Today is February 10th, which happens to (oddly enough) be National Umbrella Day. If you’ve been around me long, you know that this girl LOVES all things umbrella. Today was made for me!
The other thing I love, (honestly, more than umbrellas) is the joy that I have in engaging and being a part of this beautiful community of women that has blossomed out of the Collective Podcast. I consider myself so blessed, every single day! Just last night, I fell asleep thanking God for this gift of knowing these AMAZING women. My life is honestly better, because of them.
I am really passionate about supporting others. If you are on my email list then you certainly got an earful, on this topic, in February’s note. (eyeful? earful? Whatever…) The bottom line, in case you missed it, (and why? You really should sign up, you’re missing out!) is that we should be supporting our artists and creatives. The internet is filled with content, like blog posts, photos, inspiration, podcast episodes, videos, etc, of these people who pour pieces of themselves into this content FOR FREE, simply because it is in their blood.
In our blood.
In MY blood.
It takes actual hard work to put these things together, and since they are passion projects, there is no paycheck sitting there, come friday.
Moral of the story, support your creatives! We all NEED beautiful things around us, and we will definitely see a lot more value in our investment if we offer it to them, over the big box, corporate greed. Just a few reminders, and some suggestions…
These are both ways to support me, without it costing you much.
Listening the podcast will not cost you anything but time, well spent, and it helps TREMENDOUSLY! Subscribing, rating and sharing it is so helpful! We all know women who can benefit from the stories, experiences and community of others…
I also have an Amazon storefront, and JUST added three fun shops for spring and Lit lovers…
Beyond me though, there is the Personal ShopHER Directory of women who own small artisan businesses. Have some shopping to do? Continue looking there first!
These are all AWESOME ways to help support me as I write and continue to move forward, connecting with and empowering women within the Collective community- sure. But, we all know creatives- from indie authors, to painters, photographers to musicians. Dream along with them, and help them create big! Each and every person, in this world, needs a team of strong believers supporting them and helping them out! As we watch the news and feel overwhelmed with the sadness around us- this is one practical and easy way we can make a huge impact for change.
I have, for a long time now, been inspired by the people who challenge us to reflect back on our growths and progress. The very act leads me to more intentional choices. For a long time I’ve followed along as Emily P. Freeman has blogged these things, and once or twice I may have even half heartedly played along.
The truth is, that at the start of every month (and every season) I determine that I am going to create a place for inspired reflection, within this space. And every single month there is something that happens, which makes me release myself from that plan.
Every single month.
So, throughout January I was adamant with personal notes (in my planner) that I would NOT let this fall to the wayside again. And then, as January wrapped up, what happened? I was hit with a blinding aura followed by a cluster migraine that dominated my brain for the better part of five days… As I reentered life and began to take note of the work I needed to make up, the glaring realization of yet another month failed, smacked me right in my side.
Maybe it is February fourth.
Maybe it feels too late, like what’s the point now?
If that’s true, ok. I’m here anyway…
In January I learned-
I cannot hold any element of my reality to an unrealistic ‘one size fits all’ standard.
How absolutely valuable and motivating it is to have a trusted group of women who I know will offer me honest feedback, speak truth to/over me and inspire me.
Oddly, a lot about sugar.
How my illness has affected so many parts of my life, most unexpectedly being my tastebuds. Every single day, dietarily, is like a trip to the Craps table in Vegas…
That bouncing/dancing/exercising on a rebounder is maybe the most fun way to burn calories EVER. (then you add in all of the amazing benefits it offers the body, immune system, etc.) win/win!
In her email Emily asked three thought provoking questions, for reflection…
What was my most life-giving YES this month? I would have to say it belongs to an opportunity that I can’t publicly share just yet, but it will be amazing and I can’t wait until I can!
What was my most life-giving NO this month? Ohh… I had been leading a small group for a few local women whom I have grown to cherish. While I really value them, and loved our time together, I came to a point work wise where SOMETHING had to go. It was a good thing, but hard too.
