Kickin' & Screamin'

My Grandparents had the prettiest flower gardens ever.  Perfect flowers in perfect flower beds, lined with large and beautiful rocks. No weeds, perfectly fertilized, with bold, beautiful colors.  My Grandmother would order bulbs from the best flower catalogs, and make special trips all the way to Atlanta (before we had the big-store garden departments here in town) just to find the perfect perennials.  Then the love of her life, my sweet Paw Paw, would haul those large, beautiful rocks and railroad crossties all  over the yard to line each flower bed to her liking.  They took great pride in how cars would actually slow down as they crossed the bridge before their home, just to take in the sights.  They would end a day of hard work walking hand in hand over their yards, admiring their work.

Though all the flowers were perfectly placed in it’s required shade or sun, each color complimenting the other, there was one thing my Grandmother loved more than any flower she had planted.  Her most favorite find among all her treasures was the “volunteer.”

She was always so excited to see a little flower popping up in a random spot, growing all on it’s own, simply volunteering to show up.

As a little girl, she explained to me how these volunteer flowers would grow from seeds dropped by flowers in previous years.  We giggled as she told me that the seeds are sometimes dropped from birds, often from their poop, into a new location.  We watched as squirrels ran around, wondering if they had a flower seed stuck in their fur, which would drop off in a new spot to sprout a tiny little volunteer.

Knowing that my Grandparents spent hundreds of dollars each spring on their gardens, it always amazed me at how excited she would get over the volunteers.  She would talk about their determination, about how they grew with absolutely no effort on her part, no special soil, no fertilizer.  Just determination to grow.  Sometimes she would leave them right where they chose to appear, and sometimes she’d relocate them to a safer spot to escape the chance of being trampled by the lawn mower.  She loved and protected them so much more than she did the prize-winning Iris bulbs or brilliantly colored day lilies that were carefully planted in the rock lined beds.  She called them her “sweet little volunteers” and worked hard to make sure they thrived.

I strive to be a volunteer.  That flower that just shows up. The bloom that beats the odds.  I don’t know that I always am….but I want to be.  I dream to be. Daily, I strive to be.

Over the past few years, I most definitely have felt like a flower that had been plowed over with that lawn mower.  A flower that didn’t get to live it’s full potential, who withered up too soon.  Maybe a lack of sunshine, a lack of water, lack of the extra attention needed to thrive….or, in human terms–perhaps a lack of faith, too much heartbreak, or a sense of smothering after grief.  There have been times that I felt like that seed that completely gets torn apart, with absolutely no chance of survival.  There have been times that I felt like a seed that had been carried so far away from home, comfort and peace….that I’d never find my way back again.

This evening, as I returned home from a long walk, I noticed a tiny white bloom peeking up around a tree in my front yard.  Nothing I’d planted, nothing I recognized.  Just a tiny little volunteer.  This little flower is living through no effort at all on my part.  No extra attention.  No water other than the random rainfall.  No special soil, no special fertilizer.  Just determination.  A seed that has travelled from a previous destination, perhaps planted in a neighbor’s garden this past spring, or last year, or even several years ago.  Perhaps the seed had an easy path to travel, simply blowing through the wind from a nearby garden.  This could compare to those we know who we THINK have an easy life.  Those who always seem to be at peace.  But what are these people possibly going through that we will never know about?  How peaceful are they, truly?  Perhaps the seed ended up in my yard through the hardest of circumstances….yep,  poop.  I mean, don’t we all sometimes think that things just can’t get any crappier in our life?? I think we’ve all felt like that seed that’s literally covered in crap.  Walked on, dumped on, covered in all sorts of emotions that can be summed up as CRAP.  Yet, we can all emerge from that crap and truly become something beautiful.  A volunteer.

I strive to be a volunteer.  I look at the path I’ve travelled as a journey that’s led me to become planted where I am now.  Though my location hasn’t actually changed, my heart has.  Though my address hasn’t actually changed, my outlook has.  My vision has.  My direction has.

I have travelled through the storms and winds, to land in a spot of hope.  A spot of love.  A spot of new life.  I’m that volunteer flower, and I want to continue to grow and bloom and make people say, “WHERE the heck did she come from?”

I challenge you to be a volunteer.  I challenge all of us…..to land where life takes us, and grow.  Let’s not feel like we have to be in a certain group–in that perfect flower bed.  Let’s not feel like we must have the perfect things to help us grow…but live on our own determination and our simple need to exist.  Let’s grow.  Let’s thrive.

Let’s be volunteers.

Show up.  Surprise the others.

Bloom proudly.

GROW.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

To my Grandparents, who no doubt have the prettiest flower gardens in heaven….I hope I’m somehow making you proud…

A recent beach trip with my daughter and one of her dear friends provided some much needed relaxation, along with some wonderful laughter as memories were made.  Each morning, I would wake fairly early and hit the beach for a long walk, as walking on any beach is one of my favorite things to do.   The peacefulness of time alone…. earbuds in place, music going, flip flops thrown somewhere in the sea grass for me to find later, and off I go.  I always start my walk with a prayer.  Just a silent talk with God in my head as I start through the sand, along the edge of the water so that each wave covers my feet.  It’s almost like I feel as though God is waiting for me to say Hello….because once my feet hit the sand, once I see the ocean….I always feel closer to Him.  It’s like He’s saying, “here you are again….enjoying one of my most beautiful and amazing creations.  Let’s talk.”

After that prayer, I get down to business with the main source of entertainment on these beach walks….people watching.  I absolutely love to watch people.  I study them.  I am entertained by their behaviors and their choices.  I’m also curious.  Curious as a cat.  I see people laughing…some seem truly happy and others look as though the laughter is forced.  Forced through pain or sadness.  I see couples holding hands, and I see others who are more intrigued with their phones than they are the person they are with.  I see children who seem to be having the best day of their life, and I see others crying because a wave just washed their sandcastle away.  I see people of all ages, all stages of life.  The only thing they all have in common, that I’m aware of, is that they all happen to be here on the same beach as me.  That’s probably it.  There’s probably not one other thing that every single one of them have in common…other than the fact that we’re all human.

