Resting in Prayer

I will be the first to admit that I live a fairly hurried life, much to my own choice. However, what many people don’t realize is that I pray twice a day and it’s during that time– especially during my second prayer– that not only do I rest, but so do my requests for my life.

I have written before that my first prayer takes place on my run with Lilly around 5:00 am every day. That time is set aside mostly to say thank you for everything that happened the previous day and throw out any requests as well. It also helps the run go faster by keeping my thoughts centered.

Then after the dogs have been fed, but before my shower, I sit with a lit candle for five minutes and that prayer is devoted to throwing out my requests. In the colder months, I do this at my desk, however, in the summer, I let my feet rest after my workout on the top step of the swimming pool.

Not only are my feet resting in the cold water, but so are my thoughts, my requests, my hopes. And I am getting a rest before I venture into the rest of my day.

I’m not perfect at prayer– I will be the first to admit that I am easily distractible– but it’s a consistent effort on my part to rest and let go of what who and what I want to be. Plus those five minutes allow me to center myself for the day ahead. Resting in prayer helps me recharge and reminds me what’s important and not get caught up in drama or negative thoughts.

I am more productive– and happier– because I take the time for this rest.

The Fun House Mirror

A friend asked me recently what I enjoyed sewing the most and I thought for a minute and told her it’s the swimsuits. There is a dichotomy though because it’s actually really hard for me to post photos of myself in a bikini. I learned a long time ago that how everyone sees me is not how I see myself. Each time I look in the mirror, my mirror is a fun house mirror. Somehow somewhere along the way, everything became distorted.

Some days it looks really good, other days, it’s really hard. This isn’t something new in my life– I skipped wearing bikinis between about age 8 and age 26 because I didn’t believe I looked good enough to wear them. But I also have come to understand that my distortion comes somewhat from the media but mostly because when I lack control in other aspects of my life, what I believe I can control is how I look.

If I’m having a bad day, if I’m tired, or if I’m irritated that my professional life isn’t progressing where I’d like it to be, Isomehow let the control seep into how I look. Knowing where it comes from hasn’t made it dissolve from my life, but it has allowed me to at least understand it which– for me– is the first step in figuring out how to let it go.

But during this time that I’ve been able to understand this for myself, I’ve also started working more closely with women to make custom clothing and I’ve begun to also understand how much we all have some aspect of ourselves we are uncomfortable with and want to cover up, particularly as we age. While I know what parts of my body I struggle with, when women reveal to me what they don’t like about their own, I realize then how we all have a fun house mirror of ourselves.

I don’t have answers, I’m not proposing any here, but I do believe that somewhere inside us we all have the ability to let go of that distortion. The question is how we get there. I am hopeful that in time I’ll be able to do that for myself and perhaps help others do the same.

And maybe it’s yet another part of Chelle Summer, teaching me that it’s more than making clothes, but another step in helping others go forward in their life journeys as I go forward in my own.

A Time of Reflection

Sometimes when I think back on years past, it’s hard to believe how much has happened.

Last year this time I was recovering from having my uterus removed. While I dealt with anesthesia complications for several months, what’s more amazing is to see how much I’ve accomplished since then, especially regarding my sewing.

I can admit now– I didn’t then because I was trying to push through it– that I really struggled getting my sewing projects done. More than anything, I was holding myself back because of my own fears. I can’t explain what it was– was I afraid things would come out wrong? Was I afraid I couldn’t figure out how to do something?

Whatever it was, I finally managed to tell myself to suck it up and just make things and not worry about how they came out, that each item I messed up in some way would be a reminder of how to do it better next time. After all– and I can hear my mother’s words echoing in my head to go practice my flute– you don’t get better unless you keep practicing.

And not only do you get better, you realize you can accomplish more in the same amount of time because you are better. So while things aren’t perfect, my skills are increasing because I’m constantly experimenting and trying new things.

After spending last summer between anesthesia complications and running off to various doctor and physical therapy appointments trying to help my shoulder heal (obviously unrelated to my uterus) from continually sub flexing (popping out)), I gave myself time to heal and take care of myself. As summer turned to fall and then winter, I felt as if I could put the focus back on my projects and I did so with a vengeance.

As the inspiration continues to fall like stars in front of me, I can only hope that this new road will lead me to the new places I’ve been itching to go for some time. I’ll keep walking, keep creating, and let the rest fall into place.

Wanderlust

I was raised on wanderlust.

