The Decade of Divorce Comes to an END. (In 800 words or less. Give or take a couple hundred.)

On this day, March 10^th, 2006, at precisely 9:52am, a Clerk of the Court time-stamped a legal document that declared I was no longer a married woman. Marking the exact moment seemed important to me at the time, for reasons which I do not wish to go into right now. Let’s just say I thought the official dissolving of a 23-year union that produced 6 fantastic kids deserved to be noted.  And I have done this every year since. Honored the moment. In the best way I knew how in that given year. (And the years have been BUMPY, lemme tellya. If life is a rodeo, each of the past 10 years has been the bucking bronco nobody wants to draw.) But I am releasing myself from this practice. As of RIGHT… NOW.

It is midnight, on the nose, at the end of this infamous day, and the “10-year Divorce-i-versary” gift I am giving myself is to quit measuring the progression of the oh-so-precious TIME in my life by “how many years since divorce.” I almost titled this blog entry “The Decade Since Divorce,” but that did not feel authentic. Because it has felt ongoing for the entire time. Even now, just a couple months before my youngest son turns 18, there is One. More. Court. Date. Which will hopefully resolve, to the mutual benefit of all parties, and then never, ever happen again. I have learned to hate court rooms. And I am choosing to be DONE with DIVORCE.

So, in the spirit of “The Only Reason We Should Ever Look Back,” I am going to share with you, in no particular order, the “Important Stuff I Have Learned” from this experience. The first thing I wish to stress, before I begin, is that if you can possibly avoid doing the divorce thing, AVOID IT. Even though I personally did not, for one moment, doubt that it would be better for me in the long run to no longer be bound to this man, going through the process was nothing short of HELL. I did not believe the people who told me that is how it would be. It’s kind of like childbirth in that way. Until you pass through it yourself, you have NO IDEA. 

That said, probably the most profound lesson I have learned through all this is summed up in the quote at the top of the page, from a very old and homemade flip-book of daily thoughts that was put together by my parents a couple of decades ago, and which lived in my kitchen for years before getting relegated (not on purpose) to a box in a storage unit. I excavated it some months back, and have been “Instagramming” some of my favorites as they resurface, affectionately hash tagging them “Mom and Dad Daily Wisdom:”

March 10th… “If all men were to bring their miseries together in one place, most would be glad to take home, again, each, his own.” – Solon.  (How DID my parents know, years before, how fitting for this day this quote would be?? They’re just cool like that…)

Over the course of this decade, I have learned to view challenges as blessings. I don’t think I can even count the friends who have told me that they could never survive what I went through, when I knew they had been through FAR scarier things, like death of loved ones, debilitating disease, or severe depression. I will HAPPILY keep the trials that were CUSTOMIZED for ME. Every day, twice a day, I thank God for every blessing and every challenge. EVERY. ONE. I have learned that REALLY practicing and feeling GRATITUDE, in the depths of your soul, will save you from ANYTHING.

When I first got divorced, I thought I would find a house, ONE house, to finish raising my children in. I have moved 10 times in 10 years. I learned that a home is not four walls, it is who you are with. Sometimes I was sleeping and doing homework on somebody else’s couch, and when I turned 50, I was living with my parents. None of this was fatal. I learned that HOME is wherever you are.

When I first got divorced, I thought it would take me 3 years to complete my college degree and become financially self-sufficient. It has taken 10 years to get the degree, and I am barely getting to the “self-sufficient” part.

When I first got divorced, I thought it would probably take about 3-5 years to get clear of the emotional trauma, lose the weight, re-learn who I really am, and find “That One Cute Boy Who Would Really Love Me For Me.” Instead, I have gained weight and lost weight, and gained and lost and gained again. And it does not change who I am. I have watched my face age, and my hair gray, and seen certain parts head south. I have gotten used to having the bed to myself and not having to ask permission to go on a trip, or to the movies, or to lunch with a friend. I like having a cat, leaving the Christmas tree up as long as I want, and having the bathroom to myself. I like that where the money goes is all up to me. Ten years later, “Finding the Cute Boy” is not even on my list anymore. And I am not the least bit sad about this. Because I believe this life is not all there is, and I believe in God’s perfect timing. And I have STUFF to DO, on my own. So much STUFF to do. I have learned that things take SO MUCH LONGER than you think they will. And that it takes as long as it takes.

