forgiveness and strength

So being the highly ritualized Catholic that I am, I often awake at 3am, end up saying a few decades of the Divine Mercy Chaplet for whomever and somewhere in the process, fall back to sleep. This has gone on for years and it happened again last night. I believe I was in the third decade, meditating on the crown of thorns, when I started to get really annoyed, frustrated, and angry. I was of course half awake, so it was all sort of dreamlike. I heard myself raging in my head, "I'm sick of caring about people who don't even give a shit about themselves. I'm tired of praying for people who don't even pray. I don't want to feel for a person who worships the sedation brought on by the bottle. Love hurts. I can't take it. It's easier not to bother."

These thoughts were new to me. It felt like the voice in my head was not my own, and being half asleep, I couldn't muster much energy to fight it. There was some sense that I really shouldn't be feeling that way, that I should pray all the more for those who don't know how to pray. But I was in a daze and couldn't help feeling like the people who want to kill themselves slowly with their favorite companion, alcohol, should just be left to die.

May the Lord forgive me for my selfishness. May he strengthen me to love tirelessly as he did.

GWBD

So here we go again.

God's Will Be Done

Man, I'm in a good mood today. The sun is shining; everything is great. Totally different from yesterday. Ah, that's the way I am. A roller-coaster of emotions. Always.

I am facing the possibility of being pregnant this month. *Deep breath. Smile. Deep breath* Not sure how I feel about that. It's a little crazy.

I've been saying for months -- years actually -- that four was all I'd be having. And yet, the Lord has His own way of getting His own way. Crazy. And yet, I always trust Him. Always.

The fact is, I'm a control freak, but I hate feeling responsible for things. So I'd much rather let somebody else make the decisions. I'd much rather leave it in the Lord's hands. Typically, I give Him my list of what I want, He allows me the top two items, and we end up tossing out the rest.

I will accept His will. This will be difficult, but I know that in the end, I'll be happy.

AAAARRRRGH!!! I absolutely HATE when I do that.

November 17 -- transferred from myspace blog

I'm not one to blurt out my feelings as soon as they well up in me. I'm simply one to let them simmer and simmer until they all come boiling out. I think and think and think about things until they drive me nuts and then I just have to write them down and share them with somebody.

This wouldn't be such a bad thing, except that so often, I share these things with people who never asked and who probably hardly care. I did that this morning – basically told my life story to someone who hardly knows me. UGH! I hate when I do that. And I do it rather often.
Whenever it happens, I end up getting immersed in insecurity; a million questions surround my brain. Why did I do that? What will he think of me? Will he ever look at me the same again? Why do I even care? Why do I always have to defend myself even when I'm not directly being attacked? Why do I have this insane incessant need to tell my entire life story to strangers? Why is it so damn important to me to be understood? Why? Why? Why?

I don't want to be the person who lives on the edge of society when I'm on this site. That's why I don't post my real name. Whenever I'm here, I just want to be the person who knows and loves music. That's all. Nothing more. Ugh, I drive myself crazy.

Let it fester

I write when I have a lot of things to work out, when I'm confused, or mulling over a problem. Taking note of the number of entries for this month of October, it's been a difficult time. And you don't even realize that I've also begun a blog on MySpace as well. Ha.

But for all my letter writing and blogging, I have yet to progress a single page's worth of writing or revision on any of my stories. So much for getting something, anything, published in 2008.

Aw, don't give up yet, you say. There are still a couple of months left. A couple of months, hmmph! I am at a point where I feel like I will never be able to write another story ever again. Let it fester, let it fester, he said. But I hate gaping wounds.

On the bright side, I have been writing more songs and have even begun recording the vocals. Don't know what's going to become of that, but I do it "because I like it." What the hell are you talking about? he said. You do it because you like it. So, yes, I'm doing it because I like it. And when the time comes that great story paragraphs weave together to create a great overall story, I will be most satisfied with not having wasted my time complaining.

Passion

Passion describes giving over oneself with complete abandon. And yet, it also entails profound suffering.

It is joyous suffering to give yourself completely to another person. It’s wonderful because in giving, we fulfill the very meaning and purpose of our lives. It hurts because there is always a fear there that we may never get ourselves back. And that other person might not give himself in return.

To love someone – to truly love someone – requires passion. A willingness, an aching to give, give, give – inexhaustibly – every treasure that you claim as your own, even unto your very life! For what gift is more precious than life itself?

Deep love comes when your sole desire is for the other person’s well-being. When all your focus is to pour goodness into that other person’s life, you know are truly choosing to love.

If loving a person means repeatedly explaining yourself when you’re certain he may never understand, explain yourself once again, with tenderness and patience.

If loving a person means calling out to him day after day, with no reply, although you know he hears you, call out to him again, with a gentle voice that welcomes.

If loving a person means revealing all of your hopes and dreams and desires when you know he may again laugh at your ridiculousness and refuse to share any dreams of his own because he gave up hope way too early in life, pull back the veil and expose yourself even more, inviting him again to look upon you and see your beauty.

Passion – it gives meaning to our sufferings. It enables us to give beyond reason. To give and ever hope that the gift will be returned.

Less depressing

I was in a pushing-around mood today. Wanting to test everyone. Feeling like no one really cared. Being angry, but not strong.

I hate when I get that way.

Luckily, I kept to myself for the most part. Didn't overly embarrass myself. I'll know I'm better when the songs in my head get less depressing.

Second chances

I gave someone a second chance today. He didn't disappoint me. That was pleasant. And now I'm happy that I didn't harden up and steep myself in bitterness. I'm convinced that kindness pays off eventually. Don't laugh. Don't tell me I never learn. Self blame is a horrid enemy of mine and if I have nothing to blame myself over, then all is well.

Strive for excellence, not perfection.

A friend told me today that we should strive for excellence, not perfection.

Indeed.

I want to write that on my bathroom mirror. I want to tattoo it on my arm. I want to remember it always. May I never forget that I was not created to be perfect and I should have no shame in not being completely flawless. Excellence. Excellence. That's enough.

I'm a sucker for sentimentality.

So much for losing track of time. -- The Fuzz, Silversun Pickups

I sifted through some boxes today and found all kinds of goodies. Every single letter my highschool boyfriends wrote me. The newspaper cutout of my cross country crush, which I later used to create a full 16 x 20 charcoal sketch to hang over my bed. My Lollapalooza ticket from August 1995.

Man, I'm a sucker for sentimentality.

Good thing e-mails can be easily erased with the click of a button. But who can erase my memories? I know, I know -- just drink more. But I tried that already and dang it, I still remembered every detail of the night before.

A treasure and a delight.

A good story is a treasure. A kind young un-jaded author is a delight. A good book which will always be waiting for you when you want to settle on the couch and escape...ahh, who can turn away? I have enjoyed all three today, thanks to Jadestone, Gameboy, and Koontz.

walking among the wolves

I am a chew toy that has lost its puppy dog. Is that the saddest thing in the world to lament over or what? It's been a week. Not doing well today.

Someone paid me a compliment today and then turned around and slapped me in the face. I'm struggling to not harden up, to not steep myself in bitterness. What does it really matter if some neff decided to play games with me? It shouldn't matter at all. Still, it's annoying. It doesn't hurt me; it just annoys me.

I need to stop walking among the wolves and expecting to not get chewed up. It was fun for a time. Oh well.

Breathing together

I had company over today. I'm convinced that people are programmed for face to face interraction. People need to look into each other's eyes, hear a man's laughter upon the punchline of his own joke, feel the touch of a woman's hand as she tells a deeply personal story. People need to share food together, be entertained together, get out and enjoy the blessing of the good weather together.

The nice thing about in-person interraction or phone conversation and maybe even IM to the slightest extent is that you can sit there with the other person and just be in his presence and still be satisfied. That's something you can't get out of e-mails and messages and blogs. You can't both receive a sense of peace by just sitting there, breathing together. It's a special thing to be able to share with someone. Very special indeed.

Perseverence

What I like best about guys is that they have a way of facing you squarely, placing both hands on your shoulders and saying, "You must persevere. I believe in you. You can do it." Jack's parting words to Rose in Titanic come immediately to mind. Thank You, Lord, for inspiring perseverance in me this week.

A wolf, a jaguar

Nine Inch Nails is playing at the Voodoo Music Festival in a couple weeks. I listened to a live version of Hurt tonight. That song -- oh, that song seeped into me and I couldn't forget it all night. In my mind, I hear him singing it. Not that he owns that song. I owned it in my pre-FUS life, not him. But still, I hear him singing that song and I want to make everything better for him. Even though I know I can't. Even though I know he wouldn't let me if I tried.

See, I'm the person who wants to tame the wolf. I'm the one who wants to make the jaguar purr. But he's a wolf, he's a jaguar; there's no desire on his part, or on the part of any other man like him, to lick anyone's hand, to submit to being stroked along the nape of the neck. He acknowledges no need for anyone but himself. So of what use am I? None.

All I can do is pray and sacrifice and hope. But those things are difficult when he flat out says he's happy with his no-need-for-love life and he's not interested in changing. I had to decrease so that the Almighty could increase. I've accepted that. Still, I hear that song in my head and it just tears at my heart. God bless him. God bless everyone of them, stalking along, loners in life with no need for anyone like me. I pray for them constantly.