As I walk early in the morning, I see that everyone seems to have a goal…a purpose.  I notice that a huge percentage of the early morning beach goers are shell collectors.  This fascinates me, as I have absolutely no interest in collecting shells.  But others are spending their entire morning bent over looking at each new crop that every wave brings in.  Tiny, stone like shells, being sorted through by the hands of many…looking for the ones that pass inspection, for the ones they will take with them.  I often wonder what these avid collectors do with their shells once they are home.  Are they placed in a glass jar to live on the fireplace mantel?  Are they used for a craft project?  What happens to them?  I’ll never know.

If I postpone my walk to later in the afternoon, I notice the shell gatherers are gone and the fisherman have arrived.  Tons of tall poles, stuck into the ground with the lines protruding out into the water.  The people wait.  They sit with their poles and watch their lines, waiting for a catch, unknowing if it will be something to throw back, or something to keep.  Kinda like online dating.

As I keep walking, I see that everyone has a purpose….something they have come here for.  Some are looking for that perfect shell while others wait for the catch of the day.  Some are seeking sun, as they lay there angled just right, under the heat of the rays, striving to leave even more suntanned than they arrived.  Others are seeking shade, avoiding those same sun rays, as they fight against the sand to get their umbrella set up just right.

Some are walking like me, or even running–maybe just for exercise, trying to get in their goal number of steps for the day, or maybe just craving a bit of alone time.  Some are working on their creations, as they work the sand–adding the right amount of water to create their castle, using all of the buckets and shovels and other castle creating materials they’ve brought along.

Some are watching their children play, some are struggling to calm their children as they cry.  Some are swimming, far out into the water, as others barely walk in to their knees, jumping at every little touch against their legs.

Some are looking….for a woman, apparently–from some of the looks I got throughout my time there (bless their hearts)….or for something else.  I imagine that many are looking for peace…for healing, as the ocean seems to always help.   Many of them should be looking for a bit more clothing to wear…but that’s their business, I suppose.  We all know that we’re going to see a lot of skin at the beach….and that can be good, or very, very bad.

Some are seeking adventure, as the skies stay full of parasailers being pulled behind boats, and others are seeking rest and relaxation….perhaps using the only vacation time they’re given all year to be here, hoping the weather cooperates as they rejuvenate.

Everyone has a goal….something they are looking for, hoping to see, hoping to catch, hoping to get.  Whether it be a suntan or that perfect shell.  Whether it be some extra rest or some great seafood. Whether it be a great time with the kids, or an escape without them.

And that transfers to life in general….at the beach, in the city, in the slums or the most expensive penthouse in town….whoever you are, wherever you are, you have a goal.  We often get so busy in our day to day routine that we forget what the goal is.  The only goal becomes going to work, making that paycheck, surviving, and doing the same old daily stuff as every other day.  It often takes a vacation to get your mind off of those mundane tasks…even for a few days, sometimes just for a few hours.

What’s your goal?   Is it to make more money for more vacations?  Is it to retire?  Spend more time with your kids?  Keep looking for the perfect “sea shells”– which could be people, material things, experiences…..what ARE your perfect sea shells?  What IS your perfect catch as you fish in the sea??

We all have goals…even though we may go days or weeks at a time without thinking about them.  Because life gets in the way.  Life gets too busy.  But they are there…I promise.  Dig deep and find them.  Find your goals.  Write them down…hang a list on the fridge….mark them off as you achieve them.  If weeks and months go by before anything gets marked off that list, you’re too busy.  You’ve forgotten to pick up those sea shells and find that perfect spot to fish, so to speak.  Slow down.

Slow….

down.

 

God bless all the beachgoers and those who’ve never seen the sea.

God bless you…. and God bless me.

I wanted to make it to 25, though to truly make it to retirement, one must teach 30 years.  I knew I’d never make it to 30, so 25 sounded good to me.  But last August, as I started my 23rd year of teaching, I knew this was it.  Twenty three.  My magic number.  I would go out on a good note, before I became that teacher that just showed up each day because she had to.  I would bow out before I lost my love for doing the only true job I’ve ever done.  It was time.  And that time has come.

For this entire school year, I’ve been very aware of every “last.”  My last first day of school, my last performance with each  grade level.  My last Christmas caroling trip with my chorus.  My last spring musical.  Last, last, last.  In all honestly, as excited as I’ve been about my decision to retire early, the word “last” started becoming a bit dismal. And I was bound and determined that nothing would put a damper on my decision to go, though my emotions were often getting the best of me.

It’s been an odd journey, muddling through this past school year.  The big huge “last” events that I thought would most definitely leave me feeling somber actually didn’t. It was the little things that gripped me the most.  As I walked out on stage to take my final bow after our three-day run of a successful spring musical, I prepared for tears.  I had the foresight to take a tissue out on stage with me, to wipe the tears that would no doubt come.  I felt almost heartless when I realized they weren’t coming.  I walked off the stage in a bit of a daze, wondering what might be wrong with me…knowing that any other woman would have probably been bawling.  Perhaps I was just out of tears?  I’ve certainly cried my share of them over the past couple of years.  Was I out?  Dried up?  I honestly wasn’t sure.

Then a few minutes later, someone approached me backstage, as the hustle of kids swarmed around, gathering up their things to go out into the lobby to see their family and friends and all who’d come to see them perform.  I didn’t recognize her, and still to this day I don’t know who she was.  I’m assuming, from her age, she was the grandparent of one of my students.  She didn’t introduce herself, but approached me with an aura of wisdom.  She embraced me.  Awkward, yes–because I tend to be that way.  But nice, also.  She then looked into my eyes and sort of whirled her arms around in the air in a way that made me think of Glenda the Good Witch from the Wizard of Oz.  As those arms whirled, she said to me “Remember all of this.  You will never be in this exact situation ever again.  Even if you direct this show a dozen more times, it will never be with this same group of kids, or with this same audience. It will never be exactly like this again.”

You could have convinced me at that moment that this woman WAS indeed Glenda the Good Witch.  Though I know she was simply one of the many family members who were thanking me, hugging me, giving me kudos for a job well done….she, to me in that very moment, was a jolt of realization that I will never forget.

At that moment, the tears came.  They came hard.  Snot and sobbing and the all the unattractive noises and facial expressions that come with the ugliest cry ever.  I went through my saved tissue plus a dozen more, as I contemplated her words.  It will never be exactly like this again.

