At 10:50 am thirty-one years ago today I was in the Penthouse Suite of a hotel room in downtown Winston-Salem surrounded by the ladies of my wedding party getting primped and prepped for my evening wedding.  A photographer milled around the peripheral, quietly snapping photos in an attempt to capture the "feel" of this monumental event. During the flurry of activity, I recall more than once thinking, "What in the hell am I doing?" If I go back and look at those photos, boy can I clearly see that sentiment, each smile forced and the strains of worry and doubt written all over my face. And yet, I kept talking myself into it, telling myself all that smarmy crap about "love conquering all" and "happily ever afters". I wanted to believe the "fairy tale", in fact there was a damaged part of me that desperately needed to believe because it had been one of the few things holding me together for so long. Let me tell ya, that's a ton of pressure to put on two kids who knew absolutely jack about love.

As I thumb through old photo albums, I can clearly see on our faces the turmoil and mistakes, the happy moments interspersed at random spots along side of pain and regrets. Maybe he and I are the only ones who could really see those things from a photo because we had been living them. From the outside, perhaps it just seems like, "Oh, hey, there they are killing it all these years." Many have commented words that give weight to that supposition, however those few who really know us, know better. 

To be fair, the adults in our lives at the time did try to warn us..."You're too young to get married," they said. "You don't know what you're doing. Just wait," they told us. But we didn't understand. I mean, how could we? There wasn't enough life experience between us to know dammit about making a relationship "work". A "Leave it to Beaver" boy and a damaged little girl from completely different worlds trying to build that "happily ever after"and having zero clue how to make that happen. He joined the Air Force, we moved away and then SLAM! The Universe kicked us both in the teeth. Repeatedly.

I was knocking on the door to my thirties before I realized no-one was coming to save me from the new madness he and I had created. I found a way to pick myself up off the ground, where I was getting trampled, and take more "control" of my world. And honestly, I don't even know what my husband was doing at that time, because by then I'd completely checked out of our relationship. To my mind, we were living as glorified roommates who happened to be raising two girls together. 

One day, I couldn't even tell you precisely when, I woke up and things had dramatically changed. Somewhere along this whacky road, we'd grown up. Separate, yet together. He had become this loyal, responsible, romantic, loving man. I had found a way to make peace with all of my broken bits and turned in to this hyper-focused, driven, tenacious, wild, passionate woman. The girl who married him became the woman strong enough in her own right to no longer "need" him. And yet..

...as we started communicating on a deeper level about "what happened next", I found that the knight in shining armor I'd been praying for as a girl had become this man in dented, rusty armor...full of blood and mud, scratches and scrapes, who truly loved me, flaws and all. But better than that, somewhere along the way, he'd invested so deeply that he actually understood me, sometimes better than I understand myself. Somewhere along the way he had become "my person". I didn't even know how much I needed one of those until I recognized that's what he was.

Sometimes, when I'm wholly, brutally honest with myself, just how much I need it, I need him scares the crap out of me. I don't want to need him. I learned long ago at the knee of my grandmother that if you put weapons in other people's hands that can hurt you, sooner or later they will use them to cause you pain. And isn't that a reflection of every love gone wrong poem or song ever written? Being vulnerable is discombobulating. I don't like it. But love is a leap of Faith. Right? And I'm not talking about that frou frou love you see in storybooks or Rom-Coms. I'm talking that deep stuff you feel in your bones, that courses through your veins on every heartbeat and can make your heart hammer so hard it shakes your entire being. That love you give, that when you give it, takes away some of your power. You feel it, this tiny little weight of it, draining from you and going into the person you've given it to. The power that says, "You can hurt me in places so deep, that if you do, I might never recover." I'm pretty sure there's no picture that can capture that. 

As I go through the albums of old photos of my life, I see the trust, the faith and love I've given not just to that charming, goofy man who refuses to give up on me, but others, who've over the years become my Tribe. I remember those who've fallen away, either by chance or choice, and even though there's no physical photo for many of them, they are imprinted in my mind. We choose one another, or not. We hold on, or let go. We take chances on each other...and sometimes those chances burn hot and hard, then vanish into smoke and ash. It's the other times that keep us opening up, putting ourselves at risk...when the love we give heals us, soothes and comforts us. That love grows, becoming part of who we are in ways that are too beautiful for photographs. 