A Clear Mind

As I went to sleep last night, I realized what had been different about the entire day. For the first time in many months, I had not had any imaginary conversations with...with him. I was able to let go in part because I had finally told all my stories and I had finally asked all my questions.

When there was always the hope of hearing from him again, there was always the thought of what I would share next time. Now that the relationship has been severed, I don't have to think anymore about what I might say or how he might react. I can have a clear mind now. I can move on.

Shadow of the Day

The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. Blessed be the name of the Lord.

The weather is different today. The heat of summer has passed. I'm still in my shorts and shirt, but my heart now longs for a change.

I slept well last night. And that doesn't mean what it used to mean. It means I was at peace when I slept. I was at peace when I awoke as well.

I close both locks below the window.
I close both blinds and turn away.
Sometimes solutions aren't so simple.
Sometimes goodbye's the only way.
And the sun will set for you,
The sun will set for you.
And the shadow of the day,
Will embrace the world in grey,
And the sun will set for you.

Goodbye lover. Farewell. LYF.

Mark this day, October 7th. Isn't it the feast of Our Lady of Victory or something? Oh, every day is something, isn't it? Well, for years to come, I shall remember this day as my own day of victory.

For months, I've been singing, It's been awhile since I could say that I wasn't addicted. Yeah, I've been singing that song.

You all can call me a hypocrite. You all can call me a horrible sinner. You can shove it in my face that I now have loads more purgatory time than I did before April 2nd when I first met him. But I learned a lot. I changed a lot. I got a lot stronger. And I don't regret it completely.

Truth be told, he was never truly my friend. But I'm being as honest as honest can be when I say that I loved him. I can't quite explain it, but some strange mixed up kind of love was there. And for me, it was completely real.

Today, I got the last piece of the puzzle to be able to let it go. I can't quite explain it. But my eyes were opened and my heart was released. I realized that I wasn't responsible for him, that I never was. I don't have to feel obligated toward him anymore. I never needed to feel obligated in the first place. I'm at peace with it now. Yet, I know I'll miss him.

Goodbye lover. That was his farewell to me. I leaned over, kissed him on the cheek and said, Farewell. LYF.

Standing on My Own

It's another year older for me lately and I've learned an invaluable lesson. A little late in coming, but it's there all the same.

I don't need my arm twisted. I don't need to be talked into doing anything I don't particularly want to do. I don't need to lean on anyone else for my strength; I am strong enough on my own.

I shouldn't expect others to be everything I'm not. And I shouldn't try to be everything they're not as well. I'll concentrate on my strengths and work on my weaknesses and I'll pray that all others can do the same. God love you all.

POWER

I just received power back to my house today after a week of being without, due to the lovely Hurricane Gustav. Some of you may be disappointed that I have no sob story to tell and that in fact I had a great time. My experience is not the type that typically makes the evening news, but that doesn't mean that my experience was atypical. Being the writer that I am, I jotted down notes from time to time about how all was going. Without much revision, I now share these jottings with you.

Tuesday, Sept. 2nd (the day after the storm)

My friend Mary cracks me up. She broke out the margaritas at 3 o'clock today. The drinks come out earlier and earlier as waiting out the storm continues.

Yesterday it was 6 o'clock with Rum & Coke while we were playing Rummy 500. The day before, it was around 8pm with mudslides as we revised my story -- the upcoming one, called "Twenty Five". She read it out loud while my aunt and I listened and laughed and joked around. Mary particularly liked that line -- His skin is copper and glistening. It has the allure of a freshly minted penny, shiny and new. She read it about six times in a row. That was the most fun I ever had revising a story.

So it all began on Saturday. The people came over. We had hamburgers and talked. I have a decent sized house so even with 5 adults and 8 kids, we didn't feel crowded. the kids ate at the kitchen while the adults ate at the dining table. The kids played in the living room while the adults talked in the sitting room.

The power went out Monday afternoon. the kids got out Legos and blocks and card games. the adults played cards and Boggle, and Scrabble. I'm a whiz with word games to I clobbered Mary and my aunt at those. They would come up with 15 Boggle words while I had 36. Eventually, at the end of every game, they would just tell me to read my list since I always had the most words anyway. The Scrabble games were actually pretty close. I beat the others by a margin of only twenty something points rather than the usual fifty or seventy five.

As the evening drew on last night, the kerosene lamps were lit. The windows were open -- no rain. But windy. The sheer curtains billowed regularly. The only sound outside was the surrounding generators. We do not have a generator yet, but we got one on it's way from a relative coming through from Houston. It annoyed me that even in an event as serious as this -- with trees down and shingles torn off -- with my aunt worrying if she'll have a house to go home to and my friend worrying about her telephone company worker husband who had to stay behind -- it annoyed me that even then, we could not experience the sacredness of dark and quiet.

I wanted to appreciate the absence of electricity. I wanted to honor the momentary fear and loss. Yet the generators persisted, resistant to allow a moment of gratitude for all we take for granted. I think it's good to do without once in awhile. It's good to retreat from your normal routine of daily life. To just step back and realize life ain't so bad after all. That really, we should get together with our friends more often, play cares more often, drink more often, stay up late and tell secrets more often.

As I sat alone by the kerosene lamplight, I was transported into times past. I thought about Little House on the Prairie episodes. About World War II blackouts. About Jews hiding from German Nazis. I was grateful that this solemnity was temporary. That I did not need to listen for traveling outlaws or bomber airplanes or soldiers knocking on the door. I was grateful that all my food was still cold and that my main discomfort was the humidity and heat of the night.

After pondering my life by the flicker of the flame -- after the kids were all asleep, Mary came along offering me another Rum & Coke. We talked about our husbands and, well, things we do with our husbands, and, um, things we like for them to do to us. There was lots of giggling and whispering going on. Almost like a junior high sleep over. It was fun.

Yes, the wind and the rain had been bad. Yes, there had been some damage to our houses. Yes, the electricity was out and the night was hot and humid. But our families were safe and we would soon return to our husbands and there would certainly be more to talk about next time.

Wednesday

It is dusk. Again. Still no power. This is the longest I've gone without electricity without the intention of camping or what not.

Spirits are still high. We're just hot and sweaty, all of us. We managed to hook up the washer today so we could run a couple loads of laundry. We hung the clothes out to dry, running some string between the swing set and our neighbor's fence -- the side that wasn't blown down. The clothes aren't drying much though 'cause the air is so damp.

Mary handed out fuzzy navels with a splash of pineapple juice today around 3 o'clock. My aunt and I welcomed them as part of the hour of Divine Mercy.

The kids are still doing well. They miss TV and computer games. But they enjoy the outdoors. The swings, the trampoline, the kiddy pool, the slip and slide. They are tired and hot. They try to switch on the bathroom light. They forget, you know. But they're happy with Legos and fresh Play Dough.

Mary and I went out early this morning for groceries. We, along with every one else in this area, were prepared for a long weekend, but not the entire week. It was strange to see the debris in the streets, all the stop lights out, the produce wilted, the bread shelves bare. No meat available at LeBlanc's. Maybe we'll have better luck at Winn Dixie.

We went to WD and had to stand in line. Only so many people allowed in at a time. I've never stood in line for groceries before. I thought of those stories of Russia -- people waiting hours for bread. I was glad that this was not that at all. We were not bundled up, staving off the sting of the snow, stone faces, gray background, desensitized to the mundane task of waiting for rations. No, we were smiling and friendly, enjoying the return of the birds, making do with whatever was available. Hopeful, not complaining. Just waiting it out, confident that the electric companies would have all up and running maybe by the end of this week.

All the guests in my house came up from Houma -- a city very near the Louisiana coast. I used to live there myself a few years ago. The city is an hour southwest of New Orleans and an hour and a half southwest of here. It's a big small town. Big enough to have several hotels and chain restaurants. But not big enough to be included in the news much.

The news we hear is mostly from Mary's husband who stayed behind for work. Or from phone calls from our Cali relatives who have internet access and keep us updated from the news websites. Everybody is asking everybody what the word is since we can't get it from the radio. The radio announcers talk and talk and talk yet say nothing of importance.

So far, the word is Friday. Come in on Friday during daylight hours. Curfew is between 6am - 8pm. We can't guarantee any electricity or utilities though. And the mosquitos are horrendous. So what's the point of that? Stay here. It might be three days or three weeks for electricity. We have food. We have gas. We have a generator for a few necessary things. And hey -- we got booze!

Friday

The weather chilled off last night, thank God. It was very hot yesterday. I'd never sweat so much while doing nothing. More games of Scrabble and Rummy 500. More Play Dough for the kids. More cooking on the grill.

The drinks came out at 1:30 yesterday. This is getting serious, people. We can't start drinking before noon! But seriously, I'm starting to miss my washing machine. Things are definitely getting uncomfortable.

We still have batteries to hear the lack of news. When we get fed up with that, we play music and dance with the kids. U2 picks up our spirits in the afternoons.

My husband went out yesterday and saw 100-car lines for gas. Luckily we don't need any yet. Lots of people are on the roads today, trying to check on their homes. So I hear there's lots of traffic and closed roads and downed trees and lines for gas.