What is one thing I want to leave behind, moving into February? Looking for reasons to bundle up with Netflix. I know, it was cold and grey out. I had flare attacks. I get it. But also, a lot of those times I could have actually slept/rested, or picked up a book. Netflix has become too easy. I don’t want to leave down times like that, behind me. Just the ALWAYS resorting to that choice…
Over the years I have encountered many people who have admitted to not knowing about the dark things that were happening in my childhood home. Even less often, I will be approached by someone who eventually admits that they suspected such things, at least to some degree, but weren’t sure what to do about it.
Life is funny, like that.
We are quick to criticize concerned people for their silence and lack of action/intervention, but this is the decision the majority of people come to. We question that we may be wrong, and if we are, we don’t want to make anything worse. We second guess everything, until we have talked ourselves into a corner. I truly believe there is a difference between this and knowing for certain, yet choosing to look the other way.
My mother didn’t have the best judgement. There were mental health issues, absolutely complicated by a heightened self-focussed victim response. My mom, for reasons those of us who love her will never understand, NEEDED people to feel like she had it the worst. This would happen whenever she discussed her romantic relationships, her friendships, her parental relationships and her motherhood. By the time I was eight years old, she was pretty committed to the story that I had held her at gunpoint multiple times and that she had to sleep with locked bedroom doors for her own safety. I had never seen a gun, let alone knew the first thing about doing anything with it. My biggest crimes, where my mother was concerned, were aching for her to parent and love me, and for being her biggest competition when it came to her boyfriend’s affections…
For a collective thousands of hours, I had sat at my mom’s feet while she told me story after story of the heinous abuses her childhood had known. How absolutely diabolically her mother, (and her grandmother too,) had abused her. Some of my earliest memories with my mother are me, cloth diaper & plastic pantsed on the floor, while she sat sewing, telling me these stories with a cigarette dangling from her mouth.
These horrific tales that I grew up hearing were about the very same grandmother whom I spent a ton of time with. My mom expected her to watch me whenever she wanted to date, felt overwhelmed with life, or any other thing.
Basically, I was at my grandparents, two blocks away, a lot.
And, it wasn’t until I was much older before I connected the dots that this same woman my mother DETESTED, filled with resentment of the worst childhood abuse imaginable, was my Jesus loving grandmother. She was patient and, though she could be gruff, I never questioned her love for me, or my security with her. It seemed inconceivable.
My mom never outright attempted to turn me against my grandmother, but she was desperate for me to not only believe her tales, but validate how horrible life was, for her. This meant that whenever the TV movie Sybil came on, my mother sat me down, roughly four feet from our console television, and made me sit, cross legged and watch it. The entire 3.5 hours (plus commercial breaks), every single time it came on, which was a lot. This role of Sally Field’s is almost as much a part of my childhood development as my own experiences were. During each viewing I would have the added commentary of my mom painting far worse images of her own adolescence, comparing herself to the life playing out on screen.
I was eleven years old the last time I assumed my position and soaked in a showing of Sybil. At the time I remember marveling at how well I could quote the film, while also knowing exactly the words and tone my mother would be using in her “bonus features”. This was the closest I’ve come to an “out of body” experience. Even now, nearly 33 years later, it is clear as day how surreal that day felt.
As a gift, the Christmas of 2018, my husband gave me the only thing I really asked for- Sally Field’s memoir In Pieces. I could not seem to formulate words as to why I had to read this book. From the moment of its release, it was always there in my mind. It wasn’t until many chapters in, that I realized my spirit was searching for the words Sally would say about that movie…
I had gone on to love Sally Field movies with a fierce loyalty, after I moved and was no longer in the care of my mother. I was the only girl my age who was adamant about consuming the Sally Field shows. While I certainly wasn’t her prime demographic, I loved her all the same. My own splintered youth so completely fragmented that I could not comprehend this one sided bond that had been stitched into my spirit, to this brown haired actress. It wasn’t until I found myself halfway through her book, roughly a year ago, that I was able to see this clearly. Those hours and hours (and so many more hours) of watching Sybil hadn’t ever filled the gaping hole of whatever thing my mom was needing, but it had tied me to a stranger, playing a character. It gave reason to a question I had never even known to ask.
