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.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Four: When It Comes To Love, Sometimes a Half-Empty Glass Is OK

I have a tendency toward depression this time of year. From January, February, and sometimes even into March, my glass feels like it is half empty. And draining quickly. I can’t really explain it. I can’t blame it on the weather either, because I live where the sun shines incessantly during these months, and the temperature averages about 65. Yet I have trouble getting moving, and I have trouble getting happy. The most basic chores exhaust me. Taking a shower feels like training for a marathon, and cooking? Forget about it. I am a frequent flyer at the fast food drive-through. If I am enrolled in classes, (and I usually am) they suffer. Everything suffers. The intensity of this condition has increased since I got divorced, and not because I wish I was still married. I do not wish that. Ever. But I feel homesick. For where, who, or what, I can’t always determine. I do know that it has to do with what is missing from my life. It is a specific emptiness. It is not ingratitude or self-pity. It is just this painful thing that I have to acknowledge and attempt to maneuver around. Usually, I can. Eventually. But it is a cycle that repeats.

Today is Valentine’s Day. Valentine’s Day is kind of like the “hump day” (…and NO, that is NOT what I mean…) of this cycle. As in, the middle, the top of the hill, the most exhausting part. The “Wednesday”. I think I am not alone when I say that for most of us, this day is difficult to ignore, no matter what you tell yourself about its meaning, or lack thereof. When you are a kid, no matter how many colorful, candy-filled valentines are stuffed into that decorated shoebox, if you didn’t get one from that One Cute Boy, all the candy hearts in the world just could not make up for that. And when you are a bigger kid, no matter how many expressions of love you receive from Friends and Family, if you don’t get what you need from that One Cute Boy, everything else pales. The difference (hopefully) is that when you are older, you at least feel guilty for not being appreciative enough of everyone else. But the bottom line is that we all long for a partner. A companion who is forever, who loves us deeply and beyond doubt. And until we have that, the emptiness will remain.

Having said that, I am beginning to learn, (in my advanced age) that emptiness does not have to be a terrible thing. Emptiness can be an opportunity. While my hopes continue to spring eternal, (that God will eventually bring the Cute Boy to me) I know that His timetable is not my timetable, and I can choose to stay sad in the meantime, or I can get creative about filling the emptiness in other ways. And since the emptiness is about love that is missing, the only way to fill it is to identify the other things that I love. And allow myself to have them.

One of the things I have recently discovered about myself is that I am very, very good at self-deprivation when it comes to the things I REALLY love. But I am learning to excavate those things, polish them up, and assign them the proper value in my life. Of the two big things that I have loved the longest, writing is one, and music is the other. I have always written, (in fact, I can’t stop myself from doing it) but only recently have I really started putting it out there where other people can see it. Not everyone loves it, and that hurts sometimes, but it’s ok. The process fills some of that emptiness, and helps me deal with it; put it in perspective.

And then there is music. I am a singer. I really love to sing. All the time. For anyone who will listen, for no one but myself when I am driving alone in my car, or for a huge arena full of people, should fate ever deal me that particular gift. But it really doesn’t matter where, or for whom I sing. It is the thing I love to do more than anything else in the world. Music, even more so than writing, is the one thing in my life I have never doubted that I love. Yet I do not allow myself enough of it, because I think I am being selfish to do so. I’m too old, it’s too late, and it’s an unrealistic pipe dream, whatever. I am learning to dismiss such negative self-talk, and just do it because I love it. I have also discovered that the pain and regret I have felt in varying levels through the years over my supposedly “lost” musical dreams makes me uniquely qualified to support my children in the pursuit of their own musical and artistic dreams. Which I find incredibly satisfying. It is another of the big things that I really love.

I was talking to a friend the other day, about being fifty (which we both are). She reminded me that if we make it to a hundred, (which we both plan to) then we are only halfway there. In other words, our glass is ONLY HALF FULL. We still GET to fill the other half. And we know so much more about what is worth filling it with than we did in our first fifty years. A simple shift in perspective can change everything. So I guess now I am a “glass half empty” kinda gal. And I like it that way. Emptiness with promise. Space to fill with even more things that I truly love. And plenty of space left to eventually share with the Cute Boy when he decides to show up. The pain of his not being here yet is an effective, driving, force that compels me to fill the emptiness with good things. With other forms of love.