Mary and I went for a walk this morning. Vacation time is waning. It's time to exercise, to clean up, to organize a back up plan. Houma will most likely be down for a month. We might try arranging the rooms for our guests and some homeschool lessons for the kids. We need to transform this disruption into a part of our routine. Three to five more days for power here. Maybe. I'm hoping the weather stays cool. And dry.

Saturday

Mary got a call late last night. She got power at her house. Still no power here, but it should be coming soon. Mary and her four kids took off around noon after she and I took a walk in the cool, cloudy morning.

I know the clouds keep us cool, but I'm getting a little sick of them. Sick of the grayness outside. Sick of the noisy generators. Sick of the drop-kick Chihuahua roaming around my house. I have a mild headache today and am anxious now for normalcy to resume.

I got to see the stars last night. Beautiful stars. So many of them. Sparkling and brilliant and numerous. I enjoyed them, but the experience was tainted by the incessant drone of the generators all around.

I am thankful for the cool weather. A clean home. Happy kids. Plenty to eat. I am planning on resuming lessons on Monday. I am thankful that this has been great fun and will soon end. Ike is in the Gulf, headed our way. People are worried. Me? I'll say Come on over. We'll teach the kids lessons by kerosene lamp. I usually finish by noon. Then you can make us some drinks while I set up the Scrabble board. There may be a bit of damage to the house. But we'll make the best of it.

Sunday

We came home from church around 1pm and voila! the AC was running. All the windows were open and the AC was running.

Run the dishwasher. Run the clothes washer. Unplug all the cords leading to the generator. It is hot today so we'll close up the house and run the AC. Suck up all the love bugs and the flies. Shoo shoo all of you. Out of my house, you annoying bugs.

Maybe I'll take a hot bath tonight, although I didn't really mind the cold showers. Maybe I'll bake a casserole dish, although I enjoyed cooking on the grill. Maybe I'll watch a movie tonight, although I always love winning at Scrabble.

As it stands, Ike is no longer headed our way. But we got a few days left to really know. Either way, I'll be thankful for what I've got.

Outside

And you bring me to my knees, again

All the times, that I could beg you please, in vain

All the times, that I felt insecure, for you

And I leave my burdens at the door

But I'm on the outside

I'm looking in

I can see through you

See your true colors

'Cause inside you're ugly

You're ugly like me

I can see through you

See to the real you

All the times that I felt like this won't end

It's for you

And I tasted what I could never have

It was from you

All the times that I've cried, my intentions, full of pride

But I waste more time than anyone

But I'm on the outside

I'm looking in

I can see through you

See your true colors

'Cause inside you're ugly

You're ugly like me

I can see through you

See to the real you

All the times that I've cried

All this wasted, it's all inside

And I feel, all this pain, stuffed it down

It's back again

And I lie here in bed, all alone,

I can't mend

But I feel tomorrow will be okay

But I'm on the outside I'm looking in

I can see through you

See your true colors

'Cause inside you're ugly

You're ugly like me

I can see through you

See to the real you

Staind – Outside

I heard this song today. I’ve heard it before, but today it really struck me. It filled my soul and got all my attention. It opened up for me a new realization. This was how I felt when I cried out to God that I’d be able to help troubled teens with my counseling. These were the unspoken words filling my heart when I was reading my friend’s stories.

I call him my friend, but I never really know if he is. I never know for sure. And that’s probably why I’m so insecure about it all. Sometimes he’s great to talk to. Sometimes he’s a real jerk. But like I said, I’m learning to love without expectation. Not that I have to be a doormat. Not that I have to allow him to smear his sloppy mud-laden boots all over me and stomp on me before forgetting about me completely. But I continue to love.

This song – it’s a stage I went through with him. I don’t completely feel that way anymore. Just about a week ago, I told him that I didn’t mind him picking on me because I needed to toughen up anyway. I needed to be made strong. And hey, maybe he was just the person to do that. But I’m over that now. I talked to him yesterday and he picked on me quite a bit. I didn’t mind. I didn’t get angry. I didn’t get tears in my eyes. I didn’t crack. I was detached and objective and outside of my emotional always-take-things-personally self. It felt good to be that way. To just hear a person’s opinion – his opinion – and not immediately react to it. To just consider it as a possibility and nothing more than that.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve felt so secure in my understanding of myself and my life. Perhaps I owe it to him. Perhaps I owe it to grace. Perhaps I just needed to be a few days older than when I was acting so ridiculous and insecure. Perhaps this will all pass and I will be crying soon again. But man, I’ll enjoy it while it lasts. I'll enjoy being outside of all that nauseating self-loathing.

Focus

Something is different today. That detachment has returned. Self confidence. Focus. An understanding of where I'm going. I'm not lost in my dreams today. I'm not overly concerned with what my friend thinks of me or if he thinks of me. I am my own person today. I am good.

motivation to live properly

I nearly died last night. Again. I wish I remembered the whole incident. Maybe it would motivate me more to live properly.

My husband told me that I stopped breathing. He shook me; I gasped for breath. He listened to my heart; it was racing. All I do remember is rolling over and continuing on with my dreams. Dreaming, dreaming, always dreaming. Sometimes I feel like I fail to live in reality at all. And yet, sometimes, like when I'm in the midst of a spiritual battle, reality seems more real than ever before. That may seem odd to you -- she feels like reality is more real when there are spirits involved -- but it doesn't to me.

In any case, I woke up and listened to my husband's account of how I had nearly suffocated in the middle of the night and I resolved that if I was going to go out, it wasn't going to be with a neglected house and children. I was going to leave my legacy: the place would be orderly, the children would be attended to, dinner would comprise of colorful balanced side dishes, warm and on the table. I would not be leaving this earth with laundry undone and the floor unswept and library books which had still not yet been read to the children. No sir. Not me.

And of course, I would leave letters for everyone. Letters of how I felt about them and how much they meant to me and how I prayed for them and wished them well and how I would continue praying and that my spirit would always be with them, even if I were gone. But then, all that is probably rather unnecessary, since I send my sentiments constantly.

My grandparents are still alive. A few months ago, I sent them the letter I would read as their eulogy. Is that crazy? Rude? I didn't think so at the time. But as always, I tend to doubt myself. When I wrote it, I figured, "Why should I wait until they're gone to tell them how I love them?" They appreciated the letter. But still, it's a little...strange.

I have some crazy insane need to tell everyone everything about myself. Expose all my struggles and vulnerabilities. It's not so much that I'm looking for sympathy. It's more that I want others to know they're not alone. Maybe they want to be alone. I don't know. I try to give to everyone the things I never had. And that's why I'm always listening to others, sharing with others, relating to others. For ten years, I dreamed of being a counselor to teens, mostly because when I was a teen, I never had a good counselor. I started a natural birth meetup group, mostly because when I was pregnant and planning an out-of-hospital birth, no one was around to answer my questions. I have often taken up projects simply because I wished someone had done it for me. Perhaps that's the wrong way to approach life. I don't know.

My friend told me he doubts that it's understanding he wants. That took me by surprise. Doesn't every person in the world want to be understood? Doesn't every one want to know that he's not alone. Doesn't every one want to relate to others somehow? Isn't everyone in the world just a little bit needy like me? I'd like to think that. But perhaps that's not reality at all. Perhaps I should just keep to myself and volunteer information only when asked. Perhaps I've been going about this friendship thing all wrong. Maybe nobody is really interested in knowing my whole life story. It's my life story, maybe I should just keep it to myself. Write an autobiography. Get it published posthumously. Get something published anyway.

It's not understanding he wants. Perhaps that's why he claims no god. So what does he want then? I wonder if I'll ever know. I pray for him. Often. I pray he'll get whatever it is he really wants. Whatever the Lord really wants for him. Do those things coincide for him? Do they coincide for me? For the vast majority of us? Probably not. But I pray the Lord's will be done, in any case.

discipline

"I need your discipline. I need your help." That's what he said. I was so determined to do it. But the very next morning, I struggled. The urge came over me and I gave in. The urge to talk, the urge to make contact. The need for attention, for acknowledgement. It just overwhelms me. I can't seem to hold back. But I must. I must.

I feel so out of control sometimes. So unorganized, so unfocused. I should map out my day, I guess. Map out my time -- my week, my month, my year. Schedules. I should treat myself like a child until I can behave like an adult again.

If I can make it through this, I will be able to make it through anything. I should take up running again. Discipline. Discipline.

come oh wise men, come

Sometimes our hearts are like dark caves. No natural light shines through. What is within us seems immensely black and scary and hopeless. But the Lord showed me that if we allow His light to shine within us, we will see that the cave is filled with beautiful sparkling crystals and reflective pools.

Tonight, I got an image of the three wise men. They were journeying toward that cave. They were bringing their precious gifts. And the cave was no longer a void of darkness. The star of David was shining above it. It was the stable, occupied by the Holy Family. The animals were there and the cave had been full of stench. But Mary filled it with the perfume of roses. And Joseph spread the fragrance of lillies. And Baby Jesus wafted forth the beautiful scent of a newborn begotten of the most pure virginal womb.