I didn’t know it, but from my childhood on, the importance of travel was implanted in me through life experiences. My maternal grandparents lived so close to O’Hare Airport in Chicago that if you were having a conversation on the phone when a jet flew overhead, you had to wait for the jet to pass to continue the conversation.

But what I remember most are the drives to and from their house– from our house in the western suburbs– that not just took us right by the airport, but along the tollway lined with billboards of the places that airlines like Pam American and Eastern were now flying to. There was non-stop escape to islands and the idea of visiting homelands like Poland. New high rise hotels replaced the smaller two-story ones as I grew up, O’Hare added terminals.

The world of travel increased and with it went my grandparents behind the Iron Curtain to Poland to see relatives. And to Egypt to ride camels (at least that’s the memory I have– I don’t have the photo evidence that I once saw, but my sister Karen has the stuffed camel they brought our mother back from the trip). They always brought us ten grandchildren gifts home including a wooden doll from Poland, a coin purse from Rome, a beaded necklace that I’m not sure where it’s from. There was always something, something I didn’t understand about the significance of where it came from.

There also were trips to the airport– all of us grandchildren tagging along– to see Grandma and Grandpa off on yet another trip, the long-gone days when we could all trek to the gate and see someone walk through the door to the jetway to the plane.

My mother longed to travel and we did all over the United States in the station wagon, my dad content not to leave the continent because he had “seen the world” in the Navy in late 1940s into the 1950s. Mom went to travel school and to work for the old Midway Airlines so that she could take us (particularly my younger sister Denise and I) on day trips like to shop at Macys in New York City (long before we were mad at Macys for taking away our beloved Marshall Fields).

While we’d been all over Canada and over the border to Mexico, it wasn’t until 2005 that I took my first trip overseas to Europe, staying with my junior high and high school pen pals, people I’d never met before but whom I shared my life through letters and photos. And who then shared with me their worlds in person.

My world became smaller and life led me overseas once or twice a year for multiple years.

For some people, Morroco might seem far away, like another world, and in many ways it is. But for me, it was yet another place to explore and learn from, just as I’d seen in the magazines and books in one of the bedrooms of my grandparents house as the jets flew overhead, taking people all over the world.

Choosing a Direction

It’s been a busy few weeks, and after having a speaking event followed the next weekend by a pop up that included Chelle Summer, I’ve had some time to think about how my work around suicide/grief/moving forward is woven together with my creative Chelle Summer side.

I realize that the two exist together. It’s not that I didn’t see this to some extent, knowing full well that they are both a part of me, but now I see how much they exist together. Chelle Summer in some way was always part of me– the creative process has been something that was always encouraged– but at some time it was put away when my life moved in other directions.

I’ve come back to it periodically, but I don’t think I fully realized how much I would use creativity to help me feel better and cope with a challenging event. That’s probably because it had been taught me to me when I was so young, I knew early it was something that made me happy and I was able to draw on it to help me continue to move forward in my life journey

Then it makes sense that Chelle Summer would have that message as well. I didn’t just wake up one day wanting to create clothes, handbags, and everything else. There is a purpose with everything that I do. That means that it’s more of a challenge for me to sit at some sort of pop up when people come by only drawn by what I have put on a table, rather than me doing a speaking gig and then people coming to the table, after having heard my story.

As I continue forward on this journey, it’s about continuing to weave all parts of me together because together they are what makes up who I am and what I share with the world.

Walk the Walk

As last week progressed and I took a moment to reflect on my social media posts, as well as how I was spending my time during the day (outside of doing my full-time job), I realized how much of it was filled with my creative life. I have had people comment on how much I’ve been creating and the truth is that I’m not sharing all of it, whether it be because it’s for other people, not finished, or it’s my writing which won’t be shared until it’s a published novel.

My creativity and inspiration are strong now, but it’s just like anything else in life– it’s hard to get started and yet once you do, the momentum takes over.

A year ago this time, I was getting ready to have surgery, to have my uterus removed. I then spent the rest of the summer working and creating, but at a much slower pace than I am now simply because my body needed quite a bit of energy to heal from having a piece of it removed.

At some point– probably in the fall as I don’t really know for sure– I saw the piles of items I wanted to make and people wanted me to make, start to build higher and higher. I told myself then to get over any worries or fears I had about messing things up, doing them wrong, whatever was holding me back, and just start creating.

