Grateful and Naming Names, November 19, 2012

So, a lot of people are doing the daily gratitude thing on Facebook and other places this month. I get it, but up until today, I just wasn't into it.

I frequently find myself aware of moments and people that I take for granted. When I realize my mistake, I feel sad if I've missed a chance to acknowledge those moments or those people. But, I like to think that I make a point of letting the people I care about know how much they mean to me whenever I can.

Every once in a while, someone really surprises me. Every once in a while, the people I love, love me back.

I know I have written about the low points of this year, but mostly those low moments have been coupled to amazing affirmations that there are lovely people looking out for me, and for my family. It sometimes feels impossible that we can be digging our way out of a terrible dark hole, only to find a bright and shining sun lighting the way out.

I usually make a point not to mention any names in my blog, because I always figure my friends and family don't ask to be the subject of my creative outlet. But if I'm going to talk about gratitude, I can't do it without naming names. 

It started in February this year, when we had to say goodbye to our Blue. I work in a profession where I frequently have to help people deal with the loss of their pets. I have some great friends at work who helped us get through our own loss this time around, particularly Kat Hodes.

The card Kat Hodes made for us

I once told Kat Hodes that she practices expensive veterinary care, and that hers was the kind I would always be glad to pay dearly for. If people had to pay her what she's really worth, they could never afford it. She cares for every patient she meets as if they were her very own pet, and she offers their owners every bit of hope that might be possible. And when it doesn't go the way everyone hopes, she's just as disappointed, if not more. There is no good way to say goodbye to a family member, but she made one of the worst experiences of this year the most loving and compassionate moments we could have given Blue, no matter how painful for us.

If that wasn't enough, a short time after saying goodbye to Blue, we got a card in the mail that Kat had personalized with Blue and our dog Scrubbs having a conversation about heaven. It was an amazingly sweet gift that I could never have imagined anyone would give us.

When I drew a work assignment this year that I didn't ask for or want, I didn't know how I was going to get through it. I'd spent the previous couple of years in work related-angst, and my faith in my professional world had worn pretty thin. I had just started to believe the corner had turned when this assignment came up.

A short time before this difficult assignment, I got a new boss. In the past, that had been a scary change. This time, it has been one of the best things that could ever have happened. Becca Forbis is a manager. She defines the word. She knows people, and she knows what they need to be successful and to keep putting one foot in front of the other, even during difficult times. She could not have any idea how much our weekly lunches meant to me over the summer. She helped me believe, again, in things I had given up on. She helped me believe that someone in my work world really cares about us, and that she will go to bat for me. She's an amazing person, and continues to mean so much in my life. 

It seems like those couple of things would have been enough. But June packed quite a punch this year.

When Jeph ended up in the hospital with a pulmonary embolism, we were immediately surrounded by friends, some of whom traveled a great distance to be with us. Sheri Rohrbach, and Jeph's mom Jill, came running. They were there to sit with him, and to keep me distracted for the three days he was hospitalized. And anyone who couldn't come sent messages and offered up any other kind of help we might want.

A short time following Jeph's adventure, our late start to a non-furry family didn't go so well. We're still waiting for another chance at that.
 
But when things started to go so sadly awry, I leaned on someone who knew what I was going through pretty hard. Meg Kaemmer is one of the brightest, most sparkly people I know. I don't think she knows how amazing and beautiful she is. I don't have any idea how many texts I received from her in the days leading up to, and immediately after my miscarriage this year. On a day-to-day basis, I realize we aren't the most obvious friends, but every time it has really mattered, she has been there behind the scenes when I can't keep myself together. She's my stormy weather friend.

And she wasn't the only one.

The first day back at work, Cory Bassett knew I wasn't doing the best. She rescued me away to lunch so I could get all of it out. It seems like a little thing to take someone to lunch, but it was huge that day, and proof that sometimes the tiniest gestures have the greatest impact. Not unlike another tiny gesture from Kat Hodes, when she sent me some of Bono's mojo.

All those "Fever" books from Julie Moyer Lancaster

Every day was difficult for a while, and looking for bright spots was hard. But Julie Moyer Lancaster not only was the voice in my head in the emergency room, reminding me to advocate for myself, she was the package from Barnes and Noble on the kitchen counter containing at least a week's worth of escape.