                                                    AND THEN THERE IS THIS:

Lastly, I have learned how unbelievably unique and wonderful and talented my kids are. I have watched them pull together and support each other through the worst of times. I have let their music and their art and their humor wash over me again and again, reminding me that THEY are what remain, and they are EVERYTHING. When I first got divorced, I thought I would eventually change my last name. And my youngest son asked me why I would ever want to do that, when it was HIS last name. So I decided I never would.  And now I treasure it, because it is one more way I am bound to them all.

I have learned that divorce burns away all the unimportant residue of life. It forces you to identify what is most precious to you. And to let go of absolutely everything else, in order to hold on to THAT. And now it is time for me to let go of divorce. It is a cold dark place, and an ugly word, which means to “divide with force,” and I am kicking it to the curb. I would not trade the experience of having gone through it for anything, but it’s time to shed the label.  I am beyond grateful for the people who have been MIRACLES in my life during this time. Again and again and again. You know who you are. I am really looking forward to BEING that kind of miracle for someone else. Again and again and again.

And guess what?? It’s 2am and I am about 400 words over what I wanted to say. Some things never change. I am a night owl and I talk too much. I love you all. Thanks for sticking with me this long.

                                                                      The End

Hi, I’m Peg, and This is My Art

My friend Cherie challenged me to post “art made by me” on the Facebook for the next 5 days, then said “I was thinking in particular of your cool writing on your blog.” Firstly, Cherie sports a MUCH cooler blog than mine, so NO PRESSURE. And secondly, CHALLENGE ACCEPTED. So this right here will be the “art made by me” for Day One.

For the record, I have actually attempted “real art” in the past. I used to draw horses all the time when I was a kid, and I got pretty good at it. Because I did it all the time. I also dabbled in animation in high school, and then, (in a fit of obvious delusion) tried to be an art major at BYU. For a whole semester. Besides the abject humiliation  of realizing just how far out of my depth I was, the most important thing I remember from that time was a quote from a drawing instructor I had by the name of Wolf Barsch, who said “if you are feeling like you are in a rut, you should go home and clean out your closet.”

As an 18-year-old freshman, (who had already changed my major twice) I thought this advice was silly and random. Now, as a 53-year old single mom and grandma, (who is still trying to figure out what I wanna BE when I grow up) I recognize it as the profound truth that it is. I have long embraced the idea that our lives should be grand works of art, but that often we have bland colors and crappy mediums to work with as we attempt to shape the ugly truth into something that is prettier to gaze upon. Sometimes we don’t like the brushes we have, or the direction the piece is going, so we shove it all into a closet where we don’t have to look at it.

I have spent DECADES shoving unfinished projects into countless closets. Both literally and figuratively. Much of the “art of my life” has been stalled for years. Or so I have believed. Because circumstances, or lack of discipline, or child bearing and child rearing, or too much laundry, television, despair, divorce, or other derailments prevented me from completing the artistic life plans I had drawn up in my head, I fully and mistakenly embraced the belief that I WAS DOING NOTHING WITH MY LIFE.

Thankfully, I have realized that what I have been doing is NOT “nothing.” This realization has prompted me to delve into that overstuffed closet where all those neglected art projects are hidden. So that I can prove to myself that there is value and beauty in all those stored bits of myself that I have not allowed anyone to see. I am learning to view each day as a blank canvas, and my mediums of choice are words, music, and humor. My shades of blue, red, and black are made deeper and richer by the mixture of blood, sweat, tears, hope, faith, and endurance that my experiences have added to the palette, and ALL of it will be part of the final masterpiece. Nothing is wasted.

