Yesterday definitely makes it into my top ten list of "Worst Days Ever". It has left me today with this hollow pit in my stomach and a sadness that feels like an oily coat over my skin. When my alarm went off this morning, I was seriously hoping the phone would ring, life calling to say, "Today is cancelled. Go back to bed." I opened my eyes, grateful to be alive, but really wishing I could just hide from the entire world, curled up safe and warm, licking my wounds. *snorts* The world, however, stops for no one. So, I got out of bed, put myself together and traveled along through the routine of a day I'd rather not have done (although to be honest, it was yesterday I would have happily shit-canned).

When my days are filled with routine and happiness, I am completely oblivious to just how quickly life can change. I forget that conditions for the perfect storm can show up without warning and burst that pretty little happy bubble. It's good that I forget because otherwise I would spend my "happy" time worrying ad nauseum about when the storms are going to show up. They always do, no matter who you are or what your circumstances. The reverse, however, is also true. In our darkest hours, light is just around the corner. I remember this scene from Parenthood, one of my all-time favorite movies, where the grandma is talking about loving the roller coaster and how many people are afraid of it, but for here it's just wonderfully exciting. Life is every bit the roller coaster she's ascribing it to and somehow I've finally learned that when it's on that downhill turn, it's okay to throw up as long as you keep going. And even though I didn't wanna "adult" today, I did it anyway...and I survived. Bless you Friday! Come to mama!

It is never a good idea for me to write when I'm angry and today I'm hoppin' mad. Like, my heart is pounding, my mind is having a tirade that's bouncing off my skull, and now that I'm fuming, it seems like everything is fuel to that fire. I really, really despise when this happens. For one, it makes me feel out of control. I don't like that feeling at all. It's not liberating. It's not freeing. It clouds my judgement and makes me worry about what crap will come out of my mouth if I speak. Also, when I'm this angry, I don't know how to purge those feelings, many of them lingering long after my "mad" is over like scattered crumbs. And finally, the worst part is when my anger is so intense it makes me cry. Then I'm pissed AND feel vulnerable...not a good combination. Think cornered, feral cat!

I am not going to share the details of what created this current state of mind, mostly because when I started these blogs with a journal writing intent, I promised myself they would never become a "gotcha" kind of dialogue. Besides, it would be horribly unfair for me to present my side without the benefit of second party rebuttal (which in this case will never happen). Honestly, I'd vent here in full force if I thought it would be helpful, but instead it would involve a lot of swear words, make little sense, and tomorrow I'd regret that I laid it all out unchecked. It's funny because I can hear my own "little voice" reminding me right NOW to continue checking myself until the intensity has died down to a slow burn and my head is more clear.

I share this with you today mostly because growing up I remember the lessons taught to me about anger and expressing it were very ugly. As a child, I saw adults close to me who used anger as an excuse to cause harm and tear down anyone around them, feeling justified due to their state of mind. The lesson was that lashing out, wreaking havoc, saying mean things was completely O.K. under those circumstances...only it's not. It wasn't easy to find a way to allow myself a full-on mad without causing harm to anyone else, including the person who made me angry in the first place. Mostly it involves keeping my mouth shut until I'm ready to speak about it in a logical, rational way.

Here's hoping your day went better than mine.

Always,
A.