The words, they jumble in my head, stacking up against one another like some wild five o'clock traffic jam on a big city highway. So much noise, I have forgotten what peace sounds like. I try to muffle the sounds among the daily inane, but to no avail. My pleasures are simple, while my mind remains...complicated. Alone in the dark at the end of the day, I can almost catch that moment of elusive peace, and then the dark does what it always does, becomes a place where all things converge even louder, the buffers of an average day no longer in the way.

Alone in bed, much, much later, the past, the present, the future converge there atop my soft pillow. I force myself to breathe, focus on the soft whir of the ceiling fan above me and pick apart one by one the reels of life-clips playing in my head. It has taken me years to finally convince myself that I'm no longer living a life that is temporary. And yet, of course I am, we all are. I can feel time gaining speed, and wonder, not for the first time, "Who am I? Why am I here? What does my presence on this rock hurtling through space mean, anyway?"

It is quite startling to realize that most people, places, and things are temporary, especially for a woman with a hopelessly romantic soul who's also not a big fan of change. It is also disconcerting to know that no matter how surrounded by others we may be, we truly face every single moment of our lives alone. I am dangerous to myself when left alone in my head for too long. I also have a tendency to get easily bored, which has frequently led to me pushing my "crazy button" just to see what would happen. This, of course, takes me back around to how my post began...in the noise, full of a cacophony of thoughts. I think it's easier for me to be "still" when chaos reigns around me, outside of me. It is when I become my most focused on what's deeply important. It is when I'm most likely to discard the "dead weight" of burdens I should have let go of long before I finally do.

That realization has hit me like a lightning bolt and it is in that moment of clarity where I find the one way in which I am most like my mother. There have been times over the last twenty years that she's come to me in just this way, wild and free with crystal clarity. Some discoveries are painful, while others give me great comfort and make me feel less disconnected. Unraveling the mystery of who I am, why I obsess over the things I do, is a journey in discovering where I come from, who I come from. And while I am fully aware that the people, places, and things that I love are indeed quite temporary, the powerful love that has connected me to them...that is one of those rare "forevers".

The tiny human I call "grandson" is watching some cartoon with puppies who go on grand adventures, as Mother's Day stretches out in front of me. My day is a watercolor, the blues of the past mixing and melding with the purples, pinks, yellows and greens of today, creating a picture of my life up to this moment that is almost too beautiful to gaze upon. I only have a handful of happy memories of my own mother, but the memories I have since becoming a mom, myself, are too numerous to count. And now, here I am today periodically snuggled up to the next generation, where so far almost every memory is a joyous one. 

It is a sobering thought that when the boy is the age I am right now, I will be gone from this world. Thinking back, when I was not much older than he is now, my life's purpose was set. I decided that I would make right all the things that were wrong in my world. I would heal every pain I could and undo "generations" of damage. I would leave everything I touched better than it was when I found it, or if that was beyond my capabilities, at least leave "it" unharmed by my hand, my presence. I wanted to leave a positive impact everywhere I went. It was a ridiculously simplistic plan hatched up in a child's mind, and yet nearly fifty years later, it occurs to me that it's still a pretty good one. 

There was a moment, not long ago, when I thought my "purpose" was complete and whatever life I had left stretched out in front of me appeared to be an empty void of uncertainty. Thankfully, I discovered that there are always places that need healing, people who need light, and lost tiny humans just waiting for someone to show them that they matter. There's no such thing as giving too much "love" to the world and it requires absolutely no extra or expensive resources. There's no age limit, time limit, or expiration date. No "bit" of love that's too small. 

In the end, the only legacy we leave behind is the way we loved.

There is a haunting coming. I can feel it knotting together into this tight ball of emotion, wrapping itself tighter and tighter inside of my soul and growing with intensity. This is not a new occurrence to my world, which is why I immediately recognize the ghosts gathering, doggedly pursuing my every step. I push down, deep inside, in an attempt to contain the bits that are now awake and lurking, but they begin to leak out of my eyes, drain my sleep, my appetite, and whisper inside my mind. If the release doesn't come swiftly, those whispers will grow ever louder until they are screaming full out in demand of my attention. 