Much of the expression of who I am comes through the sharing of who my children are, and the artistry that is THEIR lives. Because they are an extension of me, and they are what I have been pouring my heart, soul, and creativity into, these many years. Shining my light onto their art, music, and humor is possibly my favorite act of personal artistic expression. So I have included a sketch of myself that was drawn by my daughter, Kylie. Who actually IS good at the “real art” thing. And I will be displaying this blog post on the wall of the Giant Glass House that is Social Media. Because that is my current Gallery. That is where I show my “canvas” of each new day, whether it be a filtered or unfiltered image of how I look and feel via the Instagram, or something funny or painful or miraculous that I saw, or heard, or felt. 

People are free to like it, or ignore it, or attack it, or share and embrace and build upon it. It can be scary sometimes, but more often it is nourishing and fulfilling for me. Sometimes I hang out and linger too long in the Gallery, when I really should be heading back over to the Studio of “real life” and getting something solid done. But I am working on that, too. My piece entitled “Balance” is a work in progress.

So. There you have it. “Art, made by me, today.” In 800 words or less. Tune in tomorrow for the next installment. Thank you, and Goodnight.

I Want My George Bailey Moment

This morning while I was beating myself up (as I far too often do) about all the things I am not getting done in my life, I decided it was time to get on my knees, (as I also often do) and have a chat with The Man Upstairs about “what is most needful on THIS day.” This is a concept that was gifted to me by my beyond-amazing mother, who continues to teach me the art of breaking down the mountain of STUFF that lies before me into small and manageable pieces. As I was making my plea, I had this image in my mind of getting to the end of my life and seeing some divine newsreel of the things I did NOT accomplish, but could have, if not for the vastness of my human weakness, and my finely honed ability to procrastinate the things I KNOW I should be doing. It was terrifying.

“Lord, I really don’t WANT that,” was my upward-directed message. “I want my George Bailey moment!”

Before that thought was even fully formed, I could feel God smiling down on me, speaking without words and telling me to get off my knees and on my feet and go write about that. Right now. The shower can wait, breakfast can wait. Everything else can wait. Just write it down, before the moment is gone and the idea evaporates. So here I am. Why bother asking for guidance if I am not going to heed those Very Direct promptings when I get them??

So, just in case you are the one person on the planet who does not know who George Bailey is, here is the short version, to get you up to speed… There is a classic movie that cycles every Christmas, called “It’s A Wonderful Life,” starring the MOST appealing James Stewart. (Who falls under the heading of “they don’t make ‘em like that anymore,” and if I am wrong about this, please send me one…) He plays a man named George Bailey, who is flooded on Christmas Eve with all of the overwhelming negative in his life, which he feels completely unequipped to handle, and which then causes him to believe that everyone would be better off if he had never been born. I think I am safe in saying that most of us have had THAT George Bailey Moment at least once in our lives. But that is not the George Bailey Moment I am talking about. Well, actually, it’s the one I am talking about avoiding. That inner newsreel of the Things Not Chosen. The “woulda coulda shoulda” list. Just Say No to THAT list.

George Bailey is then gifted with a vision of the world as it might have been without him in it. He is shown, quite powerfully, that he lifted and saved people just by being who he was. And those people showed up to help him in his darkest moment. When I can manage to get over myself and boil away the pitied self-focus and stress-induced blindness in my life, I realize that I actually GET those moments. I get George Bailey Moments all the time. I just have to pay attention to them. Make a record of them, FEEL the gratitude for them, and share that with other people. TELL your George Bailey People that they have made a difference in your life. Every chance you get.