Ginnifer Smith Jobgen was there when I got my first massage in Eureka Springs, Arkansas. We had been friends for a long time, but we hadn't been able to hang out in ages. She had been a comforting voice in my storm as well, and in August, I got to escape to Indiana to be with her for a few days just to slow the world down. I was reminded of why it had meant to much to me to fight for our friendship when she and Jeph's brother broke up all those years ago. She continues to understand me on levels that few people do.

I have been grateful to all of these women this year for showing me in small and giant ways how easy it is to make a difference for others. I don't think any one of them would consider what they've done for me this year to be extraordinary. But that's exactly what they are--extraordinary, because it's just their way.

Ginnifer Jobgen knockin' on my heart's door

And it doesn't end with the difficult times. At the end of last week, my fellow Twilight tribeswoman Julie surprised me with a "Breaking Dawn" mug and hot chocolate. Just a small gesture to acknowledge the end of something we have shared together, that has meant so much to both of us.  And today, Ginnifer sent me a tiny piece of Ireland in the form of a door knocker just like the one at my favorite place to stay there. She knows I've felt pretty homesick since coming back, and seeing this arrive in the mail would brighten my day.

I think taking a month aside and dedicating a moment to share gratitude everyday is a good thing. Maybe I'm not into it, because the level of gratitude I have for these amazing women in my life leaves me speechless. I don't know how to be worthy of the love I've been shown by all of them during this most difficult year.

There are always going to be moments that get you down. It's easy to spiral downward with it. At times, I have let myself be sadder than I should have been. But sometimes, that's when people give you the most to be grateful for. It's because every tiny thing they do lifts you up, when you find it difficult to lift yourself up.

Kind and Generous--Natalie Merchant

Wonder of the Twilight Years, and My Tribe, November 13, 2012

So, I invariably meet with a little flack every time I bring up the "Twilight" series, and I don't expect this time to be any different, but have patience, flack flingers, because I think you might understand where I'm coming from.

The last of the screen adaptations of the books premiers late Thursday night, and as I have done for the last four years, I will be attending the midnight showing. But I won't be going alone. I will be going with two young women, who are very special to me. And we will be going with millions of other people (not all in the same theater, of course). 

In the early fall of 2008, one of the dearest people I know suggested I read the series. I had seen the book displays all over the place, and as a newbie to Facebook, I had seen so many Edward and Bella pieces of flare, I already felt a little left out, because I didn't know the story. As with many of us who are periodically angsty, I was going through "one of those times" and really needed a diversion. I used a forty percent off Barnes and Noble coupon and bought the set. Some of the best money I ever spent.

Much to my amazement, I was sucked in. The books were like a Dyson--they never lost suction.

I think it's important at this time to mention, I'm a relatively intelligent person. I love reading and writing. I know the difference between high literature and low literature. I know that the "Twilight" series does not rise to the level of "Of Mice and Men," or "The Fountainhead." I know that learned people are horrified by the message these books send to young women--that if they just meet the right boy their whole world will change. But as much as I know all of these things, I know some other things as well.

I know that the books in this series provided an escape during a time in which I needed one. I know that they inspired young people to read as they hadn't done since the release of J.K. Rowlings' Harry Potter series, and maybe even a different segment of young people that hadn't yet been reached. I know I started reading more as a result. I know they sparked a ridiculous phenomenon that still carries people away today--sometimes to the point of absurdity, and at others just to the edge of silliness. Myself included.

And that's the key phrase: "myself included."

People are often captured by things that they can relate to, or that are very special to them. You may have heard of "Trekkies" and "Whovians?" Not all fandoms have adopted, or been given names, but they are no less obsessive. Die-hard comic book fans attend conventions all over the world in hopes of meeting their very favorite heroes and characters, never for a moment accepting the fiction of the situation.

"Twilight," whether good or bad, is like all of these other things, in that it gives its people something they didn't have before--a place where they feel they belong. A comic-book salesman I knew referred to it as a sense of "tribe."