I know the trigger this time, the event that's stirred up the ghosts of my past, made me short-tempered with my girls, weepy, and utterly devoid of patience...it is the passing of my childhood friend. A week ago today, he just didn't wake up. And while I am well aware of how fragile life is, sometimes its manifestation sucker punches me in the gut. It also stirs up those ghosts of mine, especially this time. When I met Michael, I was only fourteen. He scooped me up in that big, boisterous tornado way of his and claimed me for his own. I was the baby sister he didn't have, and he was the big, overprotective brother I always wanted. To a girl who was trapped in a childhood nightmare, he looked like this giant savior. And yet, I didn't have the heart to put my burdens at his feet. He had his own demons, and giving him mine felt like a cruelty that would have been unbearable. He'd be angry with me now if he knew all I didn't say back then, but it was worth it to protect him from the lashes of my own storm.

The flood of memories that were unfolding at the moment he stepped into my story now rush to the surface, picking off scabs, making me bleed and bouncing that knotted ball around inside of me like a tiny ship being smashed around on hurricane waves, slammed into the sea and the sides, adrift in the unrelenting tides that pull them to the shore. The lines are blurred of that girl he knew and the woman I've become. It is dark for me when that happens because on most days I know how to separate one from the other and maintain my footing, but now there is no solid ground to stand on, just an endless dizziness from the blur and a blinding pain caused by those ghosts. Every time I find myself in this place, it is accompanied by a tiny kernel of self-doubt that asks, "Is this it? Is this the one that drowns me? Is this the one that pulls me under completely, until there is no more daylight to be found?"

Not today, girl. Today there are angels everywhere you look, often in the most unexpected places. In fact, they are always there, but most days you don't really need them. During those times they patiently watch, quietly wait, smile when you smile, rejoice when you are happy, and celebrate every big and little victory you attain. Cry if you must, and then...be still. Let them help you unravel the knot bit by bit, one tiny scrap at a time, until all that's left of it is one tiny grain to tuck away, the grain that holds the ghosts tucked away inside of you. It's okay that they're there, the ghosts, the pain, as long as you don't allow them to overtake all that you are, all that you have healed, and the wonder that's come from, or been inspired by there presence. 

​Rest in Peace Michael Ray Jacobs 2-27-1968 to 3-6-2018. You will be missed.

...stay silent anymore.
...fathom a world where in any corner it is acceptable for our children to be murdered.
...understand how the adults of the human race are not utterly outraged at the things that continue to happen on our watch. Seriously. W.T.F??????

It has become a daily struggle for me to remain silent in the face of unbelievable madness. How is it okay for a child to sit in their English class and before the end of the day, be shot during the course of their studies? How is it okay to excuse people at any level who are supportive of pedophiles? Spouse abusers? Predators who pray on their co-workers, patients, etc.? Are we "the people" of the human race completely blind, and/or complacent to the vile deeds done around the globe? And if the answer is "yes", how does ANYONE sleep at night? 

I realize that most adults have to go to work, do laundry, pay their bills, etc., eeeking out an existence in a world that is frequently difficult and a life that will flat out kick you in the face sometimes. I understand that we are, for real, entitled to the lens by which we process anything and everything around us. But there are certain things we should all be able to agree upon that are just NOT O.K. We live in a world with complicated problems, deal with a day to day that is, mostly, completely out of our control. And yet, here I sit, after days, and weeks, and months of news media, social media, coffee break conversations where more and more I hear the words coming out of others' mouths and ask myself, "Are you kidding me?" I am mortified at our lack of care and compassion for one another. I am astounded at what has become "acceptable". And for the first time in my life, I fully understand how we have become so "divided". 