I await the wise men. And I long to be able to receive their gifts. I invite the Holy Family to settle into the cave of my heart and to flood out the stench with their lovely frangrances.

journey back to the sunshine

I had a long talk with my husband last night, trying to figure myself and all my crazy behaviors out. I generally feel like men are much wiser than women. Maybe it's my family. I don't know. But I have grown up with the perception that women are emotional weaklings who need men to point them in the right direction, to help them see the big picture, to smack some sense into them when they're freaking out about the milk being left out on the counter for a whole half an hour and how it's going to spoil if it's not put away now and does my daughter really think that money grows on trees and how am I going to pay the bills, etc. etc. etc. (And no, that whole line was not taken from my history as a parent. It was something I experienced when growing up, okay?) Anyway, I find that the men who were in my life were rather wise and stable and had a good grasp on the big picture.

So I mumbled to my husband about how horribly embarrassed I was that my friend said I was hardly faithful at all and that I was quite ridiculous as far as Catholics go. This was humiliating for me to face since my friend rejects religion altogether. I mean, I should be a good example, a faithful witness, somebody that somebody else might possibly want to be like. Apparently, I have been none of those things. I have simply been ridiculous.

That was hard to take. And the worst part was that I instantly knew it was true. I'm not always like this, but sometimes I fall into this mode where I use my religion in a superstitious way. Like if I just say enough rosaries and enough divine mercy chaplets, if I say the right prayers the right number of times, if I call upon the right saints and use the proper title of Mary when seeking intercession, then all the cards will play together and help me have the winning hand.

Deep inside, I know this is not the way the Lord intends us to indulge in the fullness of truth. But still, I tend to be quite controlling and so sometimes, even though I don't think it consciously, I try to make God my puppet, my vending machine. And I get annoyed, disappointed, sometimes desperate, and very rarely enraged when things don't work out the way I had planned they would.

My husband put it well: "You need to allow God to work through you. You cannot try to work through God." Yes, that was what I was trying to do. Sad, but true.

In my efforts to prioritize my life and to stop being so self-focused, I have taken up teaching again this week. We've been off of school work for about seven weeks now and there has been no order in the house, no routine to our lives. It has allowed me to become quite self-absorbed. It has allowed me to stop really being a mom and to just sort of referee the sibling squabbling. My husband even had a dream last week that he was in the truck following the van and all the kids were in the van and no one was driving it. He was feeling my absence in the family. My non-presence despite my being home all day every day.

But yesterday, I started my journey back toward the sunshine. I read books to my kids and took them to the library. I washed the dishes and folded the laundry and made the beds. I listened to my kids. I listened to my friends. I listened to my husband. I re-engaged myself into their lives. Today, I went out to lunch. I took care of my business. I listened my my music which makes me feel so much like me. And tomorrow, I plan to run a race -- a 2-miler. And I will run it with a friend of mine. I never feel more like myself than when I'm running. And it's always best when running with a friend.

When I was teaching this morning, I realized that I was returning to normalcy. By guiding my boys in their lessons, I was able to take on the adult role. I was able to be calm and steady and encouraging. I was able to stop being like a kid myself.

I do firmly believe that homeschooling is best for my children and for our family. But I realize too that it is best for me as a mom. It fulfills my need to be needed. It helps me know that I'm making a difference in some one's life. It enforces that feeling that I crave -- that I truly am unique and irreplaceable, that no other person can do this job as well as I can. Sometimes I am tempted to think that I'm doing it just for me, but I've prayed about it often and I do believe it's best for all of us.

Watching my sons learn, I realized again the truth of what my husband said last night: "Every person is on his own journey. You cannot make him go in any particular direction. You can only point the way and give him encouragement. But ultimately, you have to let him make his own decisions and discover things on his own." I didn't just discover this last night. But like I said, life goes in cycles and sometimes I have to rediscover it and accept it in an even deeper way than before.

I don't like to harp on hurts and I don't like to blame everything on my father's absence in my life, but I do think it has affected my entire outlook on who I am and how I perceive my relationships with other people. I grew up knowing that my father's abandonment wasn't my fault, but somehow always deep-down believing that it was. I realize now that I've carried around this notion -- I'm mostly over it, but I still cling to it from time to time -- that if I had just been a better little girl, if I just could have controlled myself more and not been so naughty as a two year old, the man that should have been my protector and my rock and my reassurance would not have walked out of my life. I understand now that I've always thought that if I could just do everything right and control my emotions and be better than I am at the moment, then I could change the men in my life to be the persons I always wanted them to be. Hearing myself now, it seems incredibly ridiculous. And that brings us back to where we started -- my ridiculousness.

I understand -- once again, in a deeper way this time -- that I cannot change anybody. I need to just be myself. I don't need to be perfect. I just need to be who I am. The people who accept me accept me and the people who don't don't. That's just the way it is. It's not my fault if they choose to move on. I can be loving and kind and merciful and forgiving all I want. But in the end, I cannot force anyone to do anything. And in the end, I need to be all those things with myself as well.

your smile and the sunshine

I never knew that your smile
and the sunshine
could provide for us a happy place

nevermind that there's a raging war
you bring me peace I've never known before

I never knew that your smile
and the sunshine
could provide for us a happy place

This past Saturday morning, I woke up with this song in my mind. It's not a song I've ever heard before, but I imagined an older man on the top of a mountain, strumming his guitar, singing these words from the depths of his heart. To tell the truth, the man looked like my father and maybe he even sounded like him. I don't' know. He had a voice that sounded like it was from the 70's, like some John Denver or Joe Crocker or Cat Stevens. In any case, it was a beautiful voice, mostly because it was sincere. It seemed that the Lord was giving me that song as a way of healing that father wound. Like He was saying, "This is the song your father should have been singing to you when you were a child. This is the song I have been singing to you all your life."

I cried that morning. A healing cry. My husband held me and loved me in that moment. He's very good at that. He never tires of my needs. He never tires of comforting me. He never tires of listening to me. And, looking back now on what happened in the hours that followed that morning, he never tires of forgiving me and accepting me where I'm at and encouraging me to do better and strengthening me to persevere. I must say he is perhaps the greatest husband in all the world. Women are envious when I tell them all the great things he does for me.

I know a lot of great guys. I know a lot of great husbands. I know a lot of great marriages. In all my ten years of marriage and having married friends, I have never known any couple to get divorced! That has to say a lot in this day and age. And with all that, I can say that my husband is the greatest. He is everything I need him to be. Everything I need him to be. And yet, I am not always content. Sometimes it's like I think he is too good to me. Sometimes I think I really don't deserve him. Alright, alright, I admit it -- sometimes I just firmly believe that I deserve to be treated like shit. And maybe that's what this is all about. Maybe I sometimes think my husband is a dork for loving me as much as he does. Maybe that's why I have found myself, on a handful of occasions, clinging to someone who is mysterious and intimidating and who doesn't care much about me at all. That's screwed up. It really is. But what other conclusion is there?

And now I am exposed and vulnerable once again.

Okay, I'm stepping into the sunshine now. I am walking OUT of the shadows. No more musing. No more pondering. No more holding a magnifying glass to all my scars and my pathetic neurotic behaviors. I will stop focusing on myself and start focusing on others once again. I will be giving and considerate and loving. I will get my life back into its proper order. And for Heaven's sake, I will STOP being the most self-centered, self-pitying person in all the world!

God bless anyone who is reading through all this trash. I'm off to lunch now. Adios.

a series of cycles

It seems that life is a series of cycles. And within each cycle you're trying to learn in a deeper way the lesson that was presented to you in the first place. You go through these bright revelations of truth and you're confident and happy while walking in them. And then you go through the shadows of lies and you recognize that you've been in that place before and you are tempted to think the truth was never real and that the darkness is the place where you belong.

I have recognized once again that I have a high need for security. I long to be protected, accepted, safe. This may seem odd since I am chronically exposing myself as a vulnerable being. You would think I would hide all my vulnerability and not let anyone in. You would think I would not let anyone know anything about myself and that maybe I would take up some form of escapism on a regular basis. I have my moments of escaping...into my dreamworld of my thoughts, into the warmth of a bubble bath, into the clarity of my writing, into the pounding rhythm of my music when driving in the car, the the comfortable quiet of my room when the kids are watching videos. But it's like I need someone else to protect me, accept me, and make me feel safe. My husband does all these things for me. I thought I was over this need. So why do I find myself still looking for it? Why do I find myself in the shadows, hearing that voice, "You are not worth the trouble. No one wants to bother with you. No one wants to deal with all your emotional needs. You are not good enough for anyone to want to endure. You deserve to have everyone walk out on you. Accept it -- you are completely alone."

I have recognized once again that I have a high need for consistency. I like order and I don't like change. Even when I know the change will be a great thing in my life, I face it with nervous anxiety. I am uncomfortable with the unknown. It is not all that exciting to me. It is dark and mysterious in an intimidating way. And that's why Flip is dark and mysterious and intimidating. And maybe too that's why Tanya longs for him to come around and help her feel protected and accepted and safe -- to prove that he really is an okay guy after all. Tanya does not give up. She has hope. She walks through the shadows and she perseveres and she is triumphant -- at least in the first version. She does not hear that voice, "You have to change in order to be okay. You have to change in order to be acceptable. You have to change because nobody likes you the way you are." See, change is a negative there. Even when I know it's good for me, I feel like I have to change only so I can stop being all the bad things that I am.