There were times in my life, almost two years ago now….when I never would have dreamed that things would never be the same.  I had no idea my world was about to be torn up and tossed upside down.  Would I have done things differently if I’d known?  Perhaps.  Would different actions have changed anything?  Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  All I know is, things will never be exactly as they were.  I will never have another day exactly like the one I just had.  Neither will you.

That mystery woman, whom I’ve named Glenda, didn’t mean to make me cry.  She’ll never know how I locked myself in the bathroom for at least 10 minutes just pulling myself together over such a simple statement.  To her, they were simple words.  To me– a profound statement that I have thought about almost every day since.

It will never be exactly like this again.

I had lunch with three of my dearest friends today.  We laughed, as usual, and had a great time together.  We will, no doubt, eat together again in the future.  But it will never be exactly the same.  We will no longer be co-workers.  But we will always be friends.

I walked down on the dock this afternoon and watched as boats and jet skis passed by, enjoying the beautiful day.  Someone was learning (quite unsuccessfully) how to water ski.  A couple on a pontoon boat slowly passed by, close enough for me to see their big black dog sitting in the boat, panting with joy.   The neighbor waved to me from their dock next door.  It felt very Norman Rockwell-ish….a summer afternoon on the lake.  And it will never be exactly like that again.  Sure, the couple with the big black dog will be back out on their pontoon boat, and the frustrated, cussing kid will one day be out there again, actually skiing, rather than face-planting in to the water over and over ….and I’ll see the neighbor again, just like I always do.  But it will never be exactly like it was today….or any other day.

As tomorrow is my last day at my school, I want to take this thought with me in my future endeavors.  I want to always remind myself that it will never be exactly like this again….no matter how silly or small the situation may be.  I want to live every moment as though it’s the last chance I have to be in THAT exact moment.

This may cause me to be a bigger bozo than I already am.  In my small circle of life, I’m convinced my friends refer to me as “the crazy one” in the group….and I actually take great pride in that.  But now, if I can truly remind myself that every moment is unique and will never be exactly the same….I might just try to make everyone’s moment a better one.  I tried it out today on the way home, as I was stopped at a red light next to a small white car that was being driven by what looked to be a very unhappy woman.  Though my Mamma did teach me not to stare, I couldn’t help but watch this woman as we sat at the light.  She just looked so miserable.  I thought to myself, “I might not ever see this woman again.  The chances of me sitting next to this woman at a red light ever again are very, very slim.”  So I honked my horn.  She didn’t look over, so I honked it again.  She finally looked over, and I waved at her like a complete idiot–with a big Forrest Gump sort of wave–and smiled so big, I must have looked like a donkey.  The light turned green, and I drove off, noticing that she sat there for a few seconds before she finally started moving.

I probably just scared her, acting like a psychopath, but at least I changed the moment somewhat.  That moment in time was about to happen….with her looking so unhappy.  But I changed it, in my own crazy way, to a different moment.  It will never be exactly like that again.  And I bet I changed the next few minutes of that woman’s day, at least making her wonder what the heck just happened.

Let’s all just keep it in mind….our lives are like a production, just like my kids had on that stage.  The only difference is–we don’t get a dress rehearsal.  We have ONE chance, to make it the best we can.  Every moment is a moment  that will never be exactly the same.  So make it good.  For even if it happens only once, it was at least a “happy” once.

Tomorrow starts a new chapter of my life.  It will be the “last” last day of work for me as a music teacher.  It will be a fun day, as I gather with friends after I leave school for the last time.  And when the day is over, it will be over.  It will never be exactly the same again.

Make life fun.  Make every moment the best you can.  For, it will never be exactly the same again.

YOUR life will NEVER be lived exactly the same as anyone else.  Your day tomorrow will never be exactly the same as any other day, or anyone else’s day.  Too deep of a thought?  Nah…just make it fun.  Wave at someone and make them wonder what the hell is making you so happy.  For, they might not EVER have a moment quite like that, ever again.

God bless all, and thank you to “Glenda”…..whoever you may be, who gave me that hug that night in the theater.

 

 

 

You hear people say “don’t sweat the small stuff”…but you know, the small things do matter.  We all have details in our life that are small, yes–but matter to us.  I recently broke off a new relationship in my life, due to several reasons.  Though it wasn’t a reason to end our time together, there was a small factor that drove me crazy.  This small fact was that he never took the time to read this blog.  I mentioned it.  I hinted. I just didn’t get it.  If he knew it was important to me, why not take 10 minutes to skim over a few of my writings?  It would have been a great opportunity for him to learn more about me, learn what matters to me, learn about some of the stuff that moves me enough to write about it.  And even if he thought it was useless dribble, at least he could say that he’d read it.  But nope.  It was a big deal to me….but not to him.

Sometimes I do get hung up on the little things.  Because they do, indeed matter. I’ve tried to live by the “don’t sweat the small stuff” philosophy.  But I can’t help but think…what about the small things that are really important to us?  We know they’re insignificant, maybe even silly, but they matter…no matter how small.

But what I’ve truly been thinking about lately is….do we take time out of our busy lives to show our loved ones that we care about the “small stuff” in their lives?  Do we often live our lives focusing only on what matters to us?  Do we often refuse to take time to pay attention to things that seem small to us, but big to someone else?  Do we find the small things to be “too much trouble?”

I think we parents can truly be found guilty of this quite often.   I remember a time when my girl was convinced her grilled cheese tasted better when cut a certain way, with the crust removed.  Deep inside, I thought it was a waste of time to remove the crust from each sandwich.  Wouldn’t it just to better to have her eat the part she wants, and leave the crust on her plate?  Many times I’d forget to cut the crust off, only to see the disappointment on her face….which would lead me to immediately cutting the crust from the sandwich, trying to make it just right….but no doubt I rolled my eyes.  Then came that day, when I served her a grilled cheese sandwich cut just right, with the crust neatly removed.  She looked up at me and said “Mommy, I know when you make it just like this, you are making it with love. This might be the best sandwich ever!”  I never rolled my eyes again over her sandwiches.  I cut that crust off with the enthusiasm of a parent who realized how very blessed she is.