So here are a few of mine that are recent, in no particular order. I am grateful for the old friend with whom I was speaking last night about blogging and following your passion, for her example of going out on a limb to start her own business in the face of great challenges. I am grateful that she told me it made a difference in her life when I sang at girls’ camp when we were young. I am grateful that my son found an amazing girl to marry and that I got to be a part of that event, which was SO MUCH FUN. I am really grateful for my son’s childhood friends who came to that event from great distances, and told me that I was “the best mom ever” during a time when I really felt like I was not being a great mom. I am SO gratified to sit in the living room with my 16-year-old son, while he plays me one of the literally hundreds of songs he has written, and to know that he WANTS to share that with me. I love that my daughter cannot stop making beautiful art. I love that all of my kids are filled with humor and creativity. I LOVE that they can’t wait to have Thanksgiving dinner all together. That my son reminded me he has a big comfy couch in his house that I can sleep on Wednesday night if I want to get a nice early jump on the cooking, and that I CAN EVEN PLAY CHRISTMAS MUSIC IN HIS KITCHEN IF I WANNA. (That’s pretty huge.)

I love that I have a father who looks me earnestly in the eyes whenever I see him and says, “WRITE.” I love that this morning, I actually DID. And I still have time to shower and eat breakfast before I head into my Sweet Bedroom Office Suite (which could use some work, actually) for that home-based job I really am grateful to have. Most of the time.

So. Tell your people.  Tell them how much better your life is with them in it. Tell them often, and tell them WHY. And not just because of that whole ’Tis the Season thing. Even though it is. If you are reading this, you have been my George Bailey at least once, and I am grateful for you. That’s all for now. Carry on.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Eight: A Father’s Ultimate Power

Fathers have been on my mind a lot lately, in both good and not-so-good ways, and not just because it is Fathers’ Day. But I am writing about it because it is Fathers’ Day. Because I am feeling the need to sort through the “father issue” a little bit. And I know I need to tread carefully here.

Let me first state openly that I have an amazing father. I know there are no perfect fathers in the world. In fact, there are no perfect humans of any kind. But when I think of my father, there is not a single thing I would change about my relationship with him, or the role he has played in my life. I can honestly say I have zero complaints. Maybe that is at least partly because I have chosen to have zero complaints. My mother taught me to embrace the good in everyone, and I think I have gotten pretty good at that part of life. That said, I am certain there were times when I was growing up that I wasn’t necessarily “complaint-free” when it came to my dad. I was a teenager, after all, and I do remember my dad teasing me relentlessly about turning 13, like I was going to suddenly transform into a teeming mass of uncontrollable girl hormone drama or something. Which I don’t think I ever did, honestly. But if his “Oh, no, you are almost a TEENAGER!” teasing bothered me then, I now remember it fondly. And probably have done that or other annoying things to my own kids since then. But my point is that I appreciate and love my dad. He makes it easy for me to do so. Not every dad does.

If I have learned anything about fathers in my life thus far, it is how much power they have to influence the lives of their children. For both good and ill, and whether they show up or not. When I got married, I tried to choose a man who would “be a good father.” I also hoped I would “be a good mother,” but at 21 years old, I really had no idea what those things actually meant, and neither did he. Parenthood is one of those things that you learn as you go, and we both did the best that we could. I knew that he loved each and every one of our children with all of his heart. But everyone is different when it comes to expressing that love, and the message is not always effectively delivered.

Shortly after I got divorced, when the tear in the fabric of my family was still fresh and I was stressing about balancing the new dynamic between myself and my kids’ father, a friend whose opinion I trust told me something that has stayed with me. And which has proven to be true. He said, “Kids are pretty good at recognizing which parent is going to show up, and which parent will get their own needs met first, at all costs.” (Or words to that effect.)

I truly believed and hoped that both of us, as parents, would be showing up for our kids in the aftermath, but sadly, this has not been the case. I can tell you that I understand and empathize with many of the reasons, but the fact of the matter is that “not there” still means “not there,” regardless of the reasons. And the damage to the kids gets done. I understand that many fathers (and mothers) are battling demons that prevent them from showing up, and I am glad it is not my job to judge. I feel like my job as a mother is to remind my kids of the good things, and to teach them (hopefully by example) how to embrace and appreciate and remember those things about their father. I admit I am not always good at this. When there has been so much hurt and pain, it can be really hard to let go of blame and embrace compassion. But it is the absolute best way to recover from the hurt.