If you can defend the horrifying misdeeds of others, I can no longer look you in the eyes and excuse or ignore our differences. I cannot be true to my own passionate convictions of a life lived with compassion and care of others, a life I spend trying to leave a positive mark on, while keeping close to me those who are completely happy, or worse, complacent, to the destruction of others. I am so proud to see it when children here in America and around the world stand up and say, "We're going to make the world a better place." Since the first day I stepped into a classroom, I have encouraged my students to do just that. From the moment I became a mother, I encouraged my girls, as well. And as I look at that tiny human (my precious grandchild) who has become a part of our family, I am almost frantic to change all that is "wrong" in the world that he will grow up in. Our children, my children deserve better than "this." 

I am constantly searching for ways that I, personally, can make a difference when the parameters are so overwhelmingly huge. I have thought of running for some political office, but after extensive research on the matter concluded that it is not the most effective means to use my voice. For now, my work as a teacher and my co-career in writing are the best way for me to help shape the future, as well as advocate my positions. These things feel small in light of the glaring issues at hand, however if I am patient (and I'm totally not), they will bear fruit. Eventually. *sigh* And while I am the kind of woman who says, "My thoughts and prayers are with you," and means it, I am also a woman who feels as if more decisive action is necessary. Future generations deserve everything I have to give to ensure they receive a better world.

With a chill in the air and Christmas tunes softly playing from my ipod, I lovingly bake sweet treats that will invariably end up on my hips. All the while, ghosts of Christmases past linger in every corner, nook and cranny of my life. When I pass our lit up tree, I recall Aunt Mattie's enduring love of a tree that's more Charlie Brownish than elegant. Her cousin, who lived on a farm nearby, would chop down some hideous evergreen from his land and dump it on our front porch a few days before Christmas. Aunt Mattie's eyes would light up when she saw it, while I held onto her apron, leaned my little head against her leg and held back tears of disappointment. To her credit, she always turned that scraggly bunch of branches into a thing of beauty and if you squinted at it in the dark, nothing but twinkling lights sparkling, it always looked just right.

I wrap gifts, my tape job looking more like a task my two-year-old grandson has taken on and am reminded of the censure of a grandmother who was tyrannical in her wrapping supervision, as she had me wrap all of the presents, instructing me to make precise folds and intricate bows to go atop packages that had meaningless, expensive bobbles inside. Oh, how I loathed that job. More deeply, I loathed the sentiment behind them, gifts for show, given with the intent of making her "look good". In fact, as I put together my own packages, I don't recall even one single gift my grandmother gave me in the spirit of love, at Christmastime or otherwise. I do, however, remember the year my mother implored me not to ask my grandmother for anything, because if I did grandma wouldn't have enough money to buy her own daughter a gift. In truth, I'd happily give up all the presents now and in the future for just one more day with mom. If I am perfectly still, however, shutting away all of the holiday madness and noise, allowing the quiet to settle in, I can almost hear my mother telling me none of that matters now. I can feel her surrounding me, her spirit leaving with me nothing but the love she often didn't know how to show in life. The ghost of her is an ever-present comfort and I often whisper to her in the night the words I didn't say when she was alive, knowing that she "knows", even the things I didn't tell her.

The final ghost is the one that's most raw this season, the pain of it a bone-rattling ache. It frequently catches me off guard, as I go about every facet of my day...shopping here, cooking there, or curled up on the sofa watching sappy Hallmark movies that I tell myself won't make me cry, but always do. I remember this time last year... my father's sullen face, his emaciated cancer-riddled body, and his utter look of defeat, as he told me he was grateful to see another Christmas. Then and now, I cannot recall even one single, happy memory of a Christmas spent with him. Not. One. What I do remember, however, is 20-plus years of watching and making happy memories throughout the years with my own daughters. It is enough to trade the sorrows and regrets from my own childhood for the joys and laughter of theirs. In fact, it was through their beautiful eyes that I first learned about real Christmas magic. Prior to them, that concept was as abstract as those plots from the aforementioned Hallmark movie reels!