It really took until January for this to take hold (it helps that I also have a calendar now where I can document what I complete each day which helps keep me honest with myself as well as see my progress), and now I’m finding there aren’t enough hours in the day for all I want to do. Nor is the list of things I want to do coming to an end.

Yes, it does leave me overwhelmed at times, but I remind myself not to worry about it, somehow it’ll all get done and to focus on the moment and what I can do with the time I have. I am also reminded that it leaves me feeling like I’ve had a productive day as I seek to share my creativity and inspiration with others.

I learned a lot time ago that I didn’t want life to fly by and me miss the ride. It might not be the ride others have chosen, but I know it’s the one I’m supposed to be on.

Finding My Way

On Saturday, I keynoted Arizona’s 19th Annual Suicide Loss Conference. Last fall I had been one of the keynotes of their state suicide prevention conference and when I was putting together my talk this time, I noticed how much my message had changed from just six months ago.

I am constantly looking for ways to drive myself forward, to make things happen, to keep myself inspired, and as I shared some of my lessons and what inspires me, I also realized something: I really have now idea how I learned these things. I just did them. While I was clear I wasn’t there necessarily for them to follow my creative journey, I wanted them to know that somewhere deep inside them, there is a dream that always existed. But if I was going to share my dream, I thought, I should also explain where I learned what I have to drive myself forward.

And there’s where I sit– filled with inspiration, with ways of coping, steps to keeping myself motivated. Yet I don’t know how they tumbled into my life. I often say that running competitively taught me many of the lessons for coping with grief (especially realizing you have more strength than you thought you did and how to set smaller goals to keep running when you really want to stop and walk).

In that same time though, I also made myself many collages of words and pictures that I cut from magazines. I used my favorite songs to inspire me, listening to them not just before races but when I was feeling down.

While I don’t know how I learned these lessons, I do know that I have drawn on them in the years since then. Those same songs still inspire me, probably because they remind me of the dreams I created in those years, the same dreams that are still part of me. I can look at the collages and be reminded of the hope I had back then, the same hope that might have felt hidden in the shadows during losses and challenges.

As I find my way forward, I’m also finding myself reflecting on how I got here, realizing that maybe I have been given these gifts of inspiration and motivation, not just for myself, but so I can share them with others who might be inspired themselves.

The Lenten Journey

Something strange happened for Lent this year– my journey started without me being consciously aware of it, the week before Ash Wednesday.

Easter was late this year so I’m not sure how Ash Wednesday managed to sneak up on me like it did, especially because Fr. Gene had told me not long ago that the more we pray, the more we are “aware.” While I initially thought that couldn’t be true because I nearly let Ash Wednesday pass me by without me flagging it down, I realized later that’s because my sense of the Lenten journey has changed.

While I spent a few days debating what I would do for Lent– as I’ve written in years past, every year I try to do something that will strengthen my prayer and/or writing life which are intertwined in many ways– I realized that my journey had actually started the week before Ash Wednesday when I set a new writing goal.

It was as if I didn’t need to be told Lent was coming, instead my awareness through my several prayers during the day, had set the journey in motion.

I had started this seemingly crazy thing of getting up at 4:00 am (it’s not that early– I get up at 4:30 normally) to write two pages before I start my workout. My hope was that I could start my day doing something that is really important to me and sets the tone in a positive way for my day. Then later in the morning I come back and write two more pages.

This is only Monday through Friday, I don’t write on weekends as I’ve found the break helps me be ready again for Monday.

By the time we reached Good Friday, I’d had written quite a number of pages and had a sense that while my manuscript is not where I want it to be, I had made progress.

Greg had Good Friday off and we decided to hit a number of estate sales, the last one on our way home and I really didn’t expect to find anything. We just thought we’d stop because it was along the way. But when he turned the corner in the garage, there was a very large dining room table (one that would fit ten or even twelve although it would be pushing it), the kind of table that I had been looking for to replace our current dining room table which barely fits six people around it. And is hard to cut a full-length dress on.

He called me over and we were both in love. It took about five minutes for us to figure out if it would even work in our house; we both believed it was too big. The family kept telling us how they had had all their holidays meals around it for over fifty years. And it was $120. Surely we could justify that.

As I drove to the ATM to get the cash– Greg staying at the estate sale as collateral– I realized that this was my Easter. That table– bound for my office/studio (we can always switch it out with our dining room table for a party), was a new beginning. It meant we were taking Chelle Summer to another level, giving it the one piece of space it was taking from the rest of the house- our dining room.