The picture at the top of this page is of my youngest son and his father, about six years before the divorce. In this photo, I can see the love, and the fun, and the good in the man that used to be here. And I know that if I had time to dig through all of our old photos, I would find others like this, of all six of my children. I know that their father loves them, and I want so very much for them to know it, too. But I am not the one who can make them feel that. It breaks my heart, but it is out of my control. I do not have the power that their father has. But maybe I can remind them of what they used to know about him.

Today in church, a story was told of a group of children who wrote letters to their dads for Fathers’ Day, and overwhelmingly, the number one positive thing the kids said was “I like my Dad because he plays with me.” As I have dealt with the “fatherlessness” in the lives of my own kids in recent years, and now my grandkids as well, I am deeply grateful for the men and boys who have stepped in, in a variety of ways, both large and seemingly small, to fill the gaps that have been left. The ones that I, as a mother, am just not equipped to fill. My adult sons take care of their younger brother and their sisters, as well as each other, and all of my boys are fantastic uncles to their two little nephews. Why? Because they play together. Whether it be music, games, or whatever is fun for them. They spend time together, and the “fathering” gets done, if imperfectly. And there is nothing wrong with imperfection. To achieve it, all that’s required is to show up and take part. And there is unimaginable power in that.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Seven: Understanding the Gravity of The Situation

Gravity has been in my face lately. And I don't just mean showing there. Although it definitely is doing that. But it has also been on my mind. In fact, I have been trying to write this post on gravity for months, and have not been able to complete it. Today I will, even though this powerful force I am attempting to write about is working very hard on me, making me not want to move at all. In fact, it is because this force is working on me that I will finish this message. For gravity to be a power for good, you have to know how and when to resist it. Not defy it, mind you. Sometimes you hear of gymnasts or other athletes having “defied gravity,” but this is not accurate. They have just gotten very skilled at properly resisting it. Writing this post today, when I don’t feel like doing anything, is me resisting it on only the most basic level; moving my fingers, and hopefully my brain. And not necessarily in that order.

This past Monday was not a good day for me. In addition to having a wicked cold and dealing with some personal stress, a terrible thing happened in Boston, and it affected me profoundly, as it surely did everyone who watched it unfold. Someone planted bombs at the finish line of the Boston Marathon. The final toll of human damage has not even been assessed, and maybe never will be, really. Because the injured and grieving will be dealing with the permanent, personal, and private aftermath for years to come. But what does this have to do with gravity? Bear with me.

There are a few reasons this particular tragedy affected me the way it did, beyond the obvious. One is that I have walked the street where this took place, and it is a sentimental memory for me. It was about 12 years ago, on Thanksgiving weekend, and I had flown out to spend the weekend with my husband, who was working in Boston at the time. We literally spent the weekend walking the city, and it was a kind of other-worldly experience for me. It was possibly the best weekend of my 23-year marriage. It was snowing much of the time, but not terribly cold, and we visited some unbelievably gorgeous cathedrals, and the surprisingly small, but tangibly sacred Granary Graveyard, (pictured below) which is nestled in between some older buildings, and is the final earthly resting place of folks like John Adams, Paul Revere, much of Ben Franklin’s family, and Mother Goose. (Yup, she’s real.)

I found this place to be inspiring. As if many of those souls might have been present while I was there, and I felt the profound depth of their sacrifices and contributions for the benefit of my priceless freedom. As I looked at the above photo, I found myself back there, lingering, wanting to read every single headstone, and the thought struck me that a graveyard is the place where we settle our final tab with gravity. In fact, the words “grave” and “gravity” are related, and can both be used to describe the seriousness (or weightiness) of a situation. If it is gravity’s purpose to keep us from floating off the planet before our test here is complete, it is also gravity that reclaims our physical bodies as part of the Earth again. I find some comfort in that. And I have a soft spot in my heart for Boston because of my experience there.