I have recognized once again that I have a high need to be needed. I like to feel like I have a place in the world. I like to feel that my life matters somehow. I am a very dedicated person. That's a good thing most of the time. It's a bad thing when it turns into stubbornness -- my trying to get what I want no matter how improbable it is. Or when it turns into despair -- my giving up on even trying because my desires are deemed impossible to fulfill. My husband is wholly dedicated to me. I have four children who, despite all my faults, think I'm pretty great. I have relatives who are happy to see me when I visit. I have friends who miss me and hug me hello when they see me. And yet, I still find myself in the shadows sometimes, hearing that voice, "Nobody needs you. You do not belong here. You mess everything up. They would be better off without you. Why do you even try? Why do you bother to pray? You cannot make any difference. Nobody needs you. If you left today, they would get over it eventually. Your life is meaningless."

And now I am completely exposed once again. I am not a soldier. I am not a bird. Not today. Everyone reading this is thinking, "Get this woman some help." But these are shadows, just passing things. Most of the time, I am doing alright. Most of the time, I am really pretty great. Most of the time, I am not depressed, not feeling down about myself, not crying my eyes out, not clinging to a person I hardly know, not raging at God. Most of the time -- and I'm saying like 87% here -- I'm a lovely person to be with and I like myself and life is wonderful. Most of the time, the sun is shining on my face and I am smiling. But life is a series of cycles.

a soldier, a bird

I was accused last night of being unstable. And crazy me, I didn't even get what that meant until this morning.

I screwed up yesterday. Big time. I acted like a sixteen year old all over again. I don't really know why this happens to me. I mean, sometimes I wish I could just grow up already and be done with all my adolescent insecurities.

It seems to only happen when I'm feeling ignored, neglected, or abandoned. I become some overly emotional freak who thinks it's all my fault for causing every ounce of misery in my life. I become a person who needs a thousand reassurances that it's all okay and that I'm not a horrible person after all. I hate when I get like that. And what I hate even more is that every time I'm like that, I feel like it's the real me that I've always been.

Last night and this morning, I felt totally exposed and totally vulnerable and totally stupid. I just wanted to crawl out of my own skin and be a normal person already. A non-needy, self-assured, confident person.

"I need you to be strong" he said. I hardly know what that means. When I think of strong, I think of fake. Hiding true feelings, putting on a happy face, keeping a stiff upper lip. I'm raw all the time. I'm an open book even when I shouldn't be. I grew up in Southern California and I developed a severe distaste for falsity. That's why I clung onto grunge music, I think. It was raw and it was real and it was very emotional, just like me. The best compliment I ever got in my life was, "You're the only REAL person I know." That meant a lot to me.

But I think that realness doesn't have to mean rawness. I think now that it mostly means sincerity. And I think that strength doesn't have to mean falsity. I think now that it mostly means prudence. I will have to work on prudence.

The Lord told me in prayer the other night that I would have to learn to be a soldier, that I wouldn't be able to show all my woundedness anymore. He said I would have to be more like a bird, feigning health till the bitter end. Not because I'm in denial of the truth, but rather because the enemy will snatch at any weakness.

I'm not saying everyone out there is my enemy or that any particular person is my enemy. But I cannot afford to be so self-pitying anymore. Really, it's quite pathetic. I was hating myself in the midst of it all. I was raging at God and the saints and complaining about how I'm so sick of sacrificing and I thought, "What in the world am I thinking? What am I doing? What am I saying? I live a good easy comfortable life. I am sobbing out my troubles to people who lost loved ones and endured whippings and suffered trial after trial after trial. I am PATHETIC. Somebody shut me up already." So I put away my last Kleenex and stopped sobbing and wiped away the tears. I said I was sorry and I got up and I moved on.

I don't want to be pathetic anymore. I don't want to be needy anymore. And for Heaven's sake, I will slap myself if I have to hear myself saying one more time something along the lines of, "I just want to know that you really do care about me." No one person can give me all the truckloads of reassurance that I seem to need in those moments. I have to get it from within myself. I have to just be okay with myself no matter what other people think. As long as I'm doing my best, and acting prudently, that should be enough. That will be enough.

So I thank my friend for slapping me in the face with the truth about myself last night. And I thank him for asking me to be strong. It will be a new thing for me, uncomfortable at first, I'm sure. But I will do it. I will.

not a rock, not an island

Over the past eight weeks or so, I have experienced healing at every Mass. I used to feel this all the time at Steubenville and back then, I went to Mass daily! It was perpetual tears and humility and healing then. It is like that once again, but not quite as painful.

I have been going through some strange things lately. So many emotions. So much growth. So many highs and so many lows. I’ve been reminded a lot of my past. Past relationships. Past hurts. Past mistakes. Times when I really screwed up.

I was hurt yesterday. Hurt by a guy friend. It’s been ages since I’ve had a guy friend, so it’s been ages since I’ve been hurt by one. He bothered me because he chose to ignore what I said rather than just tell me that he didn’t want to deal with it. I hate that kind of cowardliness, that kind of cruelty. I hate when people choose not to deal with me. I hate it because it makes me feel like they’re saying that I’m not worth the trouble, like I’m not worth the anguish, like I’m not worth the work, like I’m not worth dealing with. I hate it because it reminds me of so many of my past relationships and those remind me of my deepest hurt – being abandoned by my father.

I won’t talk about my father today. But I will talk about my last boyfriend because that is where the Lord healed me today. This guy – I met him just before Christmas when I was 19. I had been feeling numb for about 8 months from my previous breakup. And he had broken up with his girlfriend the very night that I met him! Looking back on it, I always wondered why the two of us ever got together. Really, we had very little in common. His culture was different, his religion was different, his view on life was different. But I was talking about him the other day and it suddenly dawned on me – thirteen years later – that he was so much like my dad and maybe that’s what attracted me to him. Maybe. Who really knows?

I was with this guy for a total of 9 months I guess, but really it all fell apart around March or May or something like that. I won’t explain it all, but let’s just say it’s a bad bad sign when your parents file a lawsuit against your boyfriend. Yep, bad sign. It’s a bad sign when your boyfriend should be in jail and you’re still totally in love with him. Yep, bad sign. And it’s a bad sign when your boyfriend calls you on the phone and says, “Guess what – I’m in Hawaii. Thought I’d live here for a couple of months. Yeah, I know you and I talked about getting married, but you’re going off to college and well, I just can’t handle the separations so that’s why I’ve been avoiding you. Sorry. Have a great life.” Those weren’t his exact words, but you get the picture. He was such a frickin’ coward.

Anyway, before I get too upset, I will talk about my healing. Ah, the healing. I was thinking about this guy – this last boyfriend of mine. He left such a pain in my heart that I couldn’t even mention his name until just last year. Yeah. I’m serious. I have had deep sorrow over him. All my love turned to hate. I loved him very much and that’s why it hurt so badly.

I have discovered though that you cannot heal hatred until you admit how much you loved. I discovered that a couple years ago with my father. I was lying in bed, talking to my husband, talking about my father and I started crying because for the first time ever I admitted that I loved my daddy and I so much wanted him to love me in return. It was only when I admitted that I loved him that a feeling swept all through me from my head to my toes. It was only then that most of the hurt fled my being.

So I was sitting in Mass today and listening to the readings and listening to the homily and thinking about how I was hurt yesterday and remembering how I had been hurt in a similar way by my last boyfriend. And for the first time in 13 years, I just sat there and thought about my last boyfriend. I didn’t think about how much he had disappointed me or how much I hated him or how much I really needed to try to forgive him. No, for the first time in a long time, I thought about why I loved him. I thought about his face, his dark skin, his soft eyes, his charming smile, his large gentle hands. I thought about his voice and his laughter and the pain he sometimes showed. I thought about how happy I was when he said he wanted to be with me forever and how he would wait for me during my two years of being away at college. I thought about all the dreams I had had of being with him, the home we would have together, how I wanted to have his children. I wanted to have his children.

It was at that thought that the tears came to my eyes. It was at that thought that the mourning welled up from the pit of my stomach. It was at that thought that I began to pray for forgiveness – for myself and for him. I thanked the Lord for the many blessings in my life and I prayed – in a sincere way this time – that Malcolm would have blessings in his life too. Yes, I prayed for him. And I prayed that Jesus and Mary would undo the knots that I have done.

A lot of people don’t understand those prayers. Why pray for those who have hurt you? Why make reparation for the sins of others? Why not just worry about yourself? I am a Christian. It is my mission to be like Christ. I certainly do pray for myself. It is my sole focus to make it to Heaven. I struggle toward that goal every day – every single day.

I am not a rock, I am not an island. I affect everyone around me. I am responsible for how I affect other people’s souls. It is my mission to be the light of Christ in the world. If I allow my brother to fall with me into darkness, then I am responsible for my neglect. And I don’t pray for people because I’m afraid of my own punishment. Sure, it concerns me. But I mostly pray for them because I truly do have love in my heart. I truly do want them to be blessed. I truly do want them to know peace and love and joy in their lives. I truly do want them to encounter the glory of God.

And it’s because I love the Lord – I love Him with my whole heart – that I make reparation for the sins of my brothers and sisters. It’s because I love the Truth that I hate lies. It’s because I love the Light that I hate the darkness. It’s because I love Life that I hate death. And it’s because I love LOVE that I hate indifference. Understand that. Ponder that. Consider that. Then choose the path you will tread.