In case you’re wondering, I do love her book and strongly recommend it. I find her absolutely classy and fascinating, and she barely talked about Sybil at all.
I’m wrapping up the very long and often difficult journey of writing a memoir. In that synchronistic way that things sometimes happen, I needed to read that book (and her accounts of abuses, injustices and her own mistakes) before I could get past some of the things that were holding me back, in my own story. I needed to reconcile a sense of understanding for the mother who hadn’t been much of a mother. I needed to step in and advocate for a child who deserved so much different… Before reading her book, those days of forced Sybil viewing were so far removed from my thoughts. When I saw Sally, I didn’t consciously associate her with that movie. Since reading the book though, and opening that memory, I have thought about it almost every day…
Sybil isn’t streaming. I have spent an entire year checking. I have known that I need to revisit the movie, for myself and for the little girl sitting cross legged, four feet from the old console tv. (My mother also forced me to endure multiple showings of The Entity. I do NOT plan to revisit that. Thankfully, it came on TV a lot less often. My girlhood eyes have seen enough demon rape to last my lifetime. Unlike the memory of Sybil, I have never forgotten that movie and could describe the room she’s monitored in, in GREAT detail still. Our minds are fascinating really…)
After twelve months of hoping the video store (yes, we do have one)might somehow find their lost copy, or crossing fingers that it would finally pop onto Netflix, I reluctantly took the plunge and forked over $16 for a dvd I doubt I will ever watch again, after our reintroduction viewing. (partly because we haven’t even used our DVD player in years and I doubt I even know how. Mostly because, why? This is an advocacy and closure mission.)
Amazon delivered it yesterday, and as I held it in my hand I realized that I hadn’t been opposed to spending money on it, at all. I guess I didn’t want to own it, I just wanted a visit and then it was behind me. I am not scared, my gut tells me it will feel more old friend than horror, but I would also be foolish not to realize that it may stir some things. My memories have been such a fortress to so many of the harder things, this may affect something. Then again, maybe it won’t. I don’t think this movie night will have popcorn, but if you’re wanted to send some positive thoughts my way, I’ll take them…
Back in the Fall, my husband and I had planned a mini-weekend trip. We have season passes to a fairly popular amusement park, in Ohio, and decided to spend a Saturday there, and then hit up Costco on Sunday morning, while coming home.We LOVE Costco. Before we moved to Pennyslvania, Costco was our weekly source of organic produce and misc. foods. We miss it, a lot.
Amusement parks are pretty amazing, aren’t they? If you love rides, they are made for you. If you love ridiculously overpriced (and mega unhealthy) fair-style food- ALSO for you. If you love live performances, sometimes random in nature, this is your scene. As an empath and an observer, I love the energy of amusement parks. There is so much adrenaline and thrill induced JOY. Sometimes, simply walking through the park, I am in awe of the priceless memories and moments being made. Countless people, all coming from vastly different places in life, together for something GOOD. I love it!
We were so excited to go! We’d made sure our dog, Elenor was cared for. We made sure we would return from our trip exhausted, but welcomed by a clean home. We had done all of the things that one is supposed to do… As we crawled into bed, the night before, I quietly said something so off-the-wall strange-
“I don’t know if I’m more excited about the amusement park, or Costco!” I had said it to be funny, but it was also true. What I didn’t expect was for my husband’s face to contort into a surprised understanding as he exclaimed “I know! I keep thinking the same thing!”
The first time those words had made their way into my brain, I felt pretty stupid. Warehouse stores are known for being anti-minimalism and promoting a consumer culture of MORE. Neither my husband nor I ascribe to that culture of accumulating simply because. Even so, my brain chided me for being materialistic. My husband is my life partner. We have shared everything over the past twenty-six years, including some pretty hellish experiences, and yet- yet, I found myself hesitant to admit that silly truth, to him.