As I eat a double-chocolate cookie (that I will certainly pay for later with 15 more minutes of a workout--totally worth it), it occurs to me that ol' George Bailey might actually be one of my soulmates. An angel showed him what life would have been like had he never been born, and he finally realized just how much his own life was worth. He realized how much love and joy he'd brought into the world. While the story, itself, is a mere work of fiction (i.e. It's a Wonderful Life), the message is completely applicable...to all of us. Maybe we get dealt that ugly tree with the ratty branches and a lopsided lilt. It is, in the end, up to us to either despair that it's not perfect, or light it up and decorate it into something extraordinary and beautiful!

The nights have turned cool and the trees are on fire with Autumn's splendor. Halloween is only two days away. It is, hands down, my favorite holiday, even if it doesn't come with a "day off" (although if it were up to me, it totally would). And I've probably asked myself a thousand times over the years why it's my favorite. Is it the frivolity of dressing up as someone or something else and stepping out of the everyday me for a moment? Or perhaps it's the chocolate, which of course I can have at any time now that I'm grown, gainfully employed, and can purchase it with reckless abandon on any day. And every single time I eat a snack sized piece of candy, little me is somewhere in my bones doing a quiet victory dance. I love the contrasts of a little bit spooky mixed with a little bit of magic. It makes me believe that even the most fantastical of things are possible. And while I have yet to pinpoint precisely what it is about Halloween I find so special, I have noticed that as it is the beginning of the end of the year, the entire feel in the air is one of slow motion.

Nights are longer, my thoughts become more intense in their depth (which in and of itself is a frightening occurrence), and I feel as if I'm navigating my life through a constant time lapse. By the time December rolls around, I adamantly refuse to participate in anything resembling a Christmas "rush". I want to savor every moment of evening fires, quiet stars, and a year I'll never see again. I'm already pondering questions like "What did I do with my days in 2017?" and "Where will my next footsteps take me in the moments to come?" Almost three weeks ago I was in a pretty serious car accident, which makes those questions all the more essential to my mind. It's funny, when the doctor told me I had a concussion, her advice for recovery was to "turn off my brain". I mean, has she met me? Because I'm pretty sure that is completely impossible! While I have attempted to follow her orders, what I've found is that the only thing I could shut "off" were the mundane workings of a typical Amy day. What was left are those intensely deep musings.

There are shadows beneath my eyes mostly created by the current hauntings of loss, my father, our puppy, my car...and others, unnamed, whose absence is still a dull, yet constant, ache. Tick, tock...tick, tock Amy Marie. 2017 is melting away with or without you. And it's okay to walk slow, wrap something warm around you when you get cold, just don't stop. It's okay to look back, but make it brief, as you are no longer going that way. And it's okay to slip from October to November, to December and right on into the unknown of the next year, but take a bit of the magic with you for the journey. Because deny it if you will, the fact is anything is possible.

My phone beeps, telling me I have a message in my in-box. As I eat my breakfast, I open it and see it's a file for the details of my thirty year high school reunion. Suddenly the eggs feel like concrete block and I push the half-eaten meal aside. I've been watching the posts from the Mt. Tabor 1987 Reunion page on Facebook and thinking, "Do I really want to go? Will I regret it if I don't?" Honestly, that was such an awkward, scary time in my life and apart from my Freshman year, which felt like a magical fairytale, the rest of my days as a high school student mostly sucked. Of all my time in K-12 schools, the only year that I really felt as if I belonged to something special was my Freshman year. I made some lovely friends (most of whom moved to a different school the next year per North Carolina's constant redistricting). I was on the cheer-leading squad, which was a blast (especially since my mother had also been a Mount Tabor Spartan cheerleader many years before). And I made a connection or two that has stayed with me well into my adult life, connections that don't make me sad. Once most of those friends changed schools, the dynamics went right back to a scene I knew I didn't have the energy or desire to be a part of, so I spent a lot of time trying to be as invisible as possible, and survive. What was happening in my life outside of those academic walls was far more menacing and challenging than any teenage milieu.

Being a teacher, I am privy to plenty of middle school drama and I frequently tell my students that there are far more important things in life to be concerned about than whatever it is that's gotten them spun up in the first place. But as I opened up my old senior yearbook, a flood of emotions from that other dimension, that life I was caught up in during that time came pouring back. My chest constricted. A ball of angst and regret formed in my belly. And my hands shook, as I looked for those from my class who are now deceased. There somewhere inside is a part of me who is in awe of the fact that I've lived this long, made it this far. The girl staring back at me from my senior photo (one of the worst pictures ever taken of me), her life from then until now is a miracle. And yet...