A kindergarten student asked me to tie his shoe last week.  As I tied it for him, in the usual way, he said “but you didn’t double knot it.”  I reached back down to tie it in that extra knot as he shared, “My Mommy always double knots but she’s been gone for a while.”  I learned later that this little boy was going through a terribly difficult time at home.  His Mommy was indeed gone for a while, and his living conditions were heartbreaking.  The huge hug he gave me after I tied his shoe showed me that a tiny thing like that double knot meant more to him than I could truly understand.

The small things can be the biggest things that matter to us.  I was recently in the grocery store when the woman checking out in front of me asked if she could run back to the bread aisle and exchange the loaf of bread she had chosen.  The cashier, trying to be helpful, asked if there was a problem, then offered to get an assistant to change out the loaf for her.  She insisted upon doing it herself, and profusely apologized to me as she left all of her items on the conveyer belt as she ran to the bread aisle, quickly returning with an identical loaf.  Upon returning, she explained to me that her father has dementia, and would often get upset if the grains scattered on top of the loaf of whole grain bread weren’t evenly spread.  She had realized that the loaf she first would have upset him, as one half of the loaf had grains scattered across the top, but the other half had very few grains.  She knew that this tiny detail would possibly ruin the rest of her father’s day.  A tiny thing to most, but a huge thing to him.  Therefore, a huge thing to her.

As Ella and I were shopping yesterday, we held the door for an elderly woman who was walking in a store behind us.  She dropped a packet of tissues as she passed us, which I quickly picked up and returned to her.  She smiled at us and said “thank you so much for your kindness.”  As we walked on, I thought about that for a bit.  It was a tiny thing.  A very tiny thing.  But to her, it showed kindness.  It was a reminder that there truly is still kindness in this world.

We show kindness to others by caring about every aspect of them.  The big things and the little.  If it means something to them, but seems tiny and trivial to us, who cares?  Do it.  Just do it.  If you know it’s important to them, and you care about them, it’s your duty to treat the little things like bug stuff.

What’s important to you?  Whether big stuff or small, what matters to you?  What do you immediately notice?  If you’re on a date and he doesn’t open your door, is that a deal breaker?  Maybe so.  Maybe not.  It’s a little thing, but how BIG is that little thing to you?  It’s crucial that we know how important those little things truly are to us.  But it’s MORE crucial that we know what those little things are that matter to those around us.

How can you make someone’s day brighter by doing something little?  Something that’s tiny to us can be huge to someone else.  A quick text that takes you less than 15 seconds to write could make someone else’s day complete.   A show of support for something your friend is bravely attempting could encourage them enough to keep doing it…maybe when they’re right on the verge of quitting.  What if they are one day away from giving up….but you show them a tiny bit of encouragement?  That tiny bit might only seem tiny to YOU.

With all the big stuff going on in the world, let’s take a moment to focus on the small things. The things that are our size.  With all the overwhelming global issues, there’s often very little we can do about those things.  Pray, vote, stand up for what we believe, pray some more, write your congressman, then pray again….but what can we really do?  It can get discouraging really fast. But how many smaller things can we actually control?  Control by DOING…by caring.

Now, for those of you who ARE reading this (unlike you-know-who…), those who know me well can tell you that I do tend to live my life trying hard to NOT sweat the small stuff.  And no, in many cases, we shouldn’t.  But if the small stuff is important to you, it should be important to others.  You deserve that.  Don’t take less than what you deserve.  Go ahead right now and make a mental list of the little things that may be trivial to others, but they’re important to you.  Those things matter. Don’t forget that.  Don’t EVER forget that.

And most importantly…. BE THAT PERSON who remembers the small details of those you care about.  Treat them as big things.  Treat them as important people.

So, now and then….Yeah…Let’s sweat the small stuff.  Let’s sweat it out ’til we’re soaked through and through.    For, after all, lots of small things can equal something huge.  And doing something huge for someone else is what it’s all about.

God bless 🙂

 

 

 

 

 

As my huge hoard of followers know (insert a bit of exaggeration), I love my walks in the woods. I’ve written about my alone time, my love of nature, and the many ways God speaks to me during my time outside.
As I hiked the leaf covered, chilly trails this week, I decided to slow down a bit and pay a little more attention to the many trees that have been labeled by those who keep the trails in good condition. I’ve always been one to ignore these tiny little signs hammered in to the tree’s bark, though I most definitely should slow down and educate myself…as I’m not certain I could tell the difference in an oak and a maple. I just know I love trees. All trees. Trees make me happy. I’m weird enough to stop and say “oh, that poor thing” when I see a tree with a large growth on its trunk. I’m adventurous enough to always want to stop and sit on the trees with the large bent branches that make for the perfect seat. I always notice the trees that look like they’d be easy to climb…and often do climb them, no matter who’s watching.
When I see a tree with a label hammered in to its bark, I often wonder if it harms the tree to be hammered in to like that. It makes me think of us as humans….does it hurt us when we have a label put on us? I guess it would depend on the label. I suppose some labels–otherwise known as descriptions–would be flattering, such as beautiful, creative, thoughtful, or funny. Some could potentially crush our spirits, such as cowardly, ignorant, or the one I think I’d personally fear the most—BORING. (how horrible that would be!)

As a teacher, I see labels all the time. Various initials given to children because they can’t focus for longer than ten minutes, or because they don’t read as well as other children their age. Perhaps they act out in school because their life at home is horrible beyond comprehension. They receive a file, which is labeled. And that label follows them for many years to come.

Once we become adults, we quickly earn various labels that stick with us for years, if not a lifetime.  These labels can help us through life, or they can haunt us with a crippling negativity.  Unfortunately, far too many of us receive a label that changes our lives far beyond anything we could have ever prepared for.

Labels can be unexpected.  Labels can be unwanted.  I never wanted to receive the label of widow.  But what I do with my life can overshadow any of the unwanted labels that have crept in.  There are other labels that I love….that I’m proud of.  Though I might be horribly mistaken, I think (I hope) there are a few rather positive labels that my dearest friends would use to describe me.

And the label I’m most proud of…. Mother.  

The trees I pass as I hike through the woods have such tough, wrinkled bark.  They have lived long lives, growing tougher and stronger each year…much like us.   They’ve been labeled with their specific botanical name, but that is all.   The beautiful red maple near the trail head is labeled as simply that.  Red Maple…..with it’s Latin genus translation of Acer Rubrum.  That is all.  There is no room on the label to share how this particular Red Maple is where I’ve sat and cried on rough days.  There is no room on the label to share how I’ve leaned against this tree and prayed.  There is no room on the label to share how I was sitting at the base of the tree last fall when the Mamma deer and her two fawn walked past me, so close I could almost touch them.  There is no room on the label to share how just this week, an elderly couple stood under its long branches, holding hands and talking as I passed by.