So on this Valentine’s Day, I have chosen to take the sadness of not hearing from the Cute Boy and channel it into a message about the value of the emptiness. Tonight I chose to fill some of that emptiness watching a very UN-sentimental (yet entertaining) TV show with my daughter, followed by a command performance by my not-yet-2-year-old grandson doing the Chicken Dance with Elmo and Spiderman. Sheer joy on his sweet little face. Then I came home and listened to an amazing song that was written by a very old friend and sent to me today. Think I’ll fill my glass with some of that. And tomorrow when I face the emptiness again, I will find some more of that.

Years ago, I went to an art party at a friend’s home. She was selling paintings, and one of them just reached out and grabbed me. It felt like a visual representation of my soul. Scattered hearts and musical instruments, floating in a sea of blue. I really, really wanted that painting, but felt like it was out of my price range. My friend told my husband, and he bought it for me. It is still one of my favorite things. I recently pulled it out of storage, and yesterday I dusted it off, took a photo of it, and have posted it at the top of this message. Perhaps tomorrow I will actually hang it on my wall again. Identify what you really love, then put it where you can see it every day. With enough love around you, emptiness is not nearly so scary.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-Three: There Is No "X" In Christmas

It is Christmas Eve, and I find myself with some alone time. Which is not the same as finding myself alone at Christmas. I am not alone, and for that, I am continually grateful. At the moment, my kids are with their father and his family, and I just came from a wonderful Swedish Christmas Eve dinner with my brother's family, my sister, and my parents. Now I am home, with a little time to contemplate the nature of Christmas. I have not done Christmas in the "traditional" way this year. Partly by choice, but mostly due to circumstance. I have not decorated, I have not written a festive rhyming Holiday Newsletter, and I have not spent a single dime on gifts for anyone. I didn't even put up a tree, although we do have a tiny artificial one in the living room that my son set up. This is not like me. Usually, I am all over Christmas, from the day after Thanksgiving until January 2nd.

The reasons for my lack of Christmas preparation this year are varied, from being overwhelmed by school and work, to not having any extra funds; from dealing with the passing of my grandmother, to just passively rebelling against the madness. I am not feeling bitter or negative, just a little on the numb side. I love Christmas, and I think I am generally pretty good at embracing the Spirit over the Sales. In fact, I avoid Black Friday like the plague it sounds like it is named after. Which is not to say that I begrudge anyone else the opportunity to get up at the crack of the night before to battle crowds over toys and electronics. Saving money is a good thing. I may even try it one day. But I have enough chaos in my life without purposely adding more. And I don't think there were shoppers pushing each other around in that small stable where it all began.

Still, I have been feeling a little down over letting the season slip by without having accomplished x,y, and z. Even though I do not buy into the crass commercialism that has taken over this sacred Holiday, I do still feel like it is my responsibility to prepare a festive and homey environment for my kids, and I feel I have failed to do that this year. My goal has always been to create a setting wherein they know that this time of the year is different than the rest of the year, because it marks the entrance into this earthly sphere of the Savior of us all.

That is an amazing thing. A thing that gets lost in the shuffle. So lost that His very name, Christ, has been replaced in some instances by an "X". I am not here to pass judgment on anyone who has ever said "Merry X-Mas", I have done it myself in the past. Before I thought about what that really meant. I don't know if the crossing out of Christ came about as a thing of convenience, or as a way to be politically correct with regard to those who might not necessarily be Christian, but removing His name from a holiday that is meant to honor His arrival seems to me to negate the holiday. As does feeling bad for not being able to afford material gifts to celebrate what was a most humble beginning. One that did not involve material wealth.

My feeling tonight is that there is no "correct" way to do Christmas. Except to remember who is being honored, and to treat those around you like He would. We should honor, recognize, and respect the holiday traditions of other faiths, as the Savior Himself would. But this does not mean dismissing or apologizing for our own. And the Holiday traditions can be wonderful. I like my eggnog, going to see Christmas lights, and hoping to experience the superpowers of mistletoe as much as the next person. I am a fan of Santa, and of gift-giving. And there is nothing wrong with that. Gift-giving is symbolic of the great gift that the Savior is to each of us. It is also fun.

However, like life, some Christmases will be richly abundant, and others will be sparse. If you are lucky, some will be both. Because it will likely be the ones that were sparse that will be most treasured and remembered. And when life is bearing down on us, sometimes there are things on our very long and detailed Christmas lists that need to be crossed off and let go of. Just be careful what you draw that "X" through, or you are in danger of losing Christmas altogether. Embrace the people you love, and let go of the rest. That is how you do Christmas right.

