Life Lessons

Been a long time since I’ve blogged about anything, so much has happened in the last few months that I haven’t had the time or the inclination. I’m not one to cry the blues or throw a pity party, but it’s been a season of extreme loss and deep grief as I said my last goodbyes to my big brother and my dear mother who both died of cancer within two weeks of each other. In the last 8 years I have lost 5 family members to cancer and even though I knew the inevitable was going to happen, it still managed to steal my breath away.  So this latest sock to the stomach threatened to knock me down for the count. But with faith and determination I sucked it up and got back on my feet. I put a smile on my face and kept it there until I felt it. That’s what my mother would have told me to do; “fake it till you make it”, and I did—I made it. Not that I don’t still feel grief—I feel it to the depths of my soul. This journey is far from over—but it is a journey—I’m moving through it.  And as I do, I’m gaining new insights about myself and seeing glimpses of bright light break through the clouds of my “new normal”. 

Now introducing…the NEW me! It’s the old me only new and improved. I am deeper, yet lighter. I’ve offloaded the weight of the inconsequential to run with intensity towards the more meaningful. My friend Pepper, who recently lost her mother, posted a note on Facebook that said, “Just hit me that I have lived, lost, and loved. Instead of looking at what I've lost or missed, I'm realizing that without the living and the losing, I wouldn't know love. I'm lucky.”  Well said, Pep! It’s obvious that she too has been drawn towards the deeper, more meaningful priorities in life. She honors her mother by doing so. And I plan to honor my family by doing the same. 

I rejoice in my inheritance. I celebrate the lives of those who have gone before me. I want to honor them by living life to the fullest—not taking it for granted and not sweating the small stuff. As a matter of fact, I don’t even want to sweat the big stuff anymore. I know that life is unpredictable and we do not know how long we have on this earth. I see the world not from a fatalist point of view or a “one step closer to God” point of view, but from the standpoint that I was put on this earth for a reason—to love God and love people—to love them in a way that is uniquely me. I believe that anything is possible, that happiness is a choice that blessings and beauty abound everywhere—you only need eyes to see them.

Sometimes it takes an incredible loss to open one’s eyes to reality. Though I grieve for the loss of my loved ones, I am grateful that God has opened my eyes to see His heavenly perspective. It’s true that life will never be the same. The moment my loved ones were birthed into a new life in heaven, I was birthed into a new life of my own—and this “new normal” is whatever I choose to make it. So I’m choosing joy and celebration. I’m choosing to accept love and give love. I’m choosing to surround myself with happy people. I’m choosing to not get caught up in the “shoulds” but to experience the infinite possibilities of the “coulds”. I’m choosing gratitude even in the sad times. I’m choosing freedom to feel both joy and sorrow, and not to feel guilty for either. I’m choosing to lighten my load and lean not on my own understanding. I’m choosing to believe that there is something better in my future. I’m choosing life. Thank you, Mom, Dad, Peter, Aunty Joanie, and Toni for teaching me how.

Red, Red, Whine!

On this weekend’s shopping jaunt I found myself surprisingly halted in front of a pair of cherry red skinny jeans. The color red caught my eye and the sale price caught my other eye. “$10.99” they taunted, “I used to be compared to $32.99 but now I’m a mere shadow of my former self at only $10.99. I’m a steal!” Well, I can’t quite say that I’m a shadow of my former self—more like my former self is a shadow of me—but all that aside, I love a good bargain and the crazy pants were right, they were a steal.

I questioned my sanity as I reached toward the pants. The angel on my right shoulder encouraged “Go for it. You’ll look lovely.” The devil on my left said, “That’s no angel, that’s menopause disguised as an angel.”  I hemmed and I hawed, and then my hand brazenly grabbed the fabric.  “Oooohh, these are soft,” I said out loud, then looked around to see if anyone had heard me.  If they were scratchy and stiff I could walk away without a backward glance, but noooooooo, these cherry bombs were baby bottom soft. Crap! Now I had to try them on.

With a deep sigh of resignation I headed for the dressing room. I was sure they wouldn’t fit anyway. What’s the harm in just trying them on, I told myself. Moment of truth, in front of God and the mirror, I slid them over my skinny pins, tugged them over my curvy bits, and stared open mouthed at my reflection. Well butter my biscuit and call me Aunt Jemima, they fit! Course, I’d have to get a shirt long enough to cover my derriere, but all-in-all they didn’t look bad and they were downright comfy-cozy, with enough built in stretch to let my belly breathe.

So I was left to face the looming question... Is it appropriate for my 53 year-old self to sport not just skinny, but skinny and RED?! I’ve heard it said that women should dress their age. That sounds reasonable enough. So what is this all about, I whined? Am I having a mid-life crisis? Is this the equivalent of a middle-aged man tooling around in a sporty red convertible? On the up side—I’m not middle-aged. On the down side —I’m past it.  Who says I can’t wear red? Who says I can’t wear skinny? I can, and I will—devil be damned.  With my head held high I headed for the cashier.

