, with my fragile and vulnerable agenda, so heartfelt and full of intention and promise, I opened up to listen, to hear, to consider and contemplate.

When I first came, with open mind and open ears and seeking soul, I was thirsty and hungry but only for the healthiest of morsels, the richest bits, a tapas of unsampled tastings.

And so I listened.  I contemplated and considered, I tasted, purposefully, the offerings.  And now I'm finished.  

I leave here with my agenda, crumpled and smudged but still intact, and still held tightly; with my intention still active, my hunger and thirst still present, and my focus only sharper...and I leave not unfulfilled though - for I have seen things new, fresh, and uncovered that I can reframe for my agenda - I have new questions, new challenges, and even a new place to begin... 

I won't give up.  I have miles yet to travel and places to explore, but I leave here because this place is not the place for me to safely do so.  I leave because I know the safe place is out there still, and I deserve to find it.  I leave because I can... Because I am free to do so, because I have the choice.  I leave because in the sifting out, I see the fluff and the chaff that belongs to the wind, and I see the hearty bits that belong to me.  Those are the bits I hold carefully and keep from harm, those are the bits I carry forward into the next safe places.  

I didn't even get a lanyard...

(From the poem by Billy Collins)

Another Mother's Day come and gone. 

I keep trying to approach the day realistically and without expectation but I failed; no surprise really but I'm trying to take my failure in stride.  As a friend of mine once said, "...well that seems to be true of so many other things in your life, it's just never enough"... Oddly she wasn't being mean but rather speaking ironically.  Though her words didn't hurt me, since they were so radically true, they have never left me and I think about them often.

And this Mother's Day may be a case in point.  Part of my day was genuinely, perfect.  Briefly, I felt spoiled and treated with exception.  But I was also dissapointed and let down by specific people...And a small bitter part of me felt embarrassed even by those same people.  

My children are the very heartbeat of my soul.  Daily I am brought up breathless with love for them.  They are also all (with the exception of the baby) old enough now to be responsible for navigating the holiday on their own.  And they didn't.  No card, no handmade token, nothing.  Not. A. Thing.  It happened on my birthday in December as well.  I raised ungrateful thoughtless children apparently.  Sad...

I am working thru those feelings now, and allowing myself to feel the bad feelings while still embracing all the goodness that Mother's Day held as well.  I don't want to devalue the joys of yesterday, the delicious bits of love that came my way so generously, so I am trying to let the hurt be there in the shadow instead of the forefront.  I can't NOT feel sad or hurt, but I CAN choose to let the happy feelings be the ones I dwell on and remember.

My children are bright and talented and creative and so funny, they are incredible gifts and I wouldn't trade them for a token card of acknowledgement, so I want to be grateful, and I want to embrace the concept of "enough".  My day, such as it was, was enough.  

The Fight to Write

Long ago, my writing flowed from me.  It was fun and easy and I had followers and blog-friends and everyone I knew, knew that I wrote.  

I wrote about my kids, my life, my faith, my work, and love. When my life got messy, blogging was often a way to work through darkness and fear and worry.  Right or wrong, divulging too much at times, ignoring boundaries other times, writing was my outlet and my connection.  Then came a time when I couldn't write.  For reasons not of my own choosing, and against my every desire.  I couldn't share, tell, divulge, explain, or connect in written word online.  It was so hard for me to shut down.  I lost so much of the good that I'd written, lost 3 years of memories and stories, and lost connections, lost an entire way of processing.  I tried to write secretly, under a fake name with a new blog - in fact I started to do so multiple times... But I'd lost my fire.  I didn't have bright shiny things to write about that would balance the dark and the fear and all my writing seemed forced or bitter, and I would start up a blog but lose interest when I couldn't find a way to write my own truth without being such a dreary bore or a whiny bitter drama queen.  And oh how I was a whiny bitter drama queen!  

I joined a writing club and wrote prompted, mostly fictional shorts and some intense poetry.  That was good, satisfying, enriching even and I was beginning to blossom there but I had to give that up for the boring reality of time constraints.

When my newest little nugget came along almost two years ago, I assumed the joy and delight would translate into flowing writing once again.  The truth is, writing is no longer easy.  I fight to write the peace and joy, it takes thought and caution and effort.  I still find it easy to be a whiny bitter drama queen - but actively  try to shed that from myself daily.  Not just in my writing, but in that place inside my heart that drives my voice, my thoughts, and my actions.

Maybe it's just that, 5 years after the chaos, I'm only now beginning to come up into the light.  I've made brief forays, but it's now that I can find ground to stand firm on.  Maybe the way I've changed, the way I've been changed, is that I simply am slower, more cautious, less "off the cuff".  Maybe writing is one more facet of my old self.  I feel sad thinking that it is my new truth though.  I feel like I want to fight against the loss of writing but also like I am tired now of fighting against things I can't control and am ready to be graceful about my losses.  Graceful and accepting. 

I've had to redefine so many parts of myself: who I am, who I was, who I want to be, what I like, what I don't like...and it's a daily process, very often like building a sand castle at the tide line -that I hesitate to draw a line and declare that I AM or am NOT something.  It all could change tomorrow.

I used to love writing.  Now? I don't know how I feel about it and perhaps that's where I will leave it.  Maybe some days I will fight for it and some days I won't and one day it will be clear to me what the outcome is.

Peace

I find myself now

In the quiet hush

Of acceptance

And savor the taste

Of inner strength

That walks hand in hand

A shadow of discontent

Flirts with my heart

But I breathe deep

Exhale deep

And settle my soul

Acceptance

Inner strength

Peace

I find myself now

Where I once was lost

And I plant myself

Into this safer place

I focus on enough

On knowing when

It is

And accepting what it is

And I breathe deep

Exhale deep

And settle my soul

In peace

Thankfulness day... um... whatever...

So I missed a couple of days.

Not that I wasn't thankful during those days, I was, very, but sitting down to write about it seemed to be a bit more than I could manage!

This was an entirely different thanksgiving for me.  I was feeling sort of sad and bitter about it (and lets face it, having a pity party) but it actually turned out to be a lovely day.  Turns out that eating at a restaurant for the main meal is kind of yummy, and there's no dishes!

I had my 17 yr old son and my 17 month old son with me and it was fun and peaceful and easy and I would totally do it again.  Later that day we moved furniture around just for fun and then went to some friends for dessert.  I missed my girls terribly, and I missed all the thanksgivings of my past which were full of family, friends, fun, and me hosting the huge gatherings, but I was able to fully embrace my time with my boys and feel thankful.

And now I'm looking forward to Christmas.  Ah, the music, the decorations, the presents! Fun fun fun!  This year will be the first year my baby is able to grasp any of it and I look forward to his amazement and wonder at the colors and lights.

Wishing you all a holiday of amazement and wonder as well!