Lesson Number Twenty-Two: On Doubting What You Are Sure Of

You may have noticed that I omitted the word "Learned" from this particular title. That is not an oversight. Because I don't know that I can ever claim this lesson as one that is fully learned. So this is more of an exploration than a declaration. This topic has been rolling around in my head for some time now, and it is doubt that has stopped me from addressing it. Doubt in my ability to get the message right; to properly deliver it. So I have started writing, and I have stopped, and I have started again. I have been taking notes and writing down observations for weeks. Because getting this particular message right feels important to me.

About five years ago, a song lyric was brought to my attention, on at least three separate occasions, via three different sources, and in rather quick succession. So I paid attention, and I have remembered. The lyric had to do with God's mercy on those who doubt what they are sure of. The context in which I have interpreted this song lyric has evolved over the past five years, and I now believe that the over-riding message has less to do with the actual meaning of the words, and more to do with the question the words have caused me to keep asking myself; How can I keep my doubts away from what I am sure of? The answer is that I can’t. My doubts will always test the things I am sure of. And that is where the part about God’s mercy comes in. In the midst of the testing.

This blog is about the things I am sure of. The things I feel I can somewhat confidently say that I “know for sure”. Most of what I write about here has already withstood the test of my doubting long enough for me to say “this concept or principle won’t change, and I can trust it”. That is my criteria for declaring a lesson “learned”. That said, there are many things in my life that I used to be sure of, that I no longer am. But this does not have to be tragic.

When I was young and single, the one thing I was just certain I was going to get right in life was Who I Married. I fully believed that if I did everything I was taught to do, if I had faith and was obedient to God’s laws, He would not let me choose poorly. And then when marriage got really, really, hard, I was just certain that we would find a way to work through it all; that God would not allow us to fail. Obviously, finding myself divorced made me question many of the things I had previously been “sure of”, with the aforementioned “certainties” leading the list.

Nonetheless, being the ever-adaptable perpetual optimist that I am, I became certain that I would soon find someone better suited to me, that I might even have more than one contender for the position, and that, oh, “5 or so years from now”, I would finally be happily bound to the Right Man. Six years later, I am a not-so-young-yet-still-single Grandma who is going to college and writing this silly blog, trying to sort out the criteria for determining what I am “sure of”. Seeking a man does not even rank space at the far bottom of my “To-Do” list. I have handed that one off to God and am not even trying to figure out the divine time frame on it. I just trust Him.

We are all sure of certain things at certain times. If we were not, we would never make a single decision. Belief and absolute faith are powerful things. For a certain amount of time, the apostle Peter had absolute faith that he could walk on water. And he did. Right up to the moment he let doubt creep in, and then he began to sink beneath the waves. Doubt can sink us, or it can strengthen us, (sometimes both) depending on how we manage it. Recently a man I greatly admire spoke in church, (humbly, poignantly, and passionately) about the pain of seeing his parents give in to doubt in areas that were close to his heart. This served to remind him (and me) that we can only rely on the beliefs of others for so long before doubt forces us to figure out for ourselves what we are sure of. We have to test what we believe, and we do that by living it, as this particular man does. Those of us who have been recipients of his kindness have no doubts about what he believes.

In this same church meeting, there was a lot of talk about the “tender mercies” of the Lord, and I could not help but connect the message about painful doubts with the message about tender mercies. The point was made that it is the very strengthening nature of our trials that IS the tender mercy of the Lord. He allows us to have the doubts, to sink for a while, to make choices that lead to pain, so that when we reach the point that we are finally sure of something, it has value. Because He loves us. When Peter was sinking into the turbulent ocean, perhaps feeling shame for his own failing faith, he reached out for the hand of the Savior, who had mercy on him in his doubt and lifted him back up.

He will always be merciful to us in our doubts, and of that, I am sure.

In the past few months, there has been much of both the painful doubts and the tender mercies in my life. Reality has conflicted with some things I felt like I knew for sure and could count on, and I have felt like I was left drifting. Drifting and sinking. I beat myself up over and over again for my lack of faith, and this makes it hard to reach upward for the hand of the Savior when I need it. Yet it is always there. Without fail, He has been merciful to me in my doubts. Which are many, and which repeat often.

As does the lesson.