Not only did it give me more room to cut, I can lay out multiple projects which keeps me more organized, as well as do other work on it.

I spent Saturday moving things around, cleaning out dusty corners, and making a new beginning for my office. Just as Easter is supposed to be.

My Albuquerque Life

I had always thought that my life experience at Ball State University– where I have my undergraduate degree in journalism from– was much more defining of my life than my two graduate degrees from the University of New Mexico– a masters in health education and a doctorate in family studies. However, over the past three weeks I began to realize might not be true.

While I will never downplay my experience at Ball State because I had so many opportunities and then because it was where I was going to school when my sister Denise died by suicide, what I have failed to acknowledge over the years– simply because I didn’t realize the importance of it– was that going to UNM changed my life in many ways.

I came to Albuquerque as a 22 year old in August 1994 whose sister had died just eighteen months before. I moved here because I knew I wasn’t supposed to live in the Midwest for the rest of my life and graduate school was the perfect way to escape (not that I realized it in those exact words at the time). I also forced myself to start over in a new place with new people and new experiences. And I relished experiencing a climate and culture unlike any other and one that I’ve been able to share with others.

Somewhere along the line though, I had a chance to spend more time back in Illinois and embraced the idea of a second home in my hometown with the blessing of my first husband. But after a divorce and spending a year and half there, I realized it wasn’t where I was supposed to be and longed for the clear skies and the open mesas of New Mexico. I had thought life had sent me to New Mexico to heal from my loss, but I then began to see it was much more than that. There was a piece of my soul that belonged here, something spiritual, something I needed for who I am supposed to be.

It was during those few months where I awaited the move back to Albuquerque that I talked to a priest I had known since before my sister died. No longer at Ball State but still at the area, I met up with Fr. Dave whenever I was in Muncie and he always said something wise and profound as we spent several hours together catching up.

That time he told me that he was surprised that I had moved back to Illinois because, essentially, I had spent my entire adult life in New Mexico. I was struck by this– how true it was– when I look at the influences on my life (right down to my cooking style) because of living in Albuquerque.

While life to takes me to Los Angeles– but not nearly as often as I would like– the place I call my “other home” and I tell people I am originally from the Midwest, I am who I am in many ways because of Albuquerque and that’s why this is home.

Hitting the Reset Button

I wrote several weeks ago about how we didn’t get to take our spring break Los Angeles trip and that it worked out because the universe kept sending us signs that we needed to stay home. Both Greg and I were able to accomplish some things that week that allowed us to get ahead (the swamp coolers for Greg– a spring rite of passage here in New Mexico).

However, last week I began to realize the one downfall of us not taking the trip– that I didn’t hit the reset button hard enough in my life.

I tried to change up the routine that week– I didn’t have the house cleaned, we skipped church, and I didn’t set my watch to time my morning workouts. I realize some of these things might seem small or things that many people don’t do but, for me, they are part of my daily life and they are important to me.

By the end of last week rolled around though, I realized I was feeling exhausted and a little burned out. When we go to LA I am completely forced out of my routine: there are no dogs to run, no pool to swim in (the ocean is not so warm in the winter!), no sewing machine to use. I sleep in (which is past 5:00 am for me), I only get in one workout and it’s mostly a long walk with Greg, I eat a lot of Cheez-Its that Sam knows I’m addicted to and don’t buy at home, and I catch up on my reading.

But being at home, it was too easy to keep doing most of these things and I hadn’t realized how important that week off from my routine is to keeping myself fresh and motivated. I also realize that I am not a staycation kind of person– it’s too easy for me to continue with my routine if I’m not far enough away from the parts of it that make it happen (pool, sewing machine, running and walking the dogs).

I tend to live a very structured life and much of that is because I have goals I want to accomplish. I will never be an overnight sensation because I’ve been working too long to get to where I want to go. Instead, I have to block out time nearly daily for the aspects of my life– the ones that make me happy– that I want to do. However, I’ve also realized that maybe every month or so I need to crack the routine enough to keep me fresh.

There’s a lesson in everything. If we choose to be open to learning what it is.

The Spiritual Side of Exercise

I never thought of exercise as something spiritual. For a long time in my life, it was a physical activity that I also knew benefited me emotionally. I have written previously about how I pray during my initial run in the morning– with Lilly my German Shepherd– where I say thanks for everything in life from the previous day.

However, as I reflect back on my life and how much swimming has become an integral part of my daily life, I see now how that’s more spiritual time, zen time.