As humans, we can have a bit more space on our plaque than the trees.  What would yours say?  I suppose the bold text on top would simply label us as what we are: Human Being, perhaps followed by our taxonomic label of Homo Sapiens.  For the trees, it stops there.  For us, our labels could continue on.

Human Being

Homo Sapiens

__________________

__________________

__________________

How would you fill your blanks?  Fighter?  Survivor?  Advocate?  Leader?  Encourager?

Let’s never, ever let them be filled with things like quitter, hater, defeated, or the before-mentioned word that I truly fear:  boring.  Let’s just all agree right now that we will NOT let these words label us, describe us, or be any part of us.  Agreed?  Agreed.

 

 

Yeah, yeah….I know….labels are for containers and clothing.  Not for people.  But the trees get me thinking.  They deserve larger labels….and maybe we’d strive to be better humans if we considered what our labels might be.  If we were to have to wear them on little metal plaques around our necks, would we try harder?  Who knows….

Let me just end with this….

Your tombstone will probably have a label.  A description of you.   You see it all the time.  Loving Wife,  Beloved Son,  Devoted Husband, and so on.  Let’s live our lives so great that our families decide on much better inscriptions for our graves.  Tell the kids to go ahead and plan on an extra large stone, because there’s going to be a lot of great things to list.

YES.  This one.

 

 

 

 

For my few followers (I greatly appreciate all seven of you)….you know that the second of each month is particularly memorable to me.  On the second of each month, I always wake up aware of the date (unlike other days when I barely know what day of the week it is), with a great sense of expectation, wondering what the day will bring.

Yesterday was the second, and my first day back to work after the Christmas holidays.  Other than the dread of hearing that alarm clock,  I was actually looking forward to getting the second half of the school year started.  What I didn’t know was that at 6:25 last night, we would be saying goodbye to our beloved dog Jessie.  I’ve been able to think of little else today, which I’m sure was quite unfortunate for the students who came to music class today.  I tried my best to display academy award acting skills and be my usual perky self, but I kept forgetting what I saying, knocked over two drums, and spilled my water all over a xylophone.  I started crying when I saw a student whose name happens to be Jessie, and quickly retreated to the restroom, where I prayed to get a grip on the rest of my day.   I was most definitely distracted, grieving the loss of who I’m convinced was one of the best dogs to ever exist.

Driving home, Ella and I began talking about Jessie’s many wonderful qualities.  Ella said that she truly believed the world would be a better place if more humans could be like Jessie.  As usual, Ella’s wisdom struck me in a profound way, and inspired me to write about our Jessie, in honor of her sweet spirit.  If you’re not a dog person, you may as well stop reading now.  If you don’t believe that dogs go to heaven, go watch TV.  Otherwise, maybe you’ll choose to join me in the quest to be more like Jessie.

Sing a Song…

Jessie was very verbal.  Most dogs bark, some howl.  Jessie sang.  Almost every morning, she would start the day with a song…standing in the middle of the room with her head thrown back, singing at the top of her lungs–most definitely outdoing any cute dog-singing video you’ve ever seen on the internet.   The more you bragged on her with “good girl” the louder she would sing.  It was like Jessie was thankful for every new morning….every new day.   We would be dragging through the house, angry at the alarm clock, running late and seeking caffeine while Jessie stood and serenaded us with the most joyful sound a doggie could possibly make.

Jessie stopped singing as often over the last few months.  Her pain took over and she just didn’t have the song in her heart each morning.  But four days ago when Ella and I returned home from a trip to New York, Jessie sang.  She was so happy to see us, she sang and sang until she burst into a full blown howl.  She didn’t have the strength to stand for longer than a minute or two, and you could see the pain in her eyes….but she still sang.  She wanted us to know how much she missed us.  She wanted us to know how glad she was that we were home.

I wish I had appreciated her little outbursts of happiness more. I wish I had learned from her earlier…that every new day is something worth singing over.   Seeing someone you’ve missed for days is worth singing over.  Sharing your happiness is always okay.  It’s always a wonderful thing.

Choose Your Person…

When we brought Ella home from Guatemala, Jessie was 100% convinced that we had brought her home a baby girl.  Ella belonged to Jessie.  Jessie quickly decided that her new “spot” would be beside Ella’s crib, and when anyone entered Ella’s room, Jessie would growl a low and confident growl, assuring everyone that they were on her turf.  Once Ella started walking, Jessie followed her every step.  Ella would grab on to Jessie’s golden hair, no doubt pulling it to the point of pain, but Jessie never cared.  As long as Ella was nearby, Jessie was content.

Jessie never growled for any other reason.  She was most definitely the calmest and friendliest dog anyone could ever meet.  Jessie chose Ella as her person, and loved her with a passion.  If Ella cried, Jessie whined.  If Ella sang, Jessie sang.  If the doorbell rang, Jessie ran to Ella’s side to protect her.  Jessie chose Ella.  That type of commitment is rare in our human race.  If it existed more, there would be less pain and loneliness in the world–for we would all have someone who loved us enough to sing with us, cry with us, protect us, and want nothing more than to be with us.

My Ella is a social butterfly, more so than I’ve ever been…and has more friends to count.  She has always, however, considered her very best friend to be Jessie.  My prayer is for her to someday find her “person”– who will love her like Jessie did, with their human heart.

Find Your Place….

Once Ella grew a bit, Jessie moved out of her room and found her new spot in the living room, near the front door, on the air/heat vent.  All other animals and humans in our house knew this and respected it.  As much as I rearrange furniture, I would never dare put anything in the way of Jessie’s place.  She loved the way I kept the front door open almost year round.  She loved hogging the air or heat, always laying completely over the vent, claiming it as her own.  She loved the way that Ella would come and sit with her and read to her.

Sometimes we can’t find our place.  We find the general vicinity of where we want to be…but we can’t quite narrow down where our exact spot should be. Where do we feel most comfortable?  Where do we feel most safe?  Where can our loved ones find us when they need to?  Where are we when we’re so comfortable we just want to sing?  I strive to find that spot.  I strive to learn from Jessie.