Faith. Doubt. Mercy. Repeat.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty-One: Write It Out

Initially when I see this directive, I visualize a LIST. Lists are somewhat generic, at least as far as writing goes. Write out a grocery list, a Christmas list, a list of New Years’ Resolutions, list the Pros and Cons of a tough decision. Write it out so you don’t forget it, get it in front of you, where you can see it and analyze it. Write it out so someone else will know what you need them to get/be/do for you.

I used to love to make lists. Lists are good things, and indispensible as organizational tools. Without them, we would be…well… “list-less”. OK, ok… I apologize for that bit of bad writing in this bad bit ON writing. But sometimes a bad bit makes things a bit better. Alright, I will really stop now… Anyway… Lists are also meaningless if you don’t take the action that is listed on them. Ya gotta DO things, then check them off.

But this is not what I am talking about when I say “Write it Out” in the context of this message. I am talking about passion, I am talking about problem-solving, and I am talking about how I came to discover what it is I believe I am supposed to do with my life. What’s left of it, anyway.

When I was a kid, I wrote stuff down. Kind of obsessively. I had notebooks. Like “Harriet the Spy”. Only I never wrote bad things about people, (Well. Almost never.) or had my notebooks fall into the wrong hands, subsequently destroying people’s lives. So maybe not exactly like “Harriet the Spy”, but you get the point. I started keeping journals consistently when I was about 12, and I have over 30 volumes now. I won’t tell you that these masterpieces are full of wisdom and optimism, because that would be a lie. (Although I would like to think there is some measure of both, in those precious pages.) Mostly these volumes are full of tortured observations about the boys who tempt and try me. You will notice that I said “are”, and not “were”. Girls whining about the boys who tempt and try them is one of those things in life that does not change with age. Or experience. Or marital status. I will not be debating this point. Nor will I be dwelling on it. I just want to talk about the process.

When I am feeling something extreme, something too big to handle alone, too big to contain within my weak and mortal self, whether it is good or bad, I have to write it out. Out of my head, out of my heart, out of my system. Onto a blank page. To me, there is just nothing more seductive than a blank page. My favorite thing to do when I am feeling overwhelmed is to go to Barnes and Noble and look at the blank books. At the leather-bound journals. To buy a good pen or two. Or five. To then choose the blank book that feels the most representative of where I am in life at that given moment, buy it, and proceed to fill the pages with all my STUFF. It feels good, and it keeps me sane. I think. At least it helps me FEEL sane again, if only momentarily.

To just pour every little thing, even the iceberg-variety “little things” out of my soul and onto the page is the best therapy ever. And the best follow-up therapy is to go back and read it later, when my perspective has changed. It is a way to recycle used-up feelings, hopes, and dreams, to package them with words and see if they look better out there where I can see them. Often they do. Sometimes they don’t. But always I feel a tiny bit more able to move forward, having at least contained within a book whatever is ailing me.

There is much that has been ailing me in my recent past. I pour it raw and unedited into my journals. Which my children may or may not see after I am gone, and that is ok. There needs to be a private place for that. And then sometimes, after I have read back over something of a painful, humorous, or miraculous nature that I have experienced and written about in my journal, there are parts of it that sort of leap out at me, screaming (in their little tiny animated word-voices) that there might be other people who are dealing with similar things who could possibly benefit from my perspective. So I re-write, and then I share with all of you. The still, small voice in my head, (the one that I know is not my own) helps me with the timing and the editing. It feels like the thing I am supposed to be doing, and I am grateful that this thing I feel directed to do is also a thing that I happen to love.

So whenever you are feeling burdened by a thing that hurts, doesn’t make sense, makes you want to break something, or makes you want to break into song, just write it out. Soon, while it’s fresh, and in the form it first comes to you. Once you have done that, sleep on it. Then read what you wrote. Chances are, you will have put it in some kind of order without even realizing it. You will see something you missed before. Or you will cringe, throw the paper away, and swear never to write again. But you will have learned something, I promise you. And you should write again. Whether or not you choose to share what you write, and with whom, should be handled with care. And with prayer. Because words are powerful . They can change lives. In either direction, and sometimes permanently . So choose carefully. That’s all.

Learned Lesson Number Twenty: All the Cute Boys Want Me… To Introduce Them to My Friends.