That was Saturday. Today is Monday. My bravado weakened a bit as I put the jeans on and readied for work. “No meetings today, I can be casual,” I said to myself as I buttoned my shirt and checked to make sure it covered my backside.  For a moment I found myself wondering what people might think about my crimson bean poles, and then I was reminded (by God Himself, I think) of a wonderful old poem by Jenny Joseph called “Warning, When I Am An Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple.” In this poem, Jenny exclaims, “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple with a red hat which doesn't go, and doesn't suit me.” It is a tribute to the freedom women can enjoy at any age – even old age. This poem has empowered women all over the world and even motivated a phenomenon known as the Red Hat Society.  Purple/Red, Hats/Pants, I figure it’s all the same. And if it’s good enough for Jenny and over 750,000 old Red Hat ladies, then it’s good enough for me.

I made it through work with nary a remark or even a sideways glance.  When I got home my 29-year-old daughter took one look at me and said, “Are those new? I really like them.”  “Yep, they’re new” and “thanks” I said, like it was no big deal.  Little does she know…

jumping out of my skin

bursting to express

heart wants to explode

mind’s overload

I think I can

I think I can

but which?

what?

how?

NOW!

I want it NOW!

life is screaming

LIVE!

CREATE!

DO!

but I don’t

and I wait

and I wait

and I wait

too little, too much

so hard to focus

breathe in

breathe out

Oh great Muse, where are you?

                                                                                Ah…there you are.

Hooray for Hollywood!

Last week, I had the pleasure of accompanying my daughter, Brittany, to the first ever Kelly Rippa “Live Post-Oscar Show.”  It was filmed at the Kodak theater just hours after the Academy Awards show and a few lucky-duckies got free tickets to be part of the audience—a few thousand that is—three thousand, three hundred, and thirty two, to be exact.  Yes, over three thousand people assaulted the Hollywood Bowl at the un-godly hour of 1:30 a.m. to brave the long lines to the check-in station and then again to the buses that awaited to take us to the Kodak Theater.

All-in-all, I was impressed with way the crew expedited all the starry-eyed or more aptly sleepy-eyed Kelly fans. In fairly short order we were hustled to and fro from line to line and eventually ended up in a warm comfy bus where we sat for a mere hour and a half until we rolled the one-mile distance to the theater. We surely could have walked there in a fraction of the time, but who knew? At the theater we were grouped according to our colored wristbands—think Disneyland lines on steroids. Line upon line curving hither, thither, and yon, throughout the main and upper floors…wait for it…wait for it…and wait for it we did…for nearly two hours.

But despite the lack of sleep and the long drawn out tick-tock of the clock, we still found ourselves a bit giddy over the Hollywoodishness of it all. For here we were standing (at least for the first half hour before we plopped ourselves on the floor) in the hallowed halls of Hollywood’s epicenter where only hours before the Industry’s preened elite struck a pose on the red carpet. OMG!!

Was it the lack of sleep that had me picking itty-bitty beads off the floor and imagining their glorious origins? “This one fell off of Octavia Spencer’s dress, I just know it” and, “That gold whodinky has to be from Jessica Chastain’s McQueen.” Brittany and I must have looked like little monkeys picking at ticks, but we couldn’t have cared less. As we deposited our collection of surely famous beads into our handbags, we dreamed of that starry, starry night and all the other Oscar nights that went before. I could blame it on the lack of sleep, but in all honesty it was the pure intoxication of Tinsel Town itself that had me acting like a star-struck goofball.

When we, the last of the purple wristband lines, were finally ushered into the doorway of the inner sanctum, I couldn’t contain my excitement and bust out a jaunty little rendition of “Hooray for Hollywood, da, da, da, da, da, da, da, Hollywood.” Brittany said I reminded her of Grandpa (my dad) which pleased me immensely.  My dad was often guilty of being a complete cornball, and I am proud to follow in his legacy. Once inside, we were enveloped in a sea of red fabric—our eyes ricocheting back and forth from floor to ceiling, to stage.  As we lapped up the eye candy we found ourselves walking right past our fellow purple wristbanders and straight up front to the 10^th row. We later found out our misguided guide had mistakenly planted us in the VIP section.  Of course, this only added to the excitement as we tried to recall which famous so-and-so was sitting in our very seats the night before and in years past. And at 6:00 a.m. sharp, the magical moment came where we saw the real stars —not just the ones in our head —as Kelly and cast did their thing.

What a night to remember! As Britt and I walked arm-in-arm through the corridor where the stars had walked the red carpet, past the work crews clearing the stands and stations, over the star-studded sidewalk to the Hollywood Bowl, we once again marveled at our good fortune. What a strange and surreal experience it was.  But, don’t think that we were completely fooled by it all. We know that movie stars are just regular people, and that Hollywood is make believe, but for that brief period of time we let ourselves be swept up, behind the moon, beyond the rain, somewhere over the rainbow, and it was…magic.

One Million Moms—what were you thinking?!