I usually swim later in the day, if possible, so that I give myself a break from my work. Although I did find this winter that 11:00 am gave me a good break from my morning work at my laptop and what I tried to make afternoon work at the sewing machine. And after writing throughout the morning, I also used that time in the pool to plan my writing for the following day.

Prayer isn’t easy- my mind wanders and if there is any noise (particularly at the gym pool), I find myself getting caught up in what’s happening there. I also have learned that half of prayer is learning to shut out the outside noise and not just let my mind rest from whatever else I’ve been doing, but also see what ideas come into my mind by being open, by giving it a rest.

I usually leave the pool feeling at least mentally rested and ready to tackle the rest of the day. The bonus is that I usually have at least one writing idea that goes home with me.

Running has always served a purpose in my life- as does walking the dogs– but swimming has become something different. It’s as if it has an added component from getting off my feet and working my way through the water, giving me a different perspective and a different place to open my mind.

Sunrise over Sunset

I have written before about the importance– to me– of running and walking at sunrise, about how it has gotten me through some very dark times in my life. And how I learned of its importance– long after I was doing it and feeling solace in it– from a Navajo man who told me that they believe in greeting the day with their steps, with a run.

I get up at 4:00 am and I realize that most people find that nutty and believe that I jump out of bed to start the day. Not so. I pretty much roll myself out of bed and over the last month I have stumbled to my office (and somehow manage function sitting on my ball) to write two pages before I leave for my workout.

Recently, I was finishing up the last part of my workout with a loop around the park by my house, Hattie and Ash in tow, when we ran into one of the other regulars. We always note the weather and how lucky we are to be outside as darkness becomes light, as the day begins, as if overnight God wiped the chalkboard clean and washed the streets down. She and I always talk about how beautiful the mornings are, the outline of the Sandia Mountains taking place to the east of us as light starts to emerge. With another friend, we are always certain to look up at the moon and the stars– and whatever planets we can see in our usually clear morning skies. This morning the moon was low in the sky, but a sliver and reminder of how the sky changes daily while the earth rotates and seasons change, time passes.

On this morning, I happened to say, “I much prefer sunrise over sunset” and she agreed. Then I added, “I hate to get up, but I love to be up at this time of day.” She also agreed.

I know sunset for many people is the reward for a long day of work, life, whatever. Sunset is the end of the day, a way to cap off everything that’s happened before slipping off to rest and sleep.

But for me, I need sunrise much more. I need to be reminded in the morning of the hope of what’s to come, the belief of all that’s ahead of me, of knowing whatever happened the day before there’s a chance to start over. With a clean slate.

Heeding a Message from the Universe

At some point in my life, I made a decision about certain goals and dreams that I wanted to accomplish. When I did that, I also realized that there would be many uphill battles. But now that I’m older– and this is really hard– I’ve also learned that there are times when the universe is sending me messages that I really should pay attention to even though they aren’t what I want to hear.

One of my favorite places I love to go to, and I’ve written before about how important it is in my life and who I am, is Los Angeles. It’s my second home because we travel there multiple times a year. And each time as we get closer to leaving, I find myself at the church we attend there lighting a candle and thanking God for the week. It’s during that time that I begin to reflect back on my experiences there and I see how nourished and energized I feel from, well, being there. It’s like LA gives something to my soul that I don’t get in most other places, enough to keep me going until my next visit.

Except that we’re supposed to be there this week. And we’re not.

Without going into all the mundane details, there have been signs all over the place that we weren’t supposed to make this trip. I kept fighting them, believing they were just roadblocks I had to find a way around. But finally last Wednesday I felt exhausted at the thought of packing and having to endure more roadblocks on the trip.

I decided it wasn’t worth it and we began to think we’d stay home.

However, the door was still slightly ajar when on Saturday morning, Ash got really sick and we had to take him to the ER vet. While the results were inconclusive at the time, now I see he has colitis (just one round of antibiotics had his body acting more friendly toward anything he ate) and I knew then we had to shut the door on the trip.

I am bummed out because I know we won’t make it there until late June– even though I realize the ocean and everything important to us isn’t going anywhere. At the same time, I know the signs were telling me that even though it feels like two steps backward, as I go forward in the days and weeks ahead, I’ll see it was actually more than two steps forward.

The hardest part isn’t just listening to the message, but actually following through with what it says. And trusting that it’s the right decision. Much like life itself.