This reassured me when I felt silly for deciding to attend a "Twilight" themed convention in 2009. I really wanted to go, but I felt like a total dweeb. In retrospect, it was one of the funnest weekends ever, and it was really good for me. In spite of the "horrible" message the books send young women about not being independent, it was that convention that inspired me to go on my first major trip all on my own. For the first time, I got on a plane by myself for something other than work. I learned that if there was someplace I really wanted to go, I didn't need to have someone else to come along. I know so many people who hear that I did that, and that I have taken other trips and it stupefies them. Many women I know won't even eat at Applebees by themselves! And that stupefies me. What the what?

Because I so wanted to be a part of what my tribe was doing, I challenged the inner dialogue I often have with myself about what I can and cannot do.

What's more is that after being so inspired by these books to read other books, I was also inspired to write again--something I hadn't been willing to entertain for more than ten years. Now, I have some folks who think I do okay at it, and I like that, but more important than anyone who reads what I write, is the simple fact that I always loved to do it, and I am doing it again. That's worth something.

I'm not trying to convince anyone that "Twilight" is anything special in and of itself. It is what it is for me, and for the millions of people who connected with it, for whatever reason. It's more about what the sense of belonging to something so big can do for a person, or even for large group of people.

Many of us spend a good portion of our lives feeling like we're stuck on the outside and can't get in. There's no place for us. Sometimes it takes a gigantic door to let us in, and once we cross the threshold, the whole world becomes ours.

I, like many of my fellow "Twihards," or "Twekkies," have re-read the series multiple times. In my subsequent readings, I was no less enamored or enthralled, even as sections of dialogue seemed ludicrous at times, and childish at others. I get it. But knowing how flawed something is doesn't always make it less valuable.

As Thursday night is fast approaching, and a "Breaking Dawn Part 2" trailer is coincidentally playing on my television right now, I'm a little wistful and sad. There currently is no promise of five more movies, or even more books. There won't be a three-part prequel to the three-part prequel by Disney. There won't be a reincarnation of the "Amazing Edward." At this point, it's all coming to an end. My tribe will not have a "one more thing" coming up to hold us together. We probably won't disband, but what is a tribe without a shaman?

Abby & Stacy--My Twilight Girls

Reaching the stroke of midnight Thursday night is a shift in the movement of my tribe, but it also is a shift in my closer world. It marks the end of an era--the Twilight Years. That's what I have come to call these last few years. My adoptive girls who attend the midnight premier of the movies with me every year are growing up. In the next year, they will be finishing up with college and starting lives in different places. We won't be planning for the next "Twilight" movie to be released in November again.

I know we will stay in contact, and that while things will be different, we will always have this sense of belonging, and the many others that came about because of this "Twilight" connection.

So, for everyone who has a strong distaste for such ridiculous literary tripe, I encourage you to just insert the name of your own tribe in every place I wrote "Twilight" or something obviously related, and settle on the feeling you have. Focus hard. Do you feel it? Okay. That's what being part of the "Twilight Saga" means for my tribe.

Ours--The Bravery

Rolling in the Green, November 7, 2012

So, a little over two weeks ago, as I listened to the safety instructions on an Aer Lingus flight that was getting ready to depart from Dublin, I felt the stinging of uncontrollable tears flood my eyes. I tried, very discreetly, to dab them away with my shirt sleeve, as I stared out the window, hoping that no one would see me.

I felt sad, and a little bit ridiculous. At least a couple of times during our trip, it occurred to Jeph and me that time was slipping away, and that our days in Ireland were growing shorter, and our return to reality was imminent. We knew part of it was just the feeling of disappointment that we would be going back to our busy lives, where time together is too short, and moments of appreciation for what's around us slip through our fingers all too easily. But as I sat in that seat, watching the patches of green slip away behind clouds, I also knew it was because every time I leave, I feel like a large part of me gets left behind with all those shades of green.

Connemara

I try to tell myself that I wouldn't really want to live there. For one, it would be a huge ordeal for us to move and take our dog, and we would never leave her behind. For two, I don't have any kind of game plan for a job or functioning in an Irish reality of fifteen percent unemployment. I also find myself diametrically opposed to the influence the Catholic Church has over women's health issues, and politics in general.