It has taken me many years, but I've finally gotten to the place in my life where I can simply enjoy my own company, although it turns out when left on my own for long periods of time I'm pretty quiet. I know, don't laugh. It's news to me, too! These last few days we've had what teachers and students all over happily refer to as "Snow Days" (which means no work/school, well, except for my 'other' job but I don't count writer because I'm that ALL the time, even when I'm not physically writing). That has left me with a lot of time on my own. Being a military wife whose husband deployed a lot and was prone to long shifts, I am not unfamiliar with this. The difference now is, instead of being mindlessly lonely, I've found peace in the solitude. Don't get me wrong, I certainly miss that goofy man of mine who texts' me silly things off and on during the day, or just makes time to ask "Whatcha doin?" He goes out of his way to shower me with attention and silliness when he's home in the evenings, which I love and appreciate. I've discovered this week, however, that I can happily entertain myself without the alone time causing me pain. This is HUGE. Epic, even. Why is it such a big deal? Because getting here was a crazy long and arduous process.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a social creature. Part of that desire to always do things, be around people came from the desperate need to get out of my own head. Before I began this journey of writing and healing, in part, by that simple act, being trapped in my head meant sitting in some dark places with demons that caused me great pain. Staying busy kept those demons at bay, helped give me ways to hide from rather than face them. And still sometimes I spend too much time in my own head. The difference now, however, is that being there isn't such a dark and scary place anymore. Some pains are still tender if I "poke" at them, but I'm learning NOT to do that and just allow them to scab over, heal. That's new, too. Let me tell ya, I've had many years to practice poking at my pain to see if it will still bleed. You'd think I would have figured out long ago to stop it! In some matters, I am a very slow learner.

I don't know if I can pinpoint the moment where that internal switch flipped because I'd grown far enough to be content with my own company, in fact I'm not sure I even believed that was possible. Until now, I would have never considered myself the kind of person who could just "be" alone, which is ridiculous considering how much time I've spent in my adult life being that exactly. Before, it felt as if I was merely holding my proverbial breath, waiting for it to pass. Now it's like learning a new way to describe "freedom" (I hope that makes sense). Honestly, my world doesn't make a lick of sense without my Tribe, but they don't have to be physically with me for me to feel their presence in my life. So many of them influence me in ways they will never know. And God, it feels good to have them close, even if it's just tucked up close to my heart where I can feel their spirit saying to me, "We're here. Keep going, girlie."

Thanks for that. And thank you for all of you who are walking this path with me. Watch your step...ground's still a little slippery from all this snow and ice. And YES I've done fine unsupervised (although not having adult supervision much longer could be problematic)!

This June will mark thirty years since my husband graduated from high school. That means next year it's my turn. Wow! Where did THAT time go? I remember the year Mama Schaefer went to her fiftieth class reunion. When I asked her about it, she told me at that point nobody had time to "strut their stuff" or try to impress anyone. Mostly, they were just glad to all still be alive. She said it was refreshing and honest.

I wasn't popular in high school, and that was fine by me. At that age, with the things going on in my life, most of the time I was perfectly happy if I could accomplish blending in with the walls. I learned early it was safer that way. On her more catty days, my mother would accuse me of always "needing to be the center of attention", a testament to how much she didn't know me or herself, as that was more her affliction than it ever was mine. Mostly I think she just didn't know what to do with being the mother of a teenager (or being a mother at all) and I know she was often terrified about growing old. Her sense of self-worth had always been tied to her beauty. I'm sure she thought if she didn't have that, she'd be nothing. She would have been mighty cranky about aging, but she never got the chance. Perhaps the biggest thing she missed out on, however, was that she never found a way to purge her demons or truly find value in herself. There is a part of me that understands I could have easily have ended up just like that. I am very grateful I didn't.

I've been reflecting a lot on milestones lately. One thing about the high school visit down memory lane is that it reminds me of how far I've come from that frightened girl, whose world was a dangerous place and who only wanted to feel wanted, loved and safe. As graduation approached, I had zero college aspirations. Part of that was because nobody ever offered me one iota of encouragement, although Aunt Mattie did once say, "If I could afford to send you to college, I would." I wasn't even sure I was going to be able to have a future at all, but I knew if I did get the chance, I couldn't do any worse for myself than the adults around me who were directly responsible for the care and well-being of a child. The plan that not-so-grown-up seventeen year old me put into place was messy, often random, and very much a "fly by the seat of my pants" method. Over the years, as I became more educated about life, I developed a bit more meticulous and conscientious approach, but there is still an element of "oh, push all the buttons and let's see what happens" in me. Apparently that wild part is genetic, rooted deep in my DNA strands.