The next day, we sat in the car for far longer than either of us wanted. Beyond the trip there, the park was shut down due to being over capacity, and this was AFTER we’d sat in bumper to bumper traffic for HOURS, just waiting to get in. We were both working overtime to maintain a sense of patience and adventure, but our will was fading. Oddly enough, the one thing that our forced conversation and banter returned to again and again was our optimism for Costco, the next day. We had connected over something SO silly, and that connection got us through a frustrating time.
Life is hard, and marriage is no exception. We live in a society OBSESSED with wedding culture, but the general attitude of marriage tends to be akin to death. It’s sad really, because, despite how hard it can be, marriage can be rewarding in the way that no other relationship is. There is not another person on the planet I would rather have travelled through the pits of hell with, just like there isn’t anyone else who I would willingly have gone through the stages of hangry with, when it seemed our fun adventure was a bust…
We eventually left the line, and went back to our room. We were disappointed, while each trying to act like it was OK, because it was an adventure. Eventually we made our way to a great little waterfront place for dinner, and as we decided to walk along the twilight pier, after our meal, I noticed headlights on the road leading to the park.
Dare we? I asked… I knew he was frustrated and I was certain he’d say no. Instead he shrugged and said, why not?
We did, and it was really fun! We had five fun filled, night time hours. We met truly fascinating people, each of us having our own stories to share about the day the park shut down. It was an awesome adventure, and we can’t wait to do it again! None of it had gone as planned, but because we opened up to each other (even about the trivial and embarrassing stuff) it went better than we could have imagined. Marriage is like that too… It requires honesty, vulnerability and sticking out the inevitable frustrations. It isn’t easy, but it is SO worth it.
In the end, it is the little things that bring about human connection. The shared interests and experiences. That is the very foundation of our relationships. The big moments matter, but it is the little things that make the life.
If you’re curios, Costco was AMAZING! Equally as fun, (no, I’m not exaggerating) I give it a 10 out of 10.
When I settled on the word FAITH, for my 2019 journey, I really assumed it would be an adventure that dealt with my relationship with God. I truly believed the word was meant for me, (which is pretty much how I’ve come to my past WORD OF THE YEAR Commitments), and so I readily accepted the task of growing in my quiet time and prayer…
My year was not remotely about quiet time, or prayer. In fact, though I do believe in a God who is essential for every aspect of my life, the Faith Journey wasn’t really about that sort faith at all.
Every single month of 2019 met me with great loss. Sometimes it was an unexpected loss of opportunity or something beloved. Twice it was with the loss of lives. Then there were lost relationships that I believed I could not live without, that I had no worth without, but it turns out I had been wrong. It was the hardest year I have ever known, and yet…
Yet, I am here. As the theme of loss, in various forms, continued to flow through the changing seasons, I suddenly saw THAT I was more capable of handling them. My vision became clear, as I emerged from the fog I had spent so long in, that I could not merely live beyond the strongholds, but I could live better. I came to a peace I could never have imagined my life ever existing in.
The thing about Faith though, or at least my personal faith, was that it was deconstructed too. As I attended funerals, helped grieving family members and continued to build a business (when all I wanted was to curl up in a ball and cry) and live my life, new things grew in the absence of old. Sometimes these things came in the form of new relationships and precious friendships. Other times these came in professional connections and wisdom shared. Each day I was able to see clearer than I had seen in so long. The relationships lost, had never really existed. The benefit of them had never been mutual, and though that was appropriate for a time, the inability for me to exist outside of the other’s demands and orbit, the inability for me to be an individual deserving of any respect or love, was a problem. It was a problem many had seen for so long, but did not know how to talk to me about. (and it wouldn’t have mattered.) Honestly, I was not brave enough to sever those relationships, but I allowed myself toe courage to respect their wishes, and bold enough to allow life to go on, and unfold, and I have been continually blown away by what that has looked like.