This is not going to be as much about cute boys and what they want as you might think. And I have sort of battled myself over whether to write this one, because it could be a bit like opening a vein. But I’d like to think I have a little perspective on this by age 50. Or maybe I really don’t, and that’s why I need to write about it. So here goes.

I have a sort of long and stinging history of being the “friend” to the boys. Founder and President of the “Friend Zone”, if you will. The one to whom the male of the species feel they can say, “So, tell me about this friend of yours… She’s really cute/smart/funny/sexy... (pick an adjective)… Do you think she would like me??” This dynamic dates pretty much back to grade school, and now that I am single again, it appears to still be alive and well.

Most of the time, I find this only slightly annoying. I know the drill and I cannot afford to be bothered by it. So I roll my eyes, take a deep breath, and tell them everything they want to know about my beautiful and amazing friend. And since my friends are amazing, that is an easy thing to do. I’m not saying it’s never painful, but there are worse challenges to have. The only time it really hurts is when the male in question is one for whom I myself have been holding out some measure of hope. I have only encountered this a few times in my life, but when it does happen, it is an acid burn to the heart. At any age. In order to recover from such blows, I have had to learn to file the experience under “Things That Just Are What They Are”, aka “Things I Cannot Change”. This is the file I hand off to God for processing.

Last Thursday would have been my 29^th wedding anniversary, and 3 days prior to that marked 6 years since my husband told me he wanted out. In light of the topic at hand, the irony of my marriage was that we were never really friends. Kinda tough to accept, when being a friend was the one thing I thought I was good at. In that oh-so-amicable discussion 6 years ago, he said he wanted to “remain friends”, but this has not occurred. Perhaps because you cannot remain what you have never been. But it has not been for lack of trying on my part. I have used all of my “be a good friend” chops in numerous attempts to make the aftermath smoother, but it has not seemed to help.

So the issue of the ex-husband also goes in that file I hand off to God. In fact, every challenging relationship that I have with other people goes into that file. Because no matter how kind, or clever, or well-intentioned I think I am being, I have learned that when it comes to the agency of others, I have ZERO control. Which is as it should be.

My children test me in this area consistently, particularly my youngest son, who informed me on that same Thursday last week that the school plans we had laid out for this year were not going to work for him. My response was less than stellar. There was screaming and lecturing and frustrated tears on my part, while this 13-year-old boy sat calmly, holding back his own tears and frustration, (a new level of maturity for him) waiting for me to finish my tantrum so he could tell me exactly why he was feeling what he was feeling. The jury is still out on how we will resolve this issue. And the fact that parenting this boy will never be a cakewalk is another of those things that I put in that divine file.

The bottom line is that the people I love the most are always going to choose what they want to choose, regardless of what I think, and I have found that the best (and perhaps only) way to deal with this is to change the way I think about it.

Rather than feel sorry for myself when I see my friends getting stormed by good-looking men, (and I am not so naïve as to believe there isn’t a negative flip side to that dynamic as well…) I choose instead to believe that the one man that God has reserved for me is being polished and prepared by adversity, (as am I) and will be worth the wait. (As will I.)

Rather than mourn “what might have been” in my marriage, I choose instead to celebrate the day in the temple, where I was married; to walk past the always-open door of the room where the ceremony took place, and feel hope instead of regret. I choose to be grateful for the six amazing children and two grandchildren that came from that union. And to further be grateful that the most taxing thing about them is that they are too independent!

I choose to be grateful that I had just come from the temple and had the spiritual strength to handle what felt like a devastating setback, when my son told me what he did last Thursday night. I still did not handle it very well at the time, but my son did. And now I feel like we will be able to find an answer if we work together and exercise mutual respect for one another.

There are things in life that just ARE what they are. My marriage did not make it. But the next one might. My kids will not necessarily choose the path I wish they would. But they are healthy, and they are creative and funny, and they are with me. And the cute boys might always want me to introduce them to my friends. But someday, there might be one who does not. And I only need one.

Learned Lesson Number Nineteen: Sometimes It's Best to Stay Down For Awhile

We have all heard that thing about how “it’s not important how many times you fall down, as long as you get back up again”, am I right? Well, yeah. But… Sometimes it’s ok to take a little time before you get back up. Sometimes you have to catch your breath. Or cry. Or just completely surrender to being down. Sometimes, if you stay down long enough, the oncoming train will pass right over you instead of knocking you clean out of your boots. I’m not saying always. Obviously there are times when you have to use everything you’ve got to get off the tracks poste haste. But I am not talking about those times.