Today, Ellen Degeneres responded to the OMM hullabaloo in typical Ellen fashion —with humor and a piece of her mind expressed by way of a piece of her heart.

Before I go any further, let me state clearly that I love Jesus. I love Him with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength. I also love Ellen. She’s absolutely adorable and as loveable as can be with her ever present smile and jaunty repartee. And I can think of a whole lot of words to describe Ellen without ever mentioning the “G” word—funny, kind, sensitive, lover of animals and people, giving and caring, to name just a few. But what I cannot comprehend is how anyone can reduce this woman, or any other for that matter, down to a single word. 

To this I say “Gay-Shmay. Oy Vey!”

Ok—got that out of my system. 

There are those who might say that I’m trivializing the bigger issues.  Au contraire! OMM states “Our goal is to stop the exploitation of our children, especially by the entertainment media (TV, music, movies, etc.).” They speak of fighting against the immorality, violence, vulgarity and profanity that the entertainment media is throwing at our children. I couldn’t agree more. When I was a child Lucy and Ricky slept in separate beds, Batman and Robin felled the bad guys with nary a drop of blood, and the strongest expletives on my black and white screen were “Darn” and “Golly Gee”. I cringe to think of what my 2-year-old grandson is exposed to on prime time. 

But if people actually ventured to ask, they might find that much of the gay community feels the same way, after all, they’re parents too.  Wouldn’t it be awesome to fight together instead of against each other—strength in numbers and all that sort of thing? 

Ok, so maybe the family on one side of the fence looks different from the family on the other side, but I wager that we are actually more alike than unlike.  God made us—all of us.

We don’t have to agree with everything. Heck, I’m a Christian and I know there are a whole lot of Christians who don’t agree with me— or me them for that matter. The bottom line is this…We’re not called to agree, we’re called to love. And yet we continue to see worldwide displays of hatred and judgment that further distance our hearts from one another. It is my sincerest prayer that one day Christians will be known for their love. Then, and only then, will we be truly living the life that Christ meant for us to live.

Outside The Lines

I was told when I was young not to color outside the lines—“be careful, be neat, do it right”—and I did, pretty much my whole life, I did. I thought that if I was a good girl careful to follow the rules, the expectations and limitations set before me then I would be safe. People would like me because I, like them, were careful to stay within the proverbial lines. I would be accepted, I would be happy, and surely I would find success. Hooey!

Along the way I discovered that staying in the lines was fine a lot of the time, but there were moments when my heart longed to burst through to the other side—the negative space just beyond. Couldn’t it be true that the space around the subject, and not the subject itself, might actually be more interesting, more relevant? Even as a young child I began to think of myself as different. Not because I actually ventured outside the lines, but because I thought of it. And because of those thoughts, I concluded that I was different. So in order to go along and be a good girl, I kept my thoughts to myself. That is except for a short period during my teenage years where I chanced to spout my musings aloud. Not surprisingly, they were summed up as rebellion. So I accepted being different and rebellious as part of my identity, neither of which was edifying to my delicate psyche.

When one thinks of themselves as different, there is a sense of never really belonging; a feeling of always being on the outside looking in. From that vantage point, it is easy to feel alienated and alone. And once those feelings take root, a host of other dispirit thoughts can easily ensue. And so it was with me. Dark forces whispered a twisted reality that locked me behind bars of my own making. This cell of false identity shaped every decision, blurred my vision, and years later, nearly put me out of commission.

Yesterday, January 28, 2012, I was sitting in my car parked atop a small cliff overlooking the Pacific Ocean in sunny southern California. It was a blissfully warm day and people were out enjoying the sand and the surf, stopping here and there to take pictures of its magnificence. As I sat looking at them, I had an overwhelming revelation of our sameness. Beyond exterior and experience, we are all just people looking for acceptance, longing for love, hoping for importance, and captivated by beauty. And just as blatant as the revelation of our sameness, came the overwhelming understanding of our difference. God created each one of us to be unique—intentionally designed us to be different.

It was upon this revelation that the whole picture of my life became clear. God did not color inside the lines when He created me (or any of us for that matter). In Him there is complete freedom. It is not bad to be different, or to think differently. It is by design.

God knows that my questions, my perceptions are often outside the norm, but He allows me the freedom to color outside the lines. It makes no difference if it’s messy or it’s art, because as long as my hand is in His, His glory will shine through. And it makes no difference if I’m right or if I’m wrong because His grace and mercy lead me into all Truth.

No fear of being different. No fear of being bad. No fear of being alienated. I joyfully break open a new box of crayons and let ‘er rip tater chip!

January 31, 2012

Dear Me,

I know you didn't want to do this blogging thing and that you struggled with putting your "stuff" out there for all the world to see. But I think you will come to find freedom in releasing your ponderous cogitations from their trappings inside your gray matter. Indeed, I believe that you will actually learn to like this blogging thing, maybe even love it.

I encourage you. I support you. I promise to be your biggest fan.

Love always,
Me