Another reason for the situation in Boston having affected me deeply is that I have wanted to complete a marathon for years, and I have started and stopped the training process many times. I have paid entry fees for events I never made it to. Not as a runner, but as a walker. With hopes that after having gotten rid of some significant weight, I might someday attempt running again. This dynamic has much to do with my own personal lifelong dance with gravity. (Which currently feels like a really slow waltz.) Every step that any of us take, walking or running, is an exercise in resisting gravity. From the time we take that first tentative step as infants. The more we resist gravity, the stronger and more balanced we become; the less we resist it, the weaker and less balanced we become. Lately, I have felt rather weak, and slightly unbalanced.

Marathon runners are very, very good at resisting gravity, and therefore strong, and I have great respect for that. The Boston Marathon requires a qualifying time, so is a somewhat stratospheric dream for me. But I know people who have done it, and I have many friends and family members who have completed other marathons. The photo at the top of this page is of my sister, Melinda, when she was in Moab, Utah last month to complete the Canyonlands Half Marathon. I thought it was a perfect photo for this blog, so she gave me permission to use it. I myself entered the inaugural Valley of the Sun Half Marathon, way back in 2002, somewhat spontaneously. I was walking 5-7 miles daily at the time, but had not gone farther than that in one stretch since I was a teenager. My goal was to just finish, and to try and maintain my 3.5-4mph pace to the end. I achieved this goal, finishing in 3 hours and 33 minutes. My brother, who had run it and finished long before me, drove back out onto the course with my niece and nephew to cheer me on toward the end. This meant a lot to me, and helped me keep going. I was ready to crumple at mile 9 and I lost a toenail in the process, but crossing that finish line was one of the more exhilarating moments of my life. So endurance runners and the people who cheer for them have a special place in my heart, and watching the footage of what happened at that Boston finish line was really heartbreaking for me.

The news site I was on kept repeating video of the initial blast on a loop, and there was one elderly runner who collapsed at the force of the blast, whose legs just looked like rubber when he went down. He was ok, just scraped up a bit, but people mere feet from him were not. I later learned he was from Everett, Washington, where I used to live, and where one of my children was born. He was 78 and it was his 3^rd marathon. Watching this image repeat reminded me of one recent morning when I got out of bed and was taken to the ground almost immediately by the charley-horse from HELL in my calf. Yes, I did say hell, and capitalize it, even, because it hurt that bad. It was like somebody stabbed me in the leg with an ice pick. Between trying not to spill the cup of water in my hand and collapsing from the pain, I had zero defense against the powers that be. Gravity was free to face-plant me into the carpet without any interference on my part. In hindsight, I maybe should have let the water spill, but regardless, gravity and I were not friends that morning.

When pain or other forces hit you when your resistance is down, gravity will take you to the ground. A favorite Disney movie in my family is “The Sword in the Stone.” There is a scene where the young Arthur is bounding through the woods and asks the aging Merlin what gravity is. Merlin answers that gravity is what makes you fall down. Says Arthur, “You mean, like a stumble, or a trip?” “No,” replies Merlin, “it's the force that pulls you downward.”

Like many other seemingly obvious things in life, as I get older, the basic principles I ignored in science class begin to interest me profoundly. Usually when I start to see their real-world application to me. As I have been ruminating on gravity, I have realized that it does not always show its force suddenly and painfully; more often, it is the result of its steady and constant force over time that we see manifested in our lives.

For those of us who have passed the 50-yard line of life, and/or are dealing with excess weight on our bodies, seeing and feeling the more long-term effects of gravity on our physical selves can be almost more painful than being knocked to the ground. But we learn to live with it. We spend our entire lives moving in opposition to this powerful force, without even thinking about it, while at the same time being kept from drifting away by it. We have to resist it in order to move at all, but we cannot defy it, as much as we sometimes wish we could. It is one of those irrevocable God-given laws that protect us when we respect it, and can destroy us when we don’t. What an amazingly powerful balancing factor, and part of the great refining fire that is life on this planet. Those who try to defy gravity usually don’t survive. But those who respectfully and consistently resist it benefit immensely and are strengthened from within.