So, back to this guy friend I talked to yesterday. Yes, he hurt me. Yes, he reminded me of my last boyfriend. Yes, he even in a small way reminded me of my father. But I choose to keep talking to him, not because I'm happy being a doormat, not because I'm okay with being ignored. I keep talking to him because I feel it is my mission to be love and mercy in his life and I feel it is his mission (or rather that the Lord is using him) to teach me how to love purely, without expecting anything in return.

The Lord assured me that my needs now are not what they were then and that He would give me strength to endure this love. It is difficult to love with the Heart of Jesus. It is beautiful and yet painful at the same time. It is beautiful because the love just flows abundantly from the deepest part of you and it must be released, it cannot be contained. It is painful because you know -- you know, you know, you know -- that you can only HOPE that your love will be returned and that there is every chance that it won't be. MMMmmmmm. Lord, give me the strength and the fortitude to love the way You do.

the less desirable and the very desirable

I said in the last post that I am a rather serious person. That’s not totally true. I am slowly seeing that. I’ve always thought of myself as very pensive and sensitive. Things affect me deeply. But just as it is said that a person cannot see demons without also seeing angels, I feel that I cannot experience the depths of pain without also experiencing the height of ecstasies.

I never knew this about myself until college, but I really do laugh a lot. I was with my household sisters, making a tape for an out-of-state friend of ours. We were conversing and catching her up on the news. When I played the tape back, I realized that I was the one laughing the most. I had never thought of myself like that before – as a person laughing a lot. But there it was, indisputable, on the tape. I was laughing and joking and happy.

I’ll admit that I’m never the life of the party. But I am the one laughing the loudest at whoever the life of the party happens to be. When I laugh, I laugh a lot. I double over and do not breathe for a long time. Occasionally, I come up with witty things to say which prolong the joke and make me and everyone around me laugh even louder. It’s fun. I enjoy the bantering quite a bit.

I don’t usually think quickly on my feet and that’s why I’ll never be a stand up comedian and why I’ll never be on the debate team. Like I said, I muse and I ponder and most of the time, when I’m in a heated conversation, I don’t come up with a good come back until about two hours after the conversation has ended. I am rather embarrassed by it all. That’s why I simply resign myself to prayer for the most part. But anyway, I enjoy laughing. I enjoy funny songs and crazy videos and ridiculous movies and I most especially enjoy other people who make me laugh.

I am beginning to see myself in a different light altogether. It seems that for years, I have been clinging onto the many insults that people have thrown my way – I’m too sensitive, I take things too seriously, I cry too much. But I brushed off all the compliments that were always there – I’m funny, I’m fun to have around, I’m easily entertained. I’m not brushing off the compliments anymore. I’m learning to accept the many aspects of me – the less desirable and the very desirable – and I’m learning to love myself for all those things.

like me

I spent a load of money on myself this past week. Now, to understand the significance of this statement, you have to understand that I come from a long line of non-self-indulgent women. And when I say “load of money,” I mean about three hundred bucks. You also have to understand that I come from a long line of avid bargain shoppers.

I have a hard time buying anything for myself and I have a hard time buying anything that’s not on sale. I remember standing in the make-up aisle at Target for a good ten minutes just trying to talk myself into purchasing a generic tube of lipstick. I finally relented when I noticed it had been marked down from $8 to $3. So this is a big deal for me.

I've been buying new clothes lately. Usually, clothes shopping is not a fun outing for me. Once the clothes are on my body, they never quite look the way they did on that girl in the picture. Often, I go home with one item after having tried on fifteen. It’s usually a very depressing excursion for me. But lately, it’s been nice. I get to fit into clothes which haven’t fit me since I was single. And not only that, I have been buying clothes which I would not have worn since I was single either.

Life has been ever-changing during this past decade for me. I think I’m finally starting to embrace myself for all of who I am. It’s taken me a number of years to really figure out just who that is though. I think I was starting to have a handle on it in high school and then I second-guessed myself along the way. I went to junior college in Southern California and my friends would occasionally invite me to go dancing in the Hollywood clubs. Several people there wore black and leather and brightly colored hair. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought Victorian lace-up boots, a black lace skirt, and liquid eye-liner.

After a couple years, I went off to Catholic college and all the girls there wore wearing ankle-length skirts and modest cotton shirts. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought floral skirts and modest shirts and got rid of the liquid eye-liner.

I remember hearing a chastity speaker come to campus who told us that to dress like Mother Mary, we needed to have hemlines below the knee, sleeves down to our elbows, and necklines that never plunged more than a couple inches below our necks. He said we should never wear see-through materials, not even shirts with sheer sleeves. I struggled with that concept for years after that talk. I could handle the hemline and I never was fond of plunging necklines, but I just could not bring myself to feel guilty about sheer sleeves or cap sleeves. Come on!

So I went on, unsure of sleeve length for years. Then I became a mom and a homeschooler and there was that issue all over again. My first homeschooling group had numerous women who wore slip-on shoes and cotton shirts underneath denim jumpers. I felt that maybe I should be like they were. I bought myself some clogs and some nice shirts and an embroidered denim jumper.

I moved a couple years ago to a larger city. The homeschoolers here are quite different. They’re not the jumper type. They actually get cute haircuts and wear makeup most of the time! Some of them do wear jumpers, but some of them have clothes that are quite fashionable. It sort of blows my mind. I don’t have to be Ms. Plain Jane in order to be part of the homeschool group! I can be proud of whatever I feel like wearing. These women are all faithful. Many of them enroll their children in Latin classes and wear veils to Mass. And yet, there they are in their capris and denim jackets. I am rather amazed.

I was never completely unhappy with my clothing, but it seemed I bought items only to fit in with whatever crowd I was hanging out with at the time. Now when I go shopping, I feel like I buy clothes just for me and I’m actually surprised that I’m buying styles which I haven’t worn in over ten years. Tank tops and shorts, mostly. Items I never would have felt comfortable wearing with the girls at Franciscan University (where jeans in church were frowned upon). I don’t know if they would have judged me over it. But I probably would have felt like I was not up to par.

I understand there are different clothes for different occasions and I even made a special shopping trip the other day so that I wouldn’t have to attend daily Mass in shorts. But I bought pants – cute trendy pants and a cute trendy shirt (not on sale!) to go with it. Previously, I definitely would have shopped all over the place to get just the right type of skirt and blouse. Not anymore. Now I’m dressing like me.

discrepancies

So I went to this Theology of the Body conference last month and since then, I've been musing over the perception of the body in this American culture and how I myself have hated and loved my own body.

This subject comes up often, especially during the summer when people are exposing their bodies all around me. It comes up when I'm at the pool in my swimsuit and hiding behind my sunglasses, staring at all the more perfect than me girls in their bikinis. I've never worn a bikini in my life, even when I did have the body for it.

A few days ago, I was watching my kids during swim lessons when a young woman life guard stood at the edge of the pool, talking to a young man life guard who was sitting in his guard chair. Both of them were in their early twenties. Both of them had perfect bodies. Both of them were unmarried and without kids. Both of them were completely not like me.

As tempting as it was to ogle the guy, it was the girl who got my attention. I stared at her from behind my sunglasses, tracing the contours of her tan body, noting the cute smile on her face. I don't remember ever having contours like that. Maybe I did once and just never was happy with myself even when I did. And I never felt that I had a cute smile on my face.

I'm a serious person, mostly. If people don't know me, they think I'm judging them. But that's just because I'm quiet and I don't say much unless I feel I have to. But back to the body.

I thought about this woman's body for quite awhile after I'd seen it. I thought about hers. I thought about mine. I thought about the discrepancy between the two. I thought about this all as I pulled into McDonald's and drove away, munching on french fries and gulping down a chocolate shake.

Now, I must say, I weigh less now than I've ever weighed in all my ten years of marriage. I fit back into my college size actually. I'm pretty happy with myself. But after four pregnancies, my body is just not what it was when I was 19 and it probably never will be again. Sure, I can do my Pilate's and I can run a couple miles here and there. But the shape I was then will never come back for me. I have to accept that. And I think of that line, "Can I handle the seasons of my life?"

It's a strange thing, all this comparison. I mean, who cares really? My husband thinks I'm beautiful. I have lines and freckles which increase in number every summer, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. I have stretch marks and non-taut skin, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. My chest has become deflated after a total of 92 months of nursing, yet he thinks I'm beautiful. He sees all these things as the effects of my love for him and his children. And he is right to see them that way. But why can't I accept that? Why do I look at myself and see only imperfection most of the time? And I think of the line, "We all want something beautiful. Man, I wish I was beautiful."

I went in for a massage the other day. A massage and a facial, actually. There's something about just relaxing and breathing slowly and closing your eyes while some perfect stranger rubs their hands all over your body. I mean, why is that okay? Why is that desirable? Is it because this person is non-threatening? Is it because she is a professional? Is it because I trust her to earn her money to help me relax and feel beautiful? I don't know. Obviously, the whole situation would be different if the person wasn't a woman or wasn't a professional or wasn't trusted. But she was all those things and I was able to relax and feel beautiful.

I remember the first time I got a massage, I got tears in my eyes. I was experiencing in a deeper way that I -- me, yes, actually me -- I was fearfully and wonderfully made. A stranger caressed every curve of my face with care and tenderness. This person wasn't expecting anything or trying to get anything from me or trying to make me feel any certain way. She simply wanted me to relax and feel beautiful. And I did. And it was amazing.