Gracefully Exit If You Wish…

Jessie was particular in who she chose to spend time with.  Other than us and my mother, there are very few people that Jessie would socialize with.  If someone passed the test, Jessie would stick around (in her spot by the front door, of course) when friends or family visited.  But most of the time, Jessie would retreat to privacy once she realized someone had arrived at our home.  When we first rescued her, we assumed that she had a past of abuse that had caused her to lose trust in humans.  She loved us with all of her heart, but simply didn’t enjoy being around others.  As the years passed, I decided that Jessie simply chose a life a privacy.  If she didn’t want to be around someone, she would simply leave the room.  No growling, no barking, just a graceful exit.

I have spent a lot of time doing things I didn’t want to do.  I have wasted many hours of my life in uncomfortable situations that I would have given just about anything to get out of.  I wish I had learned many years ago how to make a graceful exit.  We aren’t obligated to stay in those situations.  We have the right to exit if we need to.  We don’t have to lie or come up with a fake excuse.  We don’t need to cause a scene.  We simply need to gracefully exit.  We need to learn from Jessie.

Jessie endured a great deal of pain in her last months here on earth.  She never growled or snapped or complained in any way.  She may have stopped singing as often, but she never lost her sweet spirit.  Jessie is running in heaven now.  She feels no more pain, and I guarantee she’s singing.  I’ve had to say goodbye to many doggies before, and sadly–I will say goodbye to more in the future.  But there’s most definitely something special about Jessie that will live in my heart forever.  She left me on the second of the month, and she took a part of my heart with her.   I watched my child say goodbye to her best friend as she cried as I haven’t heard her cry in a while….with the last time being on the second of another month–that seems like forever ago.

I strive to sing in celebration of each new day.  I strive to carefully choose my people and find my perfect place.  I strive to gracefully exit when I know I need to, and stay when I’m comfortable.  I strive to love in a way that fills a hole in the heart of others.

I strive to live like Jessie.

Run free, sweet girl.

 

 

 

It happened.  It happened tonight.  About 30 minutes ago.  My girl snuggled up next to me on the sofa and we began talking about the upcoming holidays.  I told her it was about time for her to give me her Christmas list.  Since she was tiny, she’s always made a list of things she hoped to get for Christmas, with a separate list for my Mom, and of course the biggest list for Santa.  I remember struggling to read her handwriting when she was little, having her read through the lists for me so I’d know what her childlike spelling actually said.   I remember each phase so well.  My Little Pony, Hello Kitty, American Girl, all things mermaid, oversized stuffed animals, and most recently–Legos.

So, I asked Ella if we could start making her list tonight.  She’s still in to Legos, and is emerging into the clothes and make-up phase.  I remember that phase so well, and only wish I could have pulled it off as gracefully as Ella does.  I remember my first eyeshadow kit so well, circa 1980.  So many shades of blue.  It was simply glorious.  But I digress….

After discussing a few items that she might like to have, I asked her if she wanted to go ahead and write her Santa letter.  That’s when the music started playing.  It was only in my head, of course, but it was dramatically emotional music that would play during the most intense and tear jerking moment of the most heartfelt movie you’ve ever seen.  “Mommy, you know I’m growing up,” she said….the music grew louder.  Nooooo….please don’t say it, PLEASE don’t say it.  “I know you’re really Santa, Mommy.  I know it’s you.”

MAJOR crescendo in the music, cue the violins.

I denied it, of course, telling her that Santa is most definitely real, but the stubborn girl wore me down just like she usually does.

I cried.  Ella hugged me and I told her I wasn’t ready for my girl to grow up.  After more crying and lots of giggling as the moment somehow turned in to a tickle fight, we agreed that “Santa” would still visit….whether it be me or the old guy with the beard, we just needed Santa.  Mainly, Mommy needs Santa.

There are things in life we just need to believe in.  Things we need to hang on to….whether or not we truly believe those things are real.  The truth is, if I spend too long thinking about all the REAL things in this world, I get horribly depressed and truly scared.  When I think about the hunger, abuse, violence, and tragedy going on in this world, I become terrified.  I get so scared, I start to shake.  I start to feel guilty about the many wonderful blessings in my life, and how so many people in this world will never even own a pair of shoes or know what it’s like to go 24 hours without being abused.  It scares the hell out of me.  So I just pray.  I pray, and I do as many kind things as I can.  I try to pay it forward every day, whether in a tiny way, or something big.  If I could have any super power in the world, it would be to fly over every hurting person and animal in this world and zap every bit of pain away, and replace it with a feeling of love and contentment that would last forever…growing stronger and stronger every day.

So, how do we survive this truly scary world?  I think we all have a “Santa.”  Something that we believe in.  Something that keeps us going.  We might know deep down that we’re fooling ourselves, but if believing helps us get through our days, who cares?   Believing in something makes us feel like everything’s going to be okay.  The thought of our belief not being real is scary, and we don’t need any more scary.

I believe in smiling at strangers.  I believe that imagination can often reach farther than reality, which–by definition, makes me a romantic.  And yes, after all I’ve endured and proudly survived, I still believe in love.  I believe in a promising future.

The sadness in the world isn’t going to go away.  The hunger and pain will be there.  But   to stay strong and healthy for our loved ones–emotionally and mentally–we must find ways to thrive in the good, and do what we can to prevent the bad.  Pray for people.  Pay it forward.  Smile at people.  Say thank you.  And believe in good things.  Find your Santa–what you believe in– and NEVER stop believing.  Don’t ever stop believing.

Santa will live in this house as long as Ella is here.  Maybe even longer than that.  I need Santa and the joy that he brings.  On a clear night near Christmas eve, you might even find me standing outside looking towards the sky….certain that I’ll hear those sleigh bells.  I feel certain that I will.

Believe in love. Believe in magic. Hell, believe in Santa Clause. Believe in others. Believe in yourself. Believe in your dreams. If you don’t, who will?  ~Jon Bon Jovi

 

 

 

 

I walk every Wednesday.  Other days too, but always on Wednesdays.  Only severe lightening could keep me from my Wednesday walks. Today I walked in the rain.  I fell, and I’m going to have a bruise on my hip, but I got a good laugh out of it.