What Remains

As I write this, it’s the 26th anniversary of my sister Denise’s suicide. However, you won’t read this until tomorrow because I’m not posting it on social media until then. I have said in the past that I don’t want to acknowledge her death date anymore and I really don’t which is why I’m waiting another day.

But there’s also another reason– I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me.

It’s been 26 years. It’s more than half my life ago since she died and I’ve had plenty of time to examine it, spin it around, turn it upside down, and realize that I can’t change her choice or what happened. What I can control is my life and right now I feel like life has bigger things for me, that I haven’t tapped my potential, and I want to get there. I don’t want to be lost in the aspects of my past that don’t keep me moving forward.

However, no matter how much time and processing go by, the reality is that this date is always marked in my head. St. Patrick’s Day and the NCAA Tournament are reminders of events leading up to her death. And now we have the anniversary of Mom’s death a week after Denise’s.

I wouldn’t say I’m sad today; too much time and processing has gone by for that. I can’t wonder about “what could have been,” because there’s been too much life since then. Mostly, I feel like when I went to Norway some years ago and saw a black and white photo on my friend’s wall of a teen in a football uniform. I hadn’t known she had a brother because he had been killed in Vietnam, before I was born.

I realized as I stood there looking at his photo that I, too, would be like her one day with a dated photo of my sister because so much life would have passed. I’m there now.

Denise is still part of my life, she is with me, just as my parents and the many others from my life who have died. But I still have much life to live and my focus is on that, not what could have been.

Everything in its own time

I struggle through January and February each year, mostly because they are cold and wintry months– I’m done with snow and cold once the holidays have passed. When March 1 hits, I feel as if a cloud lifts off me, knowing that spring is around the corner, that while the desert spring winds might be coming, at least the nights won’t be so cold and the chances of getting snow are slimmer with each passing day.

For that reason, I also try to work hard and keep busy in January and February, praying that I keep my nose to the grindstone. Yet the hardest part– as I’ve written before– is that with lofty goals, I don’t often see the progress of whatever I’m working on. Until my writing and creating are finished, whatever I’m working on remains still a piece of clay that hasn’t fully been formed into something.

While I was happy for March to roll around, last week I suddenly felt as if I were on a game board, going round and round with the routine of life. And it wasn’t until the week ended that I had some feeling that there is more than routine right now in my life. Routine isn’t bad, especially because when life is in a state of upheaval, we crave it. Yet there is something to be said for being knocked out of it for a change of pace.

A week ago Saturday, we sang “On Eagle’s Wings” after communion at mass. This is one of the songs that used to make me think of my younger sister– as it was played at her funeral– but now reminds me of Mom because it was Mom who selected it for Denise’s funeral.

It had been a long time since I heard it and each time I do, I have such a sense of Mom being around me.

Thursday morning I ended up missing the start of an estate sale and decided some hours later to go anyway, knowing full well anything really good might be gone. As I drove to the house, “Hot Hot Hot” by Buster Poindexter came on the radio, yet another reminder of Mom, a song she used to do what my sister Karen calls her “hip shake.”

After I left the estate sale, with a cool few things, but believing I missed more, I reminded myself that if I had gone earlier, I would have missed Mom and her being with me. What was there, was what I was supposed to take home.

Then Saturday, yet again we sang “On Eagle’s Wings” after communion. I typically make a bathroom run after communion because we go out to dinner and, well, let’s just say the church bathrooms are much nicer than a lot of places. But on this day I didn’t think I would go to the bathroom as I didn’t want to miss any of the song. If I went to the bathroom, I’d miss that time with Mom.

Something happened though– the line for communion was slow, probably because more people are at mass as we’ve now entered the Lenten season– and by the time I was ready to walk back to my seat, the song had ended and I was free to head to the bathroom.

It was then that I realized what Mom was telling me– everything in its own time. I can worry, I can fret, I can believe I will miss my boat, and I can feel like the routine might not end and start to feel stale. No, she was saying, it’s all happening as it’s supposed to . The dominos will fall just right. Keep at it, it will come.

Tripping Into Lent

When I went to see Fr. Gene on Friday for my monthly spiritual direction meeting at the Norbertine Monastery, he asked me what I was planning to do for Lent. I stumbled a bit, realizing that I’d been so caught up in what we were going to eat for dinner on Ash Wednesday (Greg is not as much a fish stick fan as I am– something we rarely eat outside of Lent at my house and it beats tuna casserole) and how I am going to make the 7:00 am Ash Wednesday mass.