I read that the 78-year-old marathoner from Everett, Washington got up off the ground after being treated by medical personnel, and covered the remaining few yards to the finish line. And that several other marathoners continued on to local hospitals to donate blood for the victims. And countless other people got up and ran toward the chaos to assist the fallen in any way they could. They understood the gravity of the situation and they took action. And that is the kind of resistance that God intended.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Six: Know When To Submit

There is some duality in this title. It comes both from my position as a Writer, and as a Mere Human. (Please, feel free to juxtapose those two titles against each other in any way you choose…) I was sitting in church when the word “submit” began rolling around in my consciousness, begging for some examination. My initial thoughts on this had more to do with the writer’s perspective, because I write all the time and never submit anything for publication. I am a procrastinator and a bit of a coward. I never feel like anything I write is “really ready” to give up, to toss into the clutches of the Big Bad Judgmental World. So I write my rambling little blog posts for family and friends, and I write song lyrics and leave them in a notebook, and I write about how I need to get serious about my writing. And I plan to submit, but I never do.

So I was sitting in church, and I was thinking about the “why” attached to this reluctance to submit, and wondering exactly what it is I am afraid of. Wondering why I feel the need to polish my words to perfection, when I know perfection is not possible. One definition of “submit” is “to give over or yield to the power or authority of another.” Which can be a scary thing when it comes to what I have written, but honestly, the things that I have put out there for public consumption have actually been fairly well-received. I used to write letters to the editor of the local newspaper on a semi-regular basis, and every one of them was published. Once, I sent two poems to a poetry website, and they were included in a “coffee table collection,” which was then peddled to everyone who submitted material. I bought my copy, and can technically say that my poetry is in a book that was bound and sold, so therefore, was published. But I know these things don’t really count. They are the equivalent of sticking my toe in the water and saying I went for a swim. Not really true submission.

Anyway, on Sunday I was thinking about these things. About knowing when to submit, (both literally and, um... "literarily") and about the meaning of true submissiveness, which some people mistakenly equate with weakness. And I jotted down a couple of notes, came home, and set aside the idea. Until today, when I got some rather painful clarity about a thing I have struggled with for quite some time, and realized that the kind of submitting I needed to do was going to be much, much harder than sending a manuscript off to a publisher. 

Have you ever gotten a message that you did not want to accept? I mean, REALLY did not want to accept? But knew that you must, in order to move forward? Even when it flies in the face of everything you thought you had been told was true? Today was that.

If, like me, you believe in a Higher Power, one who created you and knows, over the long haul, what is best for you, then you must learn the art of graceful submission. You must. I must. Submitting to the will of that higher power can sometimes mean parting with what (or who) you really believe you want and love. It can mean surrendering your hope, and hope can be a stubborn force. It’s hard to know when to part with it. To be able to see whether it is holding you up or holding you back, and when to separate it from a desired or imagined outcome that is clearly not manifesting itself. 

And then to let go. With both hands. 

It’s a free-fall at first, and it’s terrifying. And then there is peace. Because you realize that the misplaced hope you were fiercely holding onto was, in fact, a burden. A burden that He has already agreed to bear, if you will just part with it. So relax. And submit, already.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Five: Enough is as Good as a Feast

This blog is not about holidays, or pilgrims, or turkey dinner. Although Thanksgiving does tend to spawn ruminations on gratitude for me, and I kind of believe one’s level of gratitude determines their definition of what “enough” means. So maybe that’s the answer to the big question and I don’t need to go any further. Be grateful for what you have, and it will be enough, yes? Well, yes, if you can master that practice. And I already wrote that blog. But lately I have had some experiences that have caused me to  ponder the concept of “enough” a little more deeply, and this title phrase has come bubbling up from my memories of the countless times “Mary Poppins” played on our VCR when my kids were small. It was her answer to kids who wanted more, when she had determined they already had enough. So how much is enough? How much time, how much sleep? How much food, how much money? How much fun, how much love? Is it possible to have enough and still feel empty? Well, yeah. It is. But we’ll get to that.