Each Wednesday while my daughter is in dance class, I walk nearby in a spot that I’m convinced was created just for me.   I would tell others about it, as I’m sure many more dance Moms enjoy a good walk….but I’m extremely selfish about these Wednesday walks.  I feel as though if a friend showed up to join me, I might disappoint them as I begin to sob over the loss of my alone time.  Each week, I look forward to leaving my thoughts and worries in these woods.  If trees could talk…

I often feel like I’m walking with God in these woods….from the first step I take.  Other times, I feel like I begin my walk in search for Him, and barely find His peace before my time is up…time to return to pick my daughter up from her dance class.  I think that mostly depends on the day I’ve had, and how open I am to listen to Him.  Today was rough.  I’d had a hard day.  A really hard day.  I felt like my Wednesday hike through the woods would just be a time of self pity, running particular issues over and over in my head until it throbbed.  For the first time in months, I actually tried to talk myself out of walking today.  I had a good book in my car, along with my newly acquired old-lady reading glasses….and I had just about convinced myself that this rainy afternoon should be spent reading in the parking lot while Ella danced.  But one tiny little spark of encouragement convinced me to change clothes and lace up those shoes and hit the trail.

I immediately began looking for Hope.  Hope is a female deer that I see almost every week.  She often has her family with her, all of who scatter off when they see me.  But Hope doesn’t run.  She always stays put every time she sees me.  She watches me as I walk closer to her and her stare intimidates me just enough to make my heart race a bit faster.  I’ve gotten within three or four feet of her, and it’s a beautiful thing.  I’m afraid to speak when I’m near her.  I always pause the music blaring in my ear buds and we just stand there looking at one another.  I feel like she’s asking me how I’m doing.  How I’m REALLY doing.  I always answer her question in my head.  I’m convinced she will let me touch her one day.  I’m crazy, I know…..but I hold on to hope that she’ll allow it.  Touching HOPE.  I’m holding out for that day.

I didn’t see Hope today.  It made me terribly sad, more so than I expected.  I just really wanted to see her beauty.  I searched and searched, but gave up once I hiked out of the area where we’ve always met.  What I didn’t realize was that God had planned on showing me signs of Hope in other ways today….and Hope the deer apparently had more sense than I did, and was cozied up somewhere out of the rain.

My walks usually relax 98% of my body, and sometimes my mind….depending on my stubbornness and how open I am to relaxing my brain and ignoring all things that try to creep in to my thoughts.  But there’s one part of me that will not, under any circumstances, relax…and that’s my left hand.  I’m sure there’s some crazy psychiatric reason for it…but I refuse to research it, for that will lead to me diagnosing myself with a horrific disease.   I tend to keep my hand in constant motion, bending my fingers like bendy straws.  You would think I was in a knuckle cracking contest with all intentions of winning.  I would say that maybe it’s some type of weird thing I developed once I stopped wearing my wedding ring, but I’ve been doing it since I was a child.

I realized this afternoon that I was doing it….my stupid nervous habit.  WHY can’t I relax my left hand?  Only a true crazy person would have such an issue (and write about it for all of you to read).  Just as I was cursing myself for not being able to relax, I fell.  I slid down a small hill, about five feet, and landed right up against a small tree.  It was a laugh or cry situation, and of course I chose to laugh.  I did the immediate quick look-around that we all do, to make sure no one saw my enormous display of pure grace, then I burst into laughter.  During my cackling, I realized I was sitting on a small rock.  I picked the rock up in my left hand, and it immediately relaxed.  DUH.  Just hold something in your hand.  Give your hand a purpose.  I immediately began to think of how my whole life can sometimes seem like a nervous tick, but if I fill it with something, it relaxes.  Sometimes, God just has to give me a DUH moment.  I honestly wonder if He sometimes looks down on me and says, “DUH, Mary.  Took you long enough to figure that out.”

As I continued on my journey, hobbling just a bit from the tumble, I decided to take a new trail down to the lake.  As I walked along the trail strewn with slick leaves (willing myself not to fall again), the rain began to fall harder.  I noticed the trail begin to fun parallel to a creek.  I had noticed the creek many times before, but had never seen this part of it.  After a short while, I realized the creek was flowing right into the lake.  A tiny little creek was opening up into a rather large cove of our awesome Lake Lanier.  I realized at that moment that I had never actually seen a creek flow into the lake.  I’ve spent every year of my life on the lake, and know many parts of it like the back of my nervous, weird hand….but I had never seen a creek flow in to it.  Once again, I had a moment of clarity.  Our lives can be like a huge lake….a lake that sometimes holds happy, jubilant waters, and sometimes waters of fear and tragedy.  We seem to only think about the lake…especially in times of despair.  Do we ever stop to think of WHERE the lake comes from?  How very many creeks, streams and rivers flow in to it?  I began to think of those smaller bodies of water that lead in to our big “lake.”  My lake is filled with tiny streams from my past….some happy, some tragic, some hilariously funny, some rather melancholy, some filled with so much love it makes me feel full inside to remember them.  Some that make me feel empty and scared.  But all of those streams and rivers lead to a lake that is this crazy life that I’m living.  A life that I’ve learned to love and enjoy.  Life is a lake, and I love my lake.  And it wouldn’t be the lake that it is without all of those tiny bodies of water flowing in to it.    Wow, God.  This is a lot of deep thinking for one short rain-soaked hike through the woods.

As I came near the end of my walk, I prepared for my weekly climb over a huge tree that had fallen over the path.  It fell weeks ago, right across the trail that I always walk, and the size of the tree keeps me from walking around it on either side.  To carry on, I had to literally crawl over it.  I got a few scratches the first time I attempted it, but I had mastered it pretty well.  Today, as I approached the fallen tree, I saw that someone had cut the part away that had been laying on the trail.  The very section of the tree that I had been crawling over was gone….had been removed.  My first thought was, “man, that certainly took long enough!  It’s been like that for weeks.”  But, as I walked through the open space, I realized I actually missed the adventure of crawling over the tree.  At this point, I honestly expected some type of heavenly harp music to begin playing through my earbuds, as I said (out loud), “good one, God!”  He was allowing me to see that, if we keep climbing over the obstacles before us, He WILL, in His time (usually never fast enough to please me), clear that obstacle.  You MIGHT even miss the struggle a bit, once everything becomes smooth.