I remember sitting at a dining hall table with a group of pilot's wives at an Air Force event not too terribly long ago. We were discussing our school days...the bullies, the boys who broke our hearts, and the general feeling of just not fitting in at all. One of the wives laughingly told me, "We went to just one of my reunions and it was full of people who had been mean to me for quite awhile when I was in school. I took great pleasure in finding a break in their bragging conversations to interject that I'd finished my degree, became an analyst and oh, by the way, married a man who flies fighter jets for a living!" She added that while she should, perhaps, be a little ashamed at indulging her petty side, she didn't because it felt good to give back a tiny taste to those who had once callously harmed her. We all agreed. Working hard to make something of yourself is its own reward, especially in spite of all the challenges that life, and other not-so-nice humans put in our paths. But delivering a tiny "screw you" in the face of those who would do us harm feels good. Is that wrong?

Becoming the woman I am today has been a crazy difficult battle, and not just from foes or obstacles on the outside, but also from an inner war with myself that has been raging, off and on, since childhood. And even though I'm delighted with the path I'm currently on, there is still a part of me that resents those who've been a stumbling block on my journey. That's actually a good thing, as it has  kept me mindful of my words and actions in an attempt to never be a hindrance for someone else. The bullies of my childhood? They taught me to find beauty from within (hence the message tattooed to my arm, that I rub frequently throughout the day for strength and focus). The exclusion from my high school cliquey crowd? They taught me that my own worth should not be valued merely because of the group to which I belonged, by the merits of my being and what positive energy I could add to the world. As for the boys who used me, or hurt me, or both...they taught me to expand and refine my definition of love. They also taught me how to see my own value, my own sense of what I bring to the table, and how to never compromise that for something "temporary"  just because it might be "immediately fun". That rewarding brevity should only be used when it comes to things like cake. In matters of the heart, I'm in it for the longevity and sustainability. So to those in which this message applies, I offer a heartfelt "thanks". Those are lessons I never could have learned from a textbook. I reckon my badass grown self will go to that thirty year shindig, have a drink, and celebrate a long but successful road into THIS dimension!

"Some days the memories still knock the wind out of me..." --the Mad Hatter's Tea Party

The sky is grey, a fine mist falling in the soft, sleepy morning and making the start of my Saturday a watercolor wash of dripping color. As I pull myself together to face the day, the artist in me reaches for my mother, who was far more talented than I could ever hope to be, although I continue the endeavor of honing those artistic skills she slipped into my DNA. The bright light from my make-up mirror reveals a face so similar to hers, and yet there are lines there (well hello there crows feet, you bastards)...from age and laughter and sorrow, lines she never got to experience. She would have hated growing old, hated it with a passion. And even though she'd have hated it, I really needed her to do it anyway. I have things to tell her, things I discuss with her that remain merely a frustrating, one-sided conversation inside my head.

It's odd, the times she appears so strongly in my thoughts (like this morning), speaking to me in my mind as if she's always there, some lovely whispering moment away on the other side of time. Sometimes thoughts of her hit me like a Ninja kick to the solar plexus, whole other times she pops in from some random point in an ordinary day. For example, my daughters recently took a trip to NYC to celebrate the birthday of my oldest, and my little one sent me a picture of herself all dressed up and out on the town. What she didn't know, what I didn't say is that seeing her there was like some beautiful punch in the gut, seeing her beautiful happy face and sense of style so similar to my mother's it took my breath away and made me ache for the woman who gave me life. I feared if I told her that, it would put a dark cloud over her joyous time with her sister, and I didn't want to be the one to take that exquisite smile off her face.