I don't get massages often -- once a year maybe -- but it is my time to feel okay about myself and my body once again.

Love Bomb Explosion

It is late at night. The air conditioning is out. It's very dark and and very hot and very quiet. I am completely sober. I have no need to drink. The natural imbalance of my own hormones is enough for me to deal with.

I was asked recently if I was feeling too alive lately. Too alive? This question was offered by a person who thinks it's a great idea to numb himself regularly with booze just about every night. Too alive, indeed.

I'd rather feel everything, painful as it may be, than feel nothing at all. Feeling nothing -- that's not feeling. That's just being numb. And I don't care what Pink Floyd says, being numb is not comfortable, not for very long.

I have come to the conclusion within the past few days that there really is no one in the world like me. This may seem extraordinarily obvious. But I think about it. I ponder it. I muse about it. There are six billion people on the earth at this moment and there are probably another 12 billion or so who have walked it sometime in the past and none of them, not a single one out there is just like me.

That's sort of crazy to think about. There is no one out there who is a grunge music fan and a die-hard Catholic. Well, that's not true. I remember being overjoyed when attending Mass one day at Franciscan University and noticing a guy seated in front of me with a Nirvana Incesticide T-shirt on. He probably scandalized the many good girls around me, but he was God's sign of love and acceptance to my eyes. I remember I was new at the school and I thought, "I DO belong here! There ARE others like me."

Praise God for that guy in the Nirvana shirt. Praise God for that girl at FUS in the Nine Inch Nails shirt. Praise God for that guy at FUS with the Smashing Pumpkins shirt. Praise God for my boyfriend-turned-husband who had the guts to let me tease his hair and paint his eyes with eyeliner and eyeshadow and put him in a black button-down shirt and a black broom skirt and bring him to an 80's dance on campus. It was the funniest thing that night -- it was vocations weekend and on our way to the dance, we had to pass up many nuns and priests and just smile and nod.

Still, I think I might be the only person in the world who still -- 14 years later -- prays for the soul of Kurt Cobain, that he may one day soon enter into the full glory of Heaven. And even if I'm not the only one praying for him, I might be the only one convinced that he actually benefits from my prayers and helps me along from time to time. The communion of saints: The Church Militant, the Church Suffering, the Church Glorified.

I have been going through purgation lately. The Lord has been forming my heart to be much like His. I have been learning to love like He does. It's beautiful. It's wonderful. It's painful.

I have always been fascinated by the mystics -- the saints who have supernatural experiences of God. Other people read the intellectual writings of Augustine and Aquinas. Me, I read the biographies of Francis of Assisi, Teresa of Avila, Terese of Lisieux, Faustina of Poland, Padre Pio of Petrelcina. I have always been amazed by the supernatural. I am particularly amazed by the victim souls: those who ask, beg, and plead to share in the sufferings of Christ in order to make reparation for the sins of others.

This has always seemed a little crazy to me. I mean, how, why, what are they thinking, asking for suffering? Suffering is no fun. Suffering is something to be avoided, something to be soothed, to be pitied, to be made better. I have had many bouts with depression in my life and I never enjoyed the suffering.

But now I think I understand. These past few months, I have learned that it's not about wanting to feel pain. It's about aching with so much love for a person that you are willing to do anything, anything at all, to help that person have a more fulfilling life. See, the suffering is already present in the ache of the heart. The physical suffering is actually a relief because then you know you're doing something to assist that person along in their journey toward peace, love, and joy.

Now, I know that hair shirts and nail belts and self-flagellations are way out of style. They are no longer the in thing as far as the Catholic Church is concerned. I know that. I'm not going out there seeking suffering. Believe me. I've got four kids at home all day every day. I have enough to offer up just in the normal course of my routine. But I have taken up more prayers and I have taken up exercise and I have forgone simple pleasures here and there and maybe just maybe I will prove my love even moreso by taking up running again and offering that for reparation.

My heart yearns now in a way it has never yearned before. And I believe that is because my heart loves now in a way it has never loved before. Pure love. Complete love. Big blazing inferno love. A love bomb explosion, as Christopher West would say.

What is a love bomb explosion, you may ask. It is when you see somebody -- somebody in the airport, somebody in a newspaper, somebody online -- you see that person, you meet him, you hear about him...somehow, you connect with that person. And it's not like you go gaga over him. It's not at all like fainting over a rock star. It's like you suddenly see that person through God's eyes. You see him for just how beautiful and wonderful and amazing and love-worthy he is. And it doesn't matter how much you know or don't know about him. It doesn't matter how he is living his life now or how he may have lived it in the past. All that matters is that you want him to see himself just as you see him at that moment -- during that moment of that love bomb explosion. You want him to know how much he is completely, utterly, and totally loved and how much he is absolutely worthy of that love. You want him to respond to that love and be happy and be joyful and be at peace with himself.

But it's the response that's tricky. How do you explain love to someone who has never been honestly loved before? How do you explain honesty to someone who believes it is fleeting and intangible? How do you explain forever to someone who lives only in the now? How do you explain those things? How? How? My heart aches. I am completely honest with someone who admits to despising the truth. I have complete acceptance for a person who may never accept my acceptance of him. I have an everlasting love for someone who may not care if I disappear tomorrow. God give me the strength to endure the intensity of this love, no matter what the response.

-----------------
I would walk up to your door, but you would answer before I knocked. You would take my hand and welcome me into your home. I would stand there with the feeling I always have when meeting one of my newborns: You're here. You're real. Look at you – your face, your hands, your skin.

Then I would wrap my arms around you and breathe in your scent and my whole being would be filled with contentment. After the embrace, we'd talk for awhile. And the whole time, I would want to touch your hand or your arm, just to remind myself that you're really here. Eventually, you'd put on Silversun Pickups and I would have to dance. I would close my eyes, not to block out my surroundings, but to fully enter into the world that the music was drawing me into. You might join me in the dance or you might just sit there on the couch, being entertained by it all.

I'd have a drink after that – whatever you offered me – and we'd talk some more. The night would grow long and you'd take me into your sanctuary, your room. You'd show me all your pictures on the wall and explain your little treasures that you keep on your desk and your shelves. I would enjoy hearing about your memories and your travels and your view of the world. You'd grow tired of talking and you'd lay down on your bed. I'd sit on the edge beside you, holding your hand.

You'd be sleepy and I'd sing:
Sweet sweet sweet
Sweet little agony
I don't know just where you've been
But I'll take take take
All that you have for me
[And say] Where are we going?

Then I'd lift the back of your hand to my cheek and I'd notice a scar on your wrist and one on your forearm and one on your shoulder and three along your neck. I would press my lips to them all, trying to somehow ease the pain behind them. And then I'd lay next to you and put my head on your chest and listen to your heartbeat: slow, strong, steady. I'd want to fall asleep to the lulling rhythm, but you would fall asleep first and I would force myself to sit up.

I would trace a cross upon your forehead and say, God bless you, [dear sweet boy]. I'd place my hand on your chest to feel your heartbeat one last time and say, I hope to see you again one day, because Heaven just wouldn't be Heaven without you. I'd wipe away the wetness from my eyes and press my cheek to yours, breathing in your scent again. I'd touch my fingers to my lips and then yours and I'd remember you always.