It took me a little while to realize that I actually had started my Lenten journey last week and now I feel as if I have tripped into Lent, after it feeling like it was still a month away.

I always try to use Lent as a time to draw closer to God and one way I finally realized– after nearly my entire of life of not being aware of it– is that God and I seem to travel together with my writing. I have been asking God to bring me what I’m supposed to write and last week I felt as if I’d gotten knocked on the head with something.

I don’t want to reveal more than that right now as I need to travel this journey before I understand more. But at this point I have a sense that some things are tying themselves together into one piece. At least after a lot of starts and stops on various things, I hope it’s the case.

However, Fr. Gene also reminded me of something, that the more we pray, the more we are aware of everything around us. And what’s below the surface. It’s not an easy road as it takes me places I don’t understand, sometimes makes me feel like many things don’t make sense or I am worried I’m not going where I’m supposed to.

But I’m trusting that as we head toward Fish Stick Wednesday, that God and I are going on a big writing adventure that will take us to Easter and beyond.

Embracing the Bigger Journey

While I’m not sure exactly when it began, I do know that since I was six years old, I wanted to write books. And I also know that I have believed at least since then that there were infinite and bigger doors to open in my life, that what my future might have looked like from the outside wasn’t what it was supposed to be.

Often, during mass homilies, I hear the priests say how people should ask God to be who they are supposed to be, to bigger than they are, and I actually find this baffling because I thought that life was about being more than what appears right in front of us. I honestly thought that’s what everyone wanted.

While I see that many people either fear being more than they are supposed to be, or they just don’t realize that they can ask for it, I also know how hard embracing that journey can be because the reality is in life that we have to make choices, that we can’t do everything we want to or thing we need to.

I was lucky to grow up in a nice, upper middle class suburb outside Chicago. It was very family oriented and I always felt that people were supportive of whatever dreams and goals I had. But the life there wasn’t one I saw for myself. I tried. I bought a house back there and attempted to live back there. During that time I realized though, it wasn’t me. It was my past, but it wasn’t my future.

While part of me mourns it wasn’t the life I was supposed to have, I see that if I had stayed, there are many bigger doors– the very ones I want to keep opening– that wouldn’t have opened (or won’t open in the future). No matter what we choose in life, no matter where we go, we have to let go of something (or someone).

Embracing the bigger journey doesn’t mean it’s the easiest or most obvious road traveled. But it’s certainly the one most worth it.

The Rattle

At 2:00 am on Valentine’s Day morning, my shoulder popped out– a subflexation, meaning a partial dislocation. I woke up Greg to help ease it back where it needed to be, wished him a happy Valentine’s Day, and we both went back to sleep.

It had been a while since I’d had a day where I could say that while I had a lot I wanted to accomplish that day, but when I got up at 4:30 am, I was ready to take on Thursday and my list.

However, just after 7:00 am, my day was thrown out the window when Greg texted me to tell me that they had been evacuated from the high school where he teaches for an– at that point– unknown reason. Turns out there had been gunfire just a floor below and down the hall from him. No one was hurt, half the students hadn’t even arrived at school yet because the busses were still on their way to the school, the shooter (and the gun) was caught, and one would think life would go on as it was.

But it doesn’t.

I know this feeling well– of believing I have this smooth day ahead only to have it interrupted by a life-changing phone call– or the presence of the priest at a classroom door in college. I know how quickly life can change and it’s a conversation I’ve had with Greg many times, knowing full well that this day would come that there would be a shooting at his school. Sadly, it’s reality in this times that we live in and we’ve been lucky here in Albuquerque and the surrounding area to have not had this happen before.

We are lucky no one was hurt, I am grateful for that. But what people don’t realize is that in the back of my mind, it’s hard not to picture the worst. That worst is being the one left behind to pick up the pieces. For the rest of the day and into Friday morning I felt rattled. I didn’t feel like myself, feeling depressed.

An estate sale and a swim at the gym pool in the warm sunshine brought my spirit back. Still, it lingers – as it always will– in the back of my mind. If there is one thing I learned from the events of Thursday, it’s that you don’t truly understand what it’s like to be faced with this until it hits close to home, meaning it affects your world in a close and personal way.

Life didn’t stop because of this– nor will it. We had houseguests arriving that night for the Mt. Taylor Quadrathlon Saturday. We don’t walk around living in fear, we don’t stop doing anything because of what happens. But deep in the back of my mind the rattle sometimes comes out. Part of my daily life is learning to quiet that rattle by doing what makes me happy, what makes me feel alive, and reminding myself not to live in fear, that all is well.