I am struck by the ways in which other people's lights shape my life on so many levels. And while my mother's is at the forefront today, those thoughts give way to others who have done the same, come and gone leaving their fingerprints on who I am. Some of those encounters invariably invoke these unexpected aches, often aches I don't even know how to identify, much less verbalize. It feels as if I carry the ghosts of countless people who've stirred to life powerful emotions from the murky depths of that place often referred to as ones' "soul". When I think of these people, I mentally divide them into categories...those who see a beautiful flower and pick it, those who crush the flower in their hand or beneath their feet, and those who cultivate and appreciate it in all its splendor. Somewhere in my mind I hear my mother say, "How could you ever think you were ugly? You are the daughter of a beauty queen. Literally." And I want to explain to her that even a lovely exterior can hide a core full of vile and rot, but I know that conversation would be a fruitless endeavor, because like my Aunt Mattie, she was one of the few people I know who could find beauty even in the ugly, damaged spaces. It is a skill set I am working to master without being shattered in the process.

Sometimes the Universe sends you a song that exactly describes how you're feeling inside (I love it when this happens, even if it hurts like hell). The words, the melody hit the precise "YOU" note that resonates in your bones, in your cells, down deep below even that molecular construct. The song below, that is the most recent gift to me from the Universe and God does it sum up what my clumsy words have tried to convey.

I know, I know. It's cheesy! And honestly, most people don't make such a big deal about their own birthday. In fact, before I hit my 40's, I usually treated my birthday much the same as any other day of the year. My forties changed that forever.

Those of you who know me know that my mother died young...a couple of months before  her forty-seventh birthday, in fact. And in those  years since her death, it has stayed in the back of my mind, that lingering dark thought of, "What if I die young like my mom? What if I, too, don't live to see my forty-seventh birthday?" As the end of my forty-sixth year played out, the little dark thought became this tight knot in the pit of my stomach. My mind was a scrambled mess of even darker thoughts and questions galore. What had I been doing with my life? What had I become? If she was looking down on me, would she be proud of the choices I'd been making, or disgusted that I didn't do whatever it was she thought I ought to be doing? In fact, those doubts and fears started creeping in well before, as my girls graduated high school and moved on to begin their big girl lives. I questioned if I was now "done" with my purpose, having gotten them safely to a place where they could take over and care for themselves. It occurred to me that perhaps that was the main task I had been born for. Many call this time of questioning a "mid-life crisis" and truthfully, though that sounds as cheesy as this blog title, it's as good an explanation as any for my mind to explode with thoughts of self-doubt.

So, now here we are, me on the other side of my mother's fateful and untimely end, my life still ticking along ever forward. I am finally finding my footing, after leaving military life (which was all I'd known for my entire adult life). I'm finally growing more comfortable than ever in my own skin, knowing who I am, what I want, and where I'm going...okay, sort of on that last one. Admittedly, I am no longer allowing others' expectations of what I should be doing to drag me along this life haphazardly. I am also no longer standing in a tornado of fear and self doubt. I'm not sure where I'm going at least half the time, but it's finally not terrifying to say that. I have a general direction I've pointed my little compass towards and that's good enough for me.

And tomorrow, when I am in the first hours of forty-eight, I'll be on horseback, riding mountain trails (one of my happiest places to be) with a view that takes my breath away, then later sitting in a lawn chair under a sea of stars watching a movie (okay, mostly I'll be staring at those stars, but there will be a movie in the background of my celestial gazing). In the coming days I'll try new things (whitewater rafting, God help me & cave exploration,  no bats please, even though I think they're pretty darn cute) and indulge in things I already love (three new books just waiting for my attention, as well as spending time with my not-so-tiny human, whose company is a constant adventure)! As for the rest of my day, I think I'll make my own birthday cake (a fact that has my husband extremely grumpy).

I'm alive and well, surrounded by a Tribe who loves me that I completely adore. I work two jobs that make me happy down to my bones (writer & teacher). One pays the bills and gives me purpose, while the other feeds my soul and nourishes parts of me that I'm just now getting to know. The road I'm on is still pretty damn bumpy (with the loss of my father and the nightmare of untangling his estate), but that's life...right? I'm making it, getting there (wherever "there" may be). And Mama, if you're listening, I promise not to waste a second...for both of us. I've got ya, right here in my heart.

Always,
A.