Asking for It -- first version

Splash
The first time she saw him, she was half naked. He took her by surprise at Sylvie's pool as she was drying herself off in her one-piece aqua blue suit. She and Sylvie had been discussing all the highlights of their past college year apart when he walked in through the gate.
She at first saw only a silhouette, being that his back was to the sun. She had to squint to see him clearly. But even then, she was so busy hiding herself that she couldn't quite focus on him. She simply felt the immensity of his looming presence facing her.
~
The first time he saw her, he was his usual back in black self. Black shades. Black sleeveless shirt. Black jeans. Black shoes. At least he didn't have to try too hard to have his clothes match his hair.
He was intrigued by her, by the way she scrambled to cover up once he cast his shadow upon her. Usually women allowed their cleavage to heave and practically spill over right before his eyes. This one was different. More entertaining. Not so obvious.
He was used to ogling women behind his shades, but for some reason he stepped aside and turned toward the pool while she pulled on her T-shirt and wrapped her towel around her hips.
"Flip, this is Tanya. The two of us ran track together." Sylvie managed the courtesy of an intro. "Tanya, my cousin, Flip."
"Hey." Flip jerked up his head in greeting. "You're a runner?"
"Used to be. Not lately though." Tanya wrung out her sandy blonde hair, the water now dripping into a puddle at his feet. "How about you? You ever involved in sports?"
"I used to try to fit them in." The guy was about as monotone as he was monochromatic. "But I've got health issues." He waited for Tanya's face to take on concern. "Yep. Sports – they interfere with my strict doctor's orders to smoke every hour on the hour and keep myself drunk at least half the night."
His super cool attitude, her nervousness, his serious tone, her moment of concern, the unexpected humor…it all combined to cause Tanya to burst into laughter despite her not wanting to condone such bad habits. She laughed despite her awareness that the other two were laughing at her laughter and not at his joke.
"Sylvie, what've you done to this girl? Did you spike the pool with bottles of Vodka again? You know how I warned you about that last time when that prank of yours ended in an all-night skinny dipping party.
"Whatever, Flip." Sylvie would not even bother defending herself against such a lame accusation.
Tanya laughed again, this time doubling over in giggles until she was breathless.
Flip didn't usually get this strong of a reaction, but continued on just to see how much of a reaction he could get. "Hey, if you were intending an all night love fest, I can call a few friends over. It's a little early for that kind of thing, but I could make this a special occasion."
Tanya's laughter had her in tears at this point. She seemed to be enjoying herself quite a bit, despite her tinge of embarrassment. Eventually she tried to gain composure. Breath in. Breath out. Giggle giggle. Breath in. Sigh. Giggle again. Tanya stumbled along the poolside toward her slip-ons.
Flip stepped over to the patio table, then motioned as if hauling up the table umbrella and placing it at the edge of the pool. "This could be like one of those cocktail decorations on the edge of the glass for the giant martini pool party."
Tanya erupted into laughter all over again.
"Control yourself, woman." Flip nudged her shoulder. "I know I'm King of Comedy but – Whoa!"
Splash!
~
Tanya bobbed in the pool, her eyes and mouth wide open. The surprise of the fall shocked the laughter right out of her. Still, she felt giddy and silly and free. Her towel had come undone during the fall and she now held it across her shoulders like a pair of wings in the water.
Now Flip was the one laughing. He didn't seem the type to laugh often. He was more of a guy who simply smirked at comments rather than one who laughed out loud. Yet now he was smiling wide. He touched one knee to the ground and extended his had to help Tanya out.
"Thanks." She was happy to see some chivalry shine through his tough exterior. She took his hand, grabbed his elbow, and at the last second, planted her feet against the side of the pool, tugging him with her whole body. "Thanks for pushing me in!"
Splash!
~
Now Flip flapped in the water. He did not typically enjoy being surprised. But this time was different. He made sure to adjust his shades, smooth his hair, and calmly glide through the water, as if he had not been affected in the least. Yet he felt some new energy inside him. Something awakened. Something thrilling. He wasn't sure just what it was.
She had dared to play with him, but not in the way women usually played with him. This kind of play was not seductive or manipulative. It seemed more of a statement that she wasn't going to be pushed around by him. He respected her for that. He did not expect to be pulled in by her. Not physically, not emotionally. He considered himself a master of keeping his balance on the edge of control, on the edge of emotion. He jumped in only when he wanted to. But he couldn't deny the fact that he was soaked.

Back when the story was scandalous.

Tanya sat, silent. Thinking. Wondering. She felt like she was facing a black monolith, frantically searching for a pinhole of light – some way to get through to him. But the immensity of the blackness overwhelmed her. She was under its shadow. Under his shadow. She searched her mind for that one-word prayer of strength and comfort. Images were all that came to her. Flames. Heart. Thorns. Cross. Jesus. Jesus! O Most Sacred Heart of Jesus, help me.

Flip sat, silent as well. Leaning in toward her. Glancing over her. Wondering just how long it’d all take for this one to fall under his spell. She was mesmerized already, he could tell. Conquest for him was sweet. And he would be a grand prize winner with this one. He knew these pious types – they held out for awhile, then crashed quick and hard.

A girl like her would be more passionate than the bar whores when in the heat of the moment. He knew. All that pent-up emotion from “saving herself for someone special” would be unleashed as soon as he touched her just the right way. And he had much practice in finding just the right way. He had a loaded key-chain of right-way clinkers clipped to his belt, waiting to be jabbed into the next woman’s heart, whether she be coy or brazen. Yes, it would be a savory victory for him. But he’d have to bail out quick before she started weeping about how she regretted ever setting eyes on him and crying over guilt guilt guilt. He wouldn’t comfort her then. He wouldn’t apologize for himself. No sir. He’d simply abandon her in her misery while celebrating his prowess with good ol’ Jack Daniels at the corner bar.

Two hours later. The party was well underway. Tanya was getting that pounding, stifling feeling again. She was still holding on to her daiquiri cooler, warmer than room temperature by now after being between her palms all night.

She had excused herself from Flip’s stare down and found Sylvie again and met up with some vaguely familiar friends and tried to converse and look like she didn’t have a care in the world. But those eyes. His eyes. Looking right through her. They flashed through her memory as often as the heat was flashing through her body during this nerve-wracking party where she was doing all she could to get her mind off that conversation. She felt she should just leave already. She didn’t know what was keeping her? She knew should just go home, say her prayers for Papa Benny before bed as she always did, and shut her eyes and forget it all. Sleep till tomorrow. Start a new day.

But she knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. She hadn’t slept much all week. She’d been going over that night – that song in her head, over and over. And now she’d be going over this night – this conversation, word by word, glance by glance. It was going to haunt her, she knew, whether she stayed or left. Once she was home, she’d think of all the things she should have said and what she wished she had said and how she wanted to get through to him…and how she wished he would look at her sincerely…. Whoa. She didn’t know where that just came from. She escaped for fresh air. Again.

first scene that came to mind for Tanya and Flip

“I really must go now.” Tanya fidgeted with her keys, already warm and wet in her palms.

“You’ve been saying that for the last fifteen minutes.” Flip stared at her through his intensely black sunglasses. He was Mr. Mystique – wearing shades even in a nightclub.

“Yes, well….” Tanya carefully lifted her water with lemon and brought the straw to her lips. She was doing all she could not to dump the whole thing over her head. A wave of heat rose through her and she clasped her shirt in panic – yes, it was still properly buttoned. Why did she repeatedly feel like she was coming undone?

“You can leave anytime you like, girl. I’m not going to stop you. You want to stay, you can stay. You want to go…” Flip nodded and waved toward the door.

Tanya got a flash of those childhood dreams in which she wanted to run for her life yet could only plod her feet like wet sandbags. She eased out of her chair, fighting her faintness. She intended to spin around, toss her hair over her shoulder and never look back. Instead, she lingered, fidgeting with her keys again, then quickly paced, head down, out the door.

That confirmed for him all that he’d suspected.

“I’ve got to get out of here,” Tanya muttered as she stabbed at the key hole. Tanya was still trying to convince herself to leave even as she climbed into her car. She couldn’t drive just yet. Her body trembled. Her heart thudded in her chest. She clasped her shirt again – yes, the button was still there. She squeezed her eyes tight, telling herself she would be okay if she could just leave. She whispered in frustration, “Why does he seem to look straight through me though I can’t even see his eyes?”

Another wave of heat rushed through her as she cranked the keys and revved the engine. She backed the car quickly. The tires chirped as she drove west toward home, still saying, “I’ve got to get out of here.”

Tell me again why you love me.

My husband wrote me a letter the other night. It happens once every few years when the emotions run so deep they can't be spoken. Insecurity had been plaguing us both.

He was feeling inadequate and I was feeling defensive.

We talked afterwards -- a good long talk with much laughter and little interruption. I'm convinced once again that the truth really does set you free. He said he'd always been jealous of all my guy friends. What guy friends? I haven't spoken to a guy since we got married nearly a decade ago. This apparently was an issue unresolved from our college dating days. I pestered him -- Who? Who were you jealous of? I can't even think of anyone.

He went through every possible person there was for him to be jealous of back in college. It turned out he was mostly despising the "cool, rockin', willing to dye their hair green" guys with whom I could share my music. Dh never was honored as a cool guy amongst his peers.

Then I went through every possible person there was for me to be jealous of back in college. It turned out I was mostly despising the "stable, loving, happy, homemaker" girls with whom nobody argued. I never was honored as a stable girl amongst my peers.

So there it was, all out in the open. And in the end, we laughed at how absurd it was to think that I'd marry anyone that wasn't reliable or that he'd marry anyone that wasn't dramatic.

Even though we're fairly certain we are loved by our spouses, it's always reassurring to know just exactly why.

Reason is my friend.

Letters I've written,

Never meaning to send.

Beauty I'd always missed

With these eyes before,

Just what the truth is

I cant say anymore.

-- Moody Blues, Nights in White Satin

It's pretty bad when you pride yourself on being an honest person and you start singing songs like this one. I'm typically a very honest person, except when I'm lying to myself. I don't even recall ever telling a straight-out lie, ever. You could say I have a bad memory, but my memory is very good, actually. Hey, I remember President Carter, waist-lenght hair, knee-high socks, and pea-green appliances from the 70s, don't I?

I never was good at keeping a poker face. People can see right through me most of the time. Even when I try to hide, I just can't. That's why I was never the best at customer service. If I was having a bad day, it was written all over my face and if I was doing just fine, well, people still thought I was having a bad day, but that's another story. Equanimity is not something I readily strive for, although I'm sure it would do me much good.

Not being enslaved to your passions is true freedom, for sure. I look at the many rock gods who've thrown it all away with drug ODs, cigarette-caused cancer, drinking-caused cancer, heart-brokenness syndrome, bullets to the brain and I have to ask -- Is it worth it to be so emotionally raw all the time? Still, I get conned by this "follow your passion" culture of mine.

I must learn to work with reason. Reason is my friend. Reason IS my friend. Embrace it. Love it. Carry it around where-ever I go. I'll have to play this tape regularly for many years to get the full hang of it, I'm sure.