That seventeen year old me would not have believed where forty six year old me ended up. As I sat on the doctor's exam table this morning, she asked me about the scar on my neck. She wanted to know if it bothered me or if the look of it was something I'd like them to help "fix". I told her, "I don't mind it being there. I'm just grateful I didn't die." Mama Schaefer was right. Happy to be alive. Beneath me, solid, sturdy ground to stand on, and above me, nothing but endless sky. If I could go back and whisper one thing to my young self it would be, "Just keep pointing that compass North, little girl. You'll get there."

Those tiny little phonemes, strung together in magical ways to create words...on a page, in an email, handwritten in a letter (which is one of my personal favorites), they are so very powerful. I leaned against the counter yesterday evening as I waited for dinner to finish cooking, my nose in a book that I'm completely captivated by, when my husband walked in the back door. "Hey, hey, good lookin'," he said and came to hug me hello. He took the book from me. "You're going to want to read this instead," he told me, then kissed the tip of my nose. My hands trembled as I held the letter from my child, biting back tears even before I had opened it.

Greedy for her words, everything around me fell away. Her first comments made me laugh, addressing me as Mama Bear and then calling me out on addressing her in my last letter as "My beautiful Freckles". She IS! Few have ever been able to resist those glorious dots on her lovely face, least of all me! I brushed fingertips over words that came from her hand and read them over and over. She positively vibrates with energy and excitement in ink on a page. I want to scoop her up and kiss her freckled-face until she giggles, even though she's too "grown-up" for that silliness (at least per her assessment of such things). When I handed the letter over to her father to read, it was SO difficult letting it out of my hands. I kid you not when I confess I wanted to take it with me to bed and snuggle it in an attempt to send positive Mama vibes across time and space to wrap around that sassy girl of mine.

It has been five days since I last spilled my words here. I apologize for the delay, but they have been clogged in a sea of emotions as all of these major changes unfold, some I've discussed, others I'm keeping close to the vest for now. I have looked back today over words YOU have shared with me and I hope all of you know just how much joy you bring me. My Tribe, my people, my family...my heart. For a little girl who almost always felt so utterly alone, it is the most precious gift.

I sat zoning at the light on University Parkway, my mind not exactly blank but close enough for me to just soak it up (...because that doesn't happen often). Suddenly the hand resting on the steering wheel caught my eye. I frowned, releasing my grip and studying this strange thing in front of me. Spots, wrinkles, lines I'd never noticed before covered every surface of a hand showing real signs of aging. I was shocked, nearly panicked, the words of Dolly Parton in Steel Magnolias popping into my brain. "Time marches on, and eventually you realize it's marchin' across your face," she declared, as she talked about the need for a woman to maintain her beauty. The light turned green and I drove the rest of the way home in a daze. I am growing older and it's starting to show. I think, however, I'm the most surprised to actually BE aging. I wasn't expecting to live this long.

It is fitting that my hands are what I noticed first in regards to my body changing with age. I have my mother's hands, a fact that's always given me comfort on the days when missing her is still like a potent ache. She died young. I have always assumed I'd share her fate, although why I've thought this has no logical explanation. I think maybe when the possibility of my came during my pregnancy with my son, I resigned myself to the fact that if I went through with carrying him to term, that would be his beginning and my end. It didn't turn out that way, and from my perspective sometimes that twist of fate feels as if it's terribly in error. I was prepared to sacrifice my life for his. And yet, here I am while he is gone...here I am growing older every day.

I let my thoughts stretch out into the living. My Aunts are totally rocking their fifties and sixties. I have family who are brilliant, spry and wonderful well into their seventies and eighties. Earlier today at the grocery store, I met an elegant, lovely woman with kind eyes who was timeless, whatever her age. "It's going to be ok," I silently remind myself. I look down, reexamining hands so similar to the woman who gave birth to me. It's okay that they're not youthful and perfect. It's okay that they're showing wear. It's okay if I make new dreams and live. Doing so won't betray those I've lost. And it's okay to allow myself to be happy. In fact, doing so is an honor to their memory, not an abandonment.