I’m weird.  I’ve always been weird, and the older I get, the more I actually take pride in that.  I mean, who wants to be normal??  (how boring!)  I think what I am is an Outsider.  Definition of an outsider:  ‘one who doesn’t belong to a particular group’, with a second definition being ‘a competitor with little chance of success.’

Yep.  That’s me.  Now don’t get me wrong, I’m successful in many ways.  I’m a darn good teacher, and I truly believe I’ve touched many lives with my quirky teaching methods.  I’ve directed many groups of young singers through the years, with my nervous, twitchy left hand and smiling face.  I also consider myself to be quite successful at motherhood, so far.  But you might want to check back with me on that one in a few years.  But there are many ways I’ll never be successful.  And I honestly feel pretty good about that.  If I didn’t have my quirky ways, nervous habits, and a lifetime behind me (and hopefully ahead of me) of making poor decisions, then God wouldn’t have any more work to do on me.   And what kind of horrible life would that be?

My walks– whether it be my Wednesdays in the woods, or a stroll on the treadmill in my Mom’s basement–are not always eye opening.  But today was.  I walked out of the woods with a sore hip, mud-covered legs, a rock in my hand, and a happy heart.

I’m an Outsider who loves to learn, especially about myself.  I hope you’ll all go for a walk soon.  Be observant, and listen.  Watch out for those slick, wet leaves, but don’t hold back.  Look for beauty.  Enjoy the nature around you.  And if you fall, have a nice laugh and move on.  Always move on.

‘Cause if you’re not laughing
Who is laughing now
I’ve been wondering
If we stop sinking
Could we stand our ground
And through everything we’ve learned
We’ve finally come to terms
We are the outsiders

….On the outside
You’re free to roam
On the outside
We found a home
On the outside
There’s more to see
On the outside
We choose to be

~~The Outsiders, Needtobreathe (on my playlist every single Wednesday)

 

Today is the second.  September second.  One year ago today I began living a life that I never imagined.  A life that happens to other people.  A life you read about in books.  And I’ve been wrong about so much over the past year.  Every expectation I had was wrong.  I thought I would know when the hard cries would come.  Obviously, it would be on special occasions, times when his absence hit me the hardest, correct?  No.  The cries would happen on a random Tuesday afternoon, or at the grocery store, or as I watched my daughter do her homework.  I expected that it would be extremely difficult to get back to a normal routine of teaching, being a Mom, taking care of the house, and other daily stuff that you wake up to each morning.  But again, I was wrong.  I’m sure it was God’s hand pushing me through each day, but I did it. I’ve done it for a year now, and it seems very normal.   Shortly after he died, I assumed the monthly anniversary of his death would be hard.  But as I’ve written before, the second of each month was somehow a blessing of a day that I actually survived with joy.  I was wrong about that also.  I thought today would be enormously difficult.  And I will admit that this past week, leading up to this particular day, was pretty emotional.  I got very little sleep, I have nice, nice bags under my eyes, and I felt quite smothered with the fact that the year anniversary was coming, dreading it.  And I eerily woke up at 12:15 this morning, staring at the clock by my bed, unable to blink my eyes, realizing that today was finally here.  It was September second.  But I did something I hadn’t done a good job of all week.  I went back to sleep.  I slept soundly.  I felt pretty good when I awoke.   I enjoyed a day with my Mom, my amazing daughter, the sunshine on the lake, realizing once again, I was wrong.  Today was a good day.  I thought it would be so hard.  It simply wasn’t.

I am most impressed by my daughter.  Everything about her amazes me.  I think she’s absolutely beautiful, but doesn’t every Mom think that about their daughter?  But it’s her beauty on the inside that blows my mind.  Her strength.  Her attitude.  We are opposites in many ways.  But our love for each other is mutual and strong.  She is my rock.  I’d like to think that I’m hers, but I honestly don’t think she needs a rock.  She’s simply astounding.

If I were to write an acceptance speech, like a celebrity on stage after winning the academy award…..a speech thanking the deserving people for helping me through this past year,  I would most definitely begin by thanking God for proving me wrong about just about everything.  If it had gone like I assumed it would, it would have been just about unbearable.  I’ve never been so thankful about being wrong.  Being wrong was a blessing.  A survival.

Of course, I’d thank my daughter for the strength and laughter she provides daily.  I’d toss in a thank you to a handful of dear friends who knew (miraculously) what to say and when to say it. Positive, encouraging, with a dose of the humor they know I live for.  They just got it.  I don’t know how they did…but they did.

I would end my speech by thanking my Mom.  My Mom is someone that I wish everyone could know.  I feel like people who don’t know my Mother are missing out on something in their life.  Her humor will leave you laughing so hard you honestly fear that you’ll pee your pants.  Her wisdom is almost spooky.  Her motherly love is divine, yet not smothering.  She’ll provide a hug when I need it, a sarcastic comment when it proves more valuable than the hug, and a “shake it off” when I’m worrying about something that’s out of my control.  My mom will be 71 next month, and I plan for her to live to be 100.  I know my plans haven’t gone very well here lately, but I feel pretty good about this one.

I’ll admit I’ve had some tough days, and I’ve taken on some strange coping mechanisms.  I may have accumulated a few more cats over the past year, and flying pigs.  Let me clarify, the cats are real….the flying pigs are collectors items.  OK fine, I guess I’m actually collecting the cats too, but they are real.  Anyway….there have been many times in my life when I might hear of something happening to someone, read about something bizarre, hear a sad story on the news, and think,  “That would never happen to me.”  Or, in a less serious way of speaking….would that ever happen to me?   …. “WHEN PIGS FLY!”

Yeah, well…..let me just tell you.  NEVER say never.  Anything can happen.  I certainly hope that none of you ever endure tragedy (or any more than you already have), and I hope your families stay in one healthy, happy piece.  But pray daily for that, and never assume you are above anything.

I was wrong about a lot.  Things DID happen to me.  So, I guess pigs CAN fly.  In my world, anyway.

I’ll keep collecting the pigs…going to try real hard to NOT keep collecting the cats (no promises).  But as I look for those pigs flying, I will keep in my mind that I’m the one who needs to fly.  Fly through this life here on earth knowing every day is a gift.

May you all fly.  God Bless.