It is very late tonight. I got maybe 3 hours of sleep last night, worked all day, have to work again in the morning, and have some homework that is not going to get done. I just do not have the mental, emotional, or spiritual fortitude to get it done. And the homework is not the only thing in my life that is not getting done. In fact, it seems like a recurring theme of my adult life has been managing the list of things that are just not going to get done. Maybe ever. And perhaps that is ok. The jury is still out on this issue. But tonight, writing this thing about staying down is the only thing that is going to get done. Tonight, I just need to stay down. And I invite you to take a load off and sit with me for a little while. Even if it means you have to leave something undone.

I used to work at WalMart. I was working at WalMart when I was thrown to the ground by divorce. To this day, WalMart still smells like divorce to me. While I was going through this experience, I kept trying to scramble back to my feet, only to repeatedly get bowled over, again and again. By things hurtling toward me from angles I never would have thought of. I knew I could survive it and that I would eventually be ok, but the process was exhausting.

I stood at my cash register every day in my cheery blue vest, watching all manner of colorful people parade their lives before me. Staring me in the face from the aisle next to the candy were the ever-present tabloid magazines, with their scandalous headlines. At that time, there was a rather high-profile celebrity love triangle playing out before my eyes in those tabloid headlines. It was there whether I wanted to see it or not. And I did not. Because the story largely paralleled my own experience, and that was painful to watch.

I alternated between thinking it was easier for them because they had money, (while I was struggling for every dime on top of everything else) and being horrified at the thought of having your every bloody wound exposed to the entire world as it was inflicted. At least I could deal with my stuff in relative privacy.

I remember reading an interview shortly after this, (NOT in a tabloid) with the very publicly jilted party in this trio of Beautiful People, wherein she was asked how she was handling the pain. (Original question, I know…) Her answer surprised me and has stayed with me. She said something to this effect:

“Sometimes I just have to sit in the middle of it and let it wash over me. Feel the reality of the pain. It hurts, and I cry, and then I realize I have survived it. And then eventually I can get back up.”

Which the world and I have seen her do often since then.

I would venture to add to this, “Repeat as necessary”. I used to fight back the painful feelings and the tears and the despair. Resist unhappiness at all costs. Be optimistic! Be shiny and happy when people are looking. Laugh instead of crying. This is my nature, this is what I strive for, and gratitude always gets me back there. Eventually.

But I have learned that this process cannot be rushed. Sometimes the best therapy is to sit on the bathroom floor and sob it out for a while. Or collapse on the couch and admit that you are blue, and tell some people about it. Perhaps even put it in writing. Then stay down long enough to steady and strengthen yourself. Long enough to heal, to recharge, or to get some sleep. Perhaps until an outstretched hand extends itself to help you up. Whichever of these things comes first. THEN, get back up.

Life’s “ups” would be meaningless without the “downs”. So it’s ok to stay down for a while. Really. Maybe the next outstretched hand will be yours, reaching down without judgment or condescension to help someone else up from that familiar place. Because you have spent time down there, and you understand.

Learned Lesson Number Eighteen: Choose to Surrender to Truth

We just celebrated Independence Day. For me, this particular holiday sort of marks my surrender of a great deal of my own personal independence, in that my first child was born on that day. And I use the word “surrender” for a reason. It is because I made a conscious choice to give up a certain level of freedom in exchange for the honor and opportunity of being a mother. That said, I certainly had no idea of the extent to which my life would change, and in ways I had not thought of. That little “parenting” exercise we did in high school where we had to carry around a raw egg everywhere we went was a weak representation at best. The first parenting lesson I learned was that a full night’s sleep and sitting down for an entire meal were things of the past. Not that I ever really got the full night’s sleep before, but that is another topic. It’s a different thing entirely when you are CHOOSING to stay up all night.

Agency is kind of a Big Thing. In the religious faith I was raised in, we believe that there was a war waged in Heaven over the right to choose, and that those of us who are here on the Earth are here because we opted for free will. Having said this, the question arises, WHY is the right to choose for ourselves such an intensely important thing? And if we all chose free will before we came here, why does the battle over freedom still rage? I think it comes down to what we believe to be true. And Truth is a tricky subject. Many people have lost their lives over the inability to agree with others about what is true. Every war has roots in that debate.