Loss is sad. Loss can be tragic. Loss can also make way for new, and the new doesn’t negate the heartbreak of what is gone… We are shaped by the good and the bad that came before this moment. We are beautiful and capable, because of it.
On a shelf, in my living room, there is a small wooden heart which contains ashes belonging to my father, who passed away this past spring. So much of my life held complicated elements, where my father was concerned, and then one day that simply wasn’t the case. I am filled with gratitude for the fragments of time I spent with him, for the traits of him that I had long before I met him, and more than anything- for the absolutely amazing father he was to my half siblings. Though I’ve never held resentment against him, my soul did sometimes utter the question how can someone who is such an amazing parent, have a child they couldn’t love in that way? And then, on that day of clarity, I knew the answer… Because life is hard. Life isn’t fair. Things happen. We want everything to work out, and we hold often ourselves to the standards that we will get that cookie cutter life, but it doesn’t. With that same clarity came grace for myself as well. I had spent so long trying to become a mother, and then my health failed me and I had to move on from there. That motherhood ache never went away, and one day I sat beside a bathtub as my little adopted daughter played and I realized how incredibly full my heart was. I loved three amazing kids, and wouldn’t have traded one second of the hardship that led ME to them. In that moment I loved them so much that I believed our little family was meant to be.
The family that we fought like hell to bring together.
The process that drained us, and all of our resources dry.
One morning, in 2010, I sat at a brunch table looking at those faces and felt a sinking realization that the five of us would never be together again. I was devastated, and I was caught up in the overwhelming unfairness of that. My motherhood had been the thing I had wanted more than anything in the world, and that entire journey had been unceasingly difficult, and then suddenly…
Hanging on a print, of my favorite lyrics, is the silver etched thumbprint of my the beloved uncle I lost in early 2019. He had been the stable man my childhood knew, likely the one thing keeping me from the alternative of never trusting a man again. He had been the one to hold the fun, childhood teasing. He had been the man to walk me down the aisle. He had been the one, when I was a twelve year old broken child, to make the hard call not to take me in, because he could see the long term effect of how that wouldn’t really help me at all…
Littered on walls and shelves are framed photos from the years in between my motherhood and 2019. Photos of smiling kids my heart could have burst with love for… Photos of relationships dissolved to ash and blown into the wind. For awhile I questioned, do I hide the photos away? But no… It comes back to the unfairness of it all. My “motherhood” was never something I should have placed my faith in. That bursting moment which felt like destiny, wasn’t ever true. Broken and hurt children found their way into my heart, and there was never anything meant to be about what they went through. I bled my soul dry to love them, to fight for them and lost myself in the journey. I wasn’t ever enough, but they didn’t owe it to be to pretend that I was either- and that truth isn’t on anyone. Relationships don’t work out sometimes, and it is loss. It is tragic. It is ok… I could have spent the past 7 & 12 months in agony over how things hadn’t turned out the way I’d hoped and prayed they would, but that would be pretty selfish. The origin of how they began wasn’t anything like those once sweet children deserved either. Sometimes everyone gets hurt, and sometimes every one loses, because life simply isn’t fair. I was there, when I was needed, and the moments frozen on my walls remind me of the beautiful “motherhood” season which wasn’t painless, but I am so grateful for that fragment of time. Because there is loss, doesn’t mean the middle didn’t matter. It mattered a great deal, and all I have for it is love.
Sometimes letting go, is love too. This notion went against what I believed, but finally I learned this too.
In addition to the intense gutting of my entire heart and soul, I began to see the truly flawed theologies and belief structures I’d set my life by. Absolutely wrong, man made ideas, hashtagged for Jesus, when Jesus wasn’t present in them at all.
Faith… The journey was a slice, and a gutting. It was a refining fire, in the way that ravaged land is burned intentionally so that new, healthy growth can blossom.
rainydayinmay.com 