I have been dragging my feet with my writing career. A long series of unfortunate events has been eating away at my motivation, and believe me when I say that being a self-published author is, at heart, all about motivation. I had no idea how much was involved in building a new career from scratch. Sure, there are a lot of resources available today that weren't around even ten years ago but that doesn't make putting the pieces together much easier. My marketing skills are sadly lacking, my book sales are slow as a sleepy turtle, and with my children's books, I have invested over six hundred dollars on legal fees for contracts that never got used. Frustration cubed!

When this new year began, my husband said to me, "I don't know how hard to push you, but you have to get back on track. I haven't said anything because I know all of this is a lot for you to take in by yourself, but I don't want you to give up before you even get rolling because you feel defeated." I didn't want to admit that's what I was feeling, but he was right. It totally was. I wasn't sure I could illustrate my children's books myself. I wasn't sure my books were worth reading on a mass scale (although I dearly adore those close to me who've read what I've done so far and enjoyed it). And the blog, which began as a sidebar for my career, has been the most successful part of my writing endeavor (which still amazes and delights me). Where could I find that mojo, my miracle?

Turns out it was right where I left it, inside of me. I remembered what my mother-in-law said to me before she died. She asked, "Sweetheart, what is your goal for this career you've been wanting to do?" I replied, "I want my words, my stories to make a difference." She smiled at me and said, "Well then, mission accomplished. They've made a difference to me. Everything else above and beyond that is just gravy."

I won't give up, mom. I won't! Whether my words are read by only one person or hundreds, I will NOT stop. Being a writer has always been who I am. It's not all of who I am, but it's a really big part of what makes me me. In keeping with that spirit, today I drafted all of the illustrations and page layouts for my first children's book, "The Dragon Egg." With a little luck, a lot of prayer, and a miracle I'm creating one line at a time, it will be ready for release by next month! I'll keep you posted.

Love,
A.

As I sat at my make-up mirror this morning, I thought about a post one of my sisters recently shared on Facebook about a veteran nurse whose sister-in-law was in the hospital in ICU for a brain bleed. When the nurse went to visit her sister-in-law, she was so grateful to see that she was, in fact, going to be okay. But while she was there, she noticed many basic "Nursing 101" issues that had not been taken care of for this member of her family whom she loved dearly. Determined to get to the bottom of the quality of care, or lack thereof, her sister-in-law was receiving, she began to investigate the most pressing issues of negligence she could see for herself. The veteran nurse became more upset as she realized just what shoddy work many of the nurses who where charged to care for her sister were doing. And worse, how arrogant and dismissive they seemed to be about it. She concluded that we live in a world that seems to have forgotten even the most basic levels of craftsmanship, quality skills and work ethic. I do not disagree.

Since my husband retired from the Air Force and we moved back to our hometown, over and over again we have seen a complete lack of ethics and business sense from many of the places in our local area. Examples such as numerous employers who do not get back to applicants in a timely manner (...or at all) in regards to job openings, quality of workmanship a by-product unmentioned in a slick, fast-paced rat race that appears to be more and more filled with "rats", and basic business relations and courteous principles that have become outdated. When I came down for breakfast and expressed these ideas with my husband, he nodded frequently, agreeing with my thoughts on this matter. He went on to say, "We have lost our moral fiber with good business practices now a dinosaur that permeates all levels of our society."  I mentioned one of my all-time favorite professors, an old school thinker and one of the smartest men I have ever met, telling my husband that one of the reasons he was often unpopular with students was because he held them to high standards, requiring them to actually think for themselves and articulate logical ideas in an academic manner. My husband responded to this by saying, "Well, babe, he was not popular because he didn't just let students check 'those' boxes on their list and move on like most other teachers would have done." 