Intrinsic Value

Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about the whole concept of sharing on social media. I enjoy sharing what I’ve created and I often hear from people who tell me they like to see what I’ve made. But it’s also easy to get caught up in the number of likes and comments, and of being disappointed when I thought I had something really fun to share. But yet it doesn’t get many likes.

So I took a little trip back in my memory of what life was like before I had social media to share my creations. And that reminded me of Bonnie.

Bonnie was my neighbor several houses ago and I often joked that we bonded at the sewing machine at night making quilts and assorted other things– nautical rope wreaths (we twisted my then-husband Joe to bring us rope back from a trip to Portland, Maine, where a company he sold for was based), potpourri, pillow covers, and quilts.

I always went over to Bonnie and Greg’s house in the evening, after dinner and first up was show and tell. With a cigarette in one hand, she’d have a stack of magazines and catalogs she had read and pages marked with something to show me (and C-Span playing on the television). Then we would venture into the large craft room at the back of the house behind the kitchen where she’d show me something she had made the previous week or had started a project we agreed to work on. I would bring anything I had done– although I was teaching high school at the time and didn’t have as much time as she did to create.

This was how I shared, or through emailing photos to people in my life or having a party at my house where people enjoyed seeing whatever it was that was new since their last visit.

The photo above is a portion of something she made for me, taking “things” from my life and attaching them to a crazy quilt, and, finally, framing it. It’s hung in one of the guest rooms in my house since she made it for me nearly twenty years ago.

But mostly creating was about my making my inner self happy– the intrinsic value. It was about what was inside, about making something, finishing it, standing up and holding it out and saying, “Yes, I like that.” That feeling of accomplishment inside me.

I’m very grateful that I can share whatever I’ve made to a larger audience. However, I always remind myself that it’s about how it makes me feel inside. I don’t ever want to forget the feeling of accomplishment for myself that has long driven me to where I am today.

Finding Love

From the outside when Greg and I met– introduced by a mutual friend, Jim– it looked like it all came together simply one day. However, I know what a long road it was to get to that September day when Jim texted me and told me he wanted to introduce to me to a mutual friend.

As we have entered February, the time when we are surrounded by red and pink hearts and notions that love only seems to happen around this time, I have recently talked with or seen on Facebook the pain some friends have had on the dating scene.

Having been there– and I’ll spare the gory dating stories– I used those years between my divorce and when I met Greg to work on myself. As my hairdresser friend Amanda said to me, having also been through it ,but before me, “It’s a time to reinvent yourself.”

I used it for that and to make myself better. It wasn’t about what had happened in the past, it was about making sure the future took me where I wanted to go. It wasn’t an easy journey– I felt as if I was trudging through mud for most of it– but it was worth it.

While physically I kept running and walking, giving the dogs walks twice a day, I was going to have to do more than that if I wanted that right person to enter my life.

I somehow found a book by a therapist about how to find your right mate. Honestly, I have no idea the title or who I gave it to because once I was done with it, I passed it along. But there was one major aspect I took from the book and it’s what you see in the photo above: a written intention, a mantra of sorts.

While I didn’t realize it until about ten years ago, I have often called the journals I’ve kept since eighth grade letters to God. Writing has always been a release and I had never thought about it as something more until one day I realized that they had been my prayers all along, even during times in my life when I wasn’t consciously praying to God. That book reaffirmed that by writing my intention down, I could make it happen. It’s as if I released it to the universe when I put it on paper.

It wasn’t just that though– I worked through lots of challenges and made sure I was the best Michelle possible– at least for that time because I believe Greg has made me a better Michelle and then surgery last year changed me again. But at the time I was the best Michelle I could be for Greg to enter my life and for us then to take both our lives separately and together forward, making each other even better than we were when we started the journey together.

There was no question when Greg and I met. We moved forward as if we had met on a long walk along the ocean and kept going. Still walking today. We began to weave our lives together and help each other become better people. It made me realize that after trying to make what had become a bad marriage work and then a relationship following the marriage that I thought I could make work, that it didn’t have to be that way. Life is too short to be more difficult than it is. I found someone who made my life easier, who helps me be the best I can be, who clears the path (as I do the same for him) so that I can be better. My life partner.

Choose your intention. Take care of yourself. Go on with your life. The rest will take care of itself. The right love will find its way to you.