I am not here to define truth for anyone. Although I do believe that certain things are true no matter what any of us think. I also know there are those who will disagree with me. But I’m pretty sure that the Earth is round, and that we need oxygen to breathe, that fashion trends will always repeat, and that God exists. I also know that there are a great many circumstances in this mortal existence wherein the “truth” varies in the extreme from one individual to the next, based upon individual experience and perception. Which is REAL and VALID, and should never be dismissed. I believe that truth can be found everywhere, that it stands up to any test, and that those who actively seek it will ultimately find it. I also believe that if we love unconditionally and attempt to see things through the eyes of others, MORE truth will become clear to us.

Awhile back, I took a World Religions class at a community college, taught by a professor who had multiple degrees, (a couple from Harvard) and who was very passionate about what he was teaching. He was in his late 70’s and had this deep, booming voice that commanded attention. I was completely blown away by the depth of his knowledge on the subject of religion, and I hung on every word. I was amazed at the thread of common truths that wound through all of the major world religions, and in a class that only barely scratched the surface, I could not get enough information.

Not everyone felt this way. There were a couple of young students in the class that just really did not care about the material, not because they were irresponsible kids, but just because they did not have the age and experience to truly appreciate what this man was trying to teach them. I remember one particular class where the teacher had reached the end of his rope with these kids and he slammed his book down on the table they were sitting at and kind of lost it a little with them. They were obviously shocked at this response, and they did not come back to the class after that. I felt bad for them, for what they were giving up, and for the teacher, who had spent years fighting to obtain the knowledge he had. Because he chose it and fought for it, his knowledge of the truth he was teaching had great value, and he wanted to share that.

A favorite movie scene of mine, (and, ironically, of my former husband) is from “Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade”, where there are a certain number of tests that must be passed by certain characters who are trying to obtain the Holy Grail. The respective success and failure of these men was directly connected to their motives and also their knowledge of the truth about what they were seeking. The one with the self-serving motives, who had no knowledge of or respect for Christ, and therefore no clue about what type of cup He would have used at the Last Supper, was literally dissolved away, movie-magic style, after drinking from the wrong cup. The guardian of the Grail then observed, “He chose... Poorly”. The beauty of God’s plan is that we are allowed to choose poorly. And He loves us enough that we are also allowed to choose more wisely the next time around. We also need to allow others that same right.

Years ago, my husband and I attempted marriage counseling. In one particularly memorable session, the counselor asked me what my favorite candy bar was. I told him “Reeses Peanut Butter Cups, of course.” He then asked my husband how much he thought I would enjoy a Reeses Peanut Butter Cup if he took it and jammed it down my throat. If it was my favorite, why wouldn’t I appreciate that? After that session, my husband chose not to return because he felt like the counselor was “taking sides”. He had the right to choose that. And now we are where we are.

The rewards and the consequences of our actions are meaningless when we are compelled, and they are priceless when we have chosen freely. This is true whether the choices we make are good ones or bad ones. If a decision we are compelled by someone else to make turns out to have negative consequences, we tend to blame the other person and learn nothing from the painful experience. And even if the choice is a good one, we cannot possibly appreciate the value of it because we did not choose it.

This particular principle is a challenging one to practice and remember when we find ourselves faced with allowing our children to use their agency. I don’t know if that ever gets easier! Most of my children are legal adults now, and I still feel like I want to make some of the tougher choices for them. Give them the benefit of my experience. But one of those things I believe to be true is that everyone must learn by their own experience, and sometimes that can be tragic. This is where my belief in God and my choice to surrender my will to His comes in.

It might seem contradictory to fight so hard for freedom of choice, only to surrender it again. But I have come to learn that He knows far more about what is ultimately best for me, for my children and for those who I love in this life, all of whom I have zero control over. So I love unconditionally and I lay the hard things at His feet. I trust the truth that He lives and He loves me, which is a truth that I have found enough occasions in my life thus far to test thoroughly. Enough that I am willing to surrender my own will to His.

It has not been easy getting here. And I have to reboot on a daily basis. Work on my relationship with Him. Make that choice to surrender anew, every single day. And the more I practice this, the more I realize that I am not giving up anything. He will never force me to turn to Him. And His plan is so much better than mine. Trust me, I have measured my plans against His, and mine are far less satisfying. What He can do for me is FAR cooler than anything I can come up with on my own. So His is the Truth that I choose. I choose it every day, and I wait with faith and anticipation to see what He will bring me in return.