I don't want to believe that he is right, that fundamental good practices and quality work have become 'old school', however increasing evidence supports his cynical assessment. It bothers me to think that we've become a people who collectively spout things like "quality education", "moral business practices", and "building strong customer relationships", while behind the scenes doing exactly the opposite. With this being an election year, those messages, those lies will be spouted more than I can stomach, especially knowing that it's a Wizard of Oz kind of act, i.e. "Pay no attention to the man behind the curtain". The "outside" appears shiny and glorious, and yet the underneath is full of rot. What ramifications does that suggest for our future?

Footnote: I want to add that while the above seems to apply more and more to the places we deal with in our every day life, there are still the rare few places, businesses, institutions for higher learning, etc. who are built on the foundation of "quality" and "high standards". From small local business owners to the students, alumni, faculty and staff at Wake Forest University and connected to Wake Med, we have found glimmers of hope that things we value are not dead. It is a comfort to find "right" in a sea of "wrong" and it's greatly appreciated!

I stared down at the empty page of a letter I wanted to write to my daughter who is currently going through Officer Candidate School. I didn't know what to say. There are no words left unspoken between us, and she is one of the rare gems in my life who needs few words from me anyway. She knows what is in my heart. She sees what's in my eyes. And it seemed silly to write, "Come home!" I wanted to tell her that what I really need is for someone to figure out how to turn back that damned clock and give me more time with the tiny Freckles, who snuggled in my lap during story time and thought I hung the moon just for her. Logical me knows that's impossible but the mama in me screams, "It wasn't enough time. I didn't get to savor all those fleeting moments and now they are gone."

She's only been away for a couple of weeks, but I slog through mundane events that have happened since she left in order to fill the empty page. I remind her that her big carpet of a dog whines for her at night sometimes and that we are all so proud of her. I want to ask if strangers are yelling at her from morning to night, but merely thinking it makes me angry and ferociously protective, which is silly too, but doesn't stop me from feeling it. I fill the page with inconsequential things knowing that the most important part is the fact that I have reached out to touch her from so many miles away. I hope it will be enough.

It occurs to me that our lives are full of blank pages...days, weeks, months just waiting for us to write our story on them. There was a time, not too long ago, where her story and mine were writing themselves together. Now she's moved on to a book of her own and I go back to writing mine alone. Perhaps that was always the case, our pages merely overlapping for a brief moment. I don't know how my story or the ones each of my daughters is writing for themselves will go. Sometimes the fear of that is like a fist choking me with panic. I've named this year "Fearless", and am determined to keep within the spirit of that frightening prospect of tackling anything, everything up ahead with that kind of gusty. That being said no matter what's up ahead, I will face it, bite back any fears, and make the most of my story. I hope my girls will do the same!

I watched Hannah walk the floor comforting my grandson in the way that mothers have been comforting babies since the dawn of mankind. Her soft coos of reassurance for the fussy boy determined to fight sleep kept me mesmerized. This is my legacy, the face of the future (...or one of many). Before he was born, she spoke to me of her concerns. Would she be a good mother? What was she to do if _____ (insert a litany of issues)? She forged on even in the face of a mountain of worries, her courage making me so very proud of the woman she's become. The young woman, with a kind, compassionate heart and a tender spirit and the tiny human she held that we're all just getting to know are cornerstones of my entire world. As for her good mother woes, she took to it like a duck to water, although I'm not sure she believes me when I tell her that.

It occurred to me later in the evening, long after the new little family had gone home and I was tucked away in bed, that when the boy is my age, I'll be gone. I wonder what he'll be like, how his life will have taken shape. I wonder, too, at the state of this world during the time of his mid-life years and worry for the future he'll have to navigate. As he looks into the mirror each day, will he ever know how special he was to me? Perhaps he will not even remember my name, but that's okay. I'll remember his and take it with me into the next life. For now, I'll continue to whisper wondrous things to him during the rare moments when we're alone and I get to cuddle him close. The fact that neither he, nor his mother would even exist without me is humbling and makes me feel a sense of being so BIG and so small in a Universe I barely understand.