Let’s address the question of time. We all have 24 hours in a day. I am not the first person ever to say that. We have all been told that everyone has the same amount of time, and that it’s just about how we spend it. I saw a movie recently called “In Time” where everyone stopped aging at 25, but was then given a ration of just one years’ time thereafter. There was a meter on their arm that measured their time, and they could trade it for other necessities, gamble it, give it to loved ones, or, if they had the means, buy more. But when it ran out, you were done. Boom. Dead on the ground. No chance to borrow a few more minutes to sort things out. No debt in that scenario. Broke is broke, and dead is dead.

The main character in this film liked to run things close to empty. (A quality he and I sort of share, but which I am trying to change.) He was a gambler who was unexpectedly given a surplus of time by a man who had far too much of it and was tired of living. He was then accused of killing the man to steal his time, and I don’t think I have to tell you that lessons in “just how green another person’s grass really is” ensued. So at which point in the story did this man have enough time? At every point, as long as he was not dead? Or at no point, because he was continually being pursued by those who wanted to steal his time?

I found this concept intriguing because I am not so good at managing time. (Or money, which operates on very similar principles.) I never have been. So the idea that running out of time could carry an instant death sentence was a little frightening to me. My current reality consists of trying desperately to meet online homework deadlines, about 5 nights a week, in pursuit of an elusive college degree, while also working a full-time job, and playing the Mom and Grandma Roles. Usually I finish within minutes of the deadline and don’t always beat it. No matter how well I try to plan, I always feel like I don’t have enough time.

The past 7 years have felt particularly chaotic and frightening because I have been trying to achieve “enough” in so many different areas, and am continually feeling like I am falling short. No matter how surrounded I am by friends and family who love me, I feel like it’s not enough because I don’t have a partner.  No matter how many healthy strides I try to make, I feel like it’s not enough because I am too old/tired/whatever to change. No matter this, not enough that, and so on. We may all have the same number of hours in a day, but some of us have more persistent forces attempting to steal our precious hours away.  Or at least it feels that way. And since time is the framework within which we try to get “enough” out of life, and money is the means whereby we acquire most of what we need, it sort of follows that if we want to have enough of everything else in life, we first have to acquire enough time and money. But how much is that? Is there a magic number?

I was incredibly blessed earlier this year to have received an inheritance from my grandmother. It was a big number. A big enough number that I thought it could change my life permanently if I handled it properly. Surely with that much money, I could create a lasting foundation on which to build, and never again feel like I didn't have enough. Well, as carefully and prayerfully as I approached my choices concerning these funds, they went quickly. On good things, of course, but I found it to be true that needs will rise to meet income. My needs and those of my children and grandchildren were met during a time they would not have been otherwise. Yet I went through this period of beating myself up because there were so many other things I had wanted to do with the money that I was not able to. My perspective on what constituted “enough” changed drastically through this experience. My levels of gratitude and appreciation for my Depression-era grandparents and their years of self-sustained provident living have increased exponentially. They took a garden and a house built with their own hands, and turned it into a fortune for their posterity. A certain story about loaves and fishes comes to mind.

So if there is an answer to the question of how much is enough, this is mine; Whether I am paying cash for a reliable car, or shaking change out of a piggy bank to put enough gas in the tank of that car to get to work on payday, it is enough. Keeping balance between feast and famine is an ongoing challenge. On every level.  So when my parents, children, and grandchildren are all in the same room with me, or when my ex-husband’s family invites me to Thanksgiving dinner and continues to embrace me as one of their own, it is enough. And it is also a feast. (No matter how much or how little I eat.)

Real life is similar to the movie, in that none of us knows when our time meter is going to run out, but as long as we still have any time at all on the clock, it has to be enough. We have to decide that what we have is enough, and that enough is good enough to feast upon. Although I think it might not be that bad to stop aging at 25.