But as many obstacles as there are, they don't negate the affinity I feel for the craggy rocks of the Burren, the nearness of the oceans surrounding me on all sides,  and the connections I feel to every blade of grass, and to every gnarled tree root reaching into the soil. As someone who has spent a lot of my life feeling out of place and disconnected, it's one of, maybe, two places I feel I could truly belong.

When I leave that feeling behind, I imagine it's akin to leaving your child behind. I'm leaving a sliver of joy behind--a piece of my life--and all I have to bring back are trinkets, photos, and the hope that my memories will fill that space until next time.

On this trip, we chose to revisit several places we love, but took opportunities to see new places as well. We traipsed around the Burren and Ailwee Cave, both of which are in the county dearest to my heart, Clare. We walked around the grounds of Ballynahinch Castle, where we stumbled upon wild shamrocks, thistles and a waterfall. We were consumed by the cool dampness of the lushness that can occasionally overwhelm you in near darkness, even in the middle of the day. I helped fulfill Jeph's wish to see the Leviathan Telescope in County Offaly, and we explored the "magic" of Glendalough in County Wicklow. The ancient aura of Newgrange made me want to place my name in the lottery to return for the Winter Solstice, and to have the financial means to be able to hop on a plane at a moment's notice if my name was actually drawn.

I had promised Jeph that on this trip, we wouldn't run and run and run. But as we drove along the country roads of Ireland, I saw signpost after signpost, making it clear to me that it would require an entire lifetime to see everything I would ever wish to see there. And that's what I want. Given infinite time, wealth and freedom, I would jump on a plane, hop in a car, and never stop until I could say that I had seen all that Ireland has to offer.

At this point, it may be worth it to acknowledge that I realize the possibility that if I had the fortune to be there all the time, my appreciation for it might wain. I think that's a valid argument for staying here in the Midwest of the United States. After all, we live a pretty comfortable life, and I am not generally unhappy here.

But when we were in the limey Burren, without any thought, I declared that I wanted to "roll around in it." Jeph teased me, and thought my declaration was hilarious. For one, taking a roll around in the Burren would be anything but comfortable, and I'm pretty sure that anyone witnessing such an act would have thought me insane. That said, I can think of no other way to describe how much I want every surface of Ireland to meet with mine, and to tangibly connect to my every surface. I literally want to be as much a part of it, as I feel it to be a part of me. It's not about the "seeing" of everything there, it's about the "being" with it.

I think it's only natural to be coming to the end of a vacation and feel down about the prospect of returning to work-a-day life. Since returning, I have spent less time with Jeph than I want and need to. I have already begun to feel the strain we all feel with going through the motions of work and day to day life. It was always going to be this way.

While on our trip, a friend commented on one of my Facebook posts, saying that she realized that this trip was more than just a vacation for Jeph and me, it was a trip to someplace we could feel a sense of healing. I agreed with her. The last eighteen months have been rocky ones for us, starting with the tornado that swept through Joplin last year. A lot has happened in that time frame. We've lost our dog Blue. Jeph is still learning to cope with the lack of control he has over his body since his pulmonary embolism this summer. And I still have my sad days of frustration over my own body being out of my hands since my miscarriage. I think there are some wounds and assaults, from which it takes a very long time to recover.

Poulnabrone Dolmen, County Clare

In a dire moment, I asked for what I needed, believing it was what we both needed--something to look forward to, when everything seemed to be going to hell in a hand-basket. As we have returned, I think I understand that the need was for more than just a trip--more than just something to look forward to. I'm not close to my own family, so there are some things I can only speculate about. I imagine for people who do have that closeness, in times of crisis, you seek out your family--your common home--for comfort and for a place that feels like yours. That's the feeling of need that I had.

Right now, as I continue to adjust to coming back and to the day to day things that feel somewhat unimportant to me, I look at nine days as a band-aid. As the days trickled away, the adhesive slowly wore off, and all those wounds still have to heal the rest of the way. Only now, they have to heal away from the tickling waters of Powerscourt Waterfall, and without the brisk winds that whistle through the crevices of the lunar landscape of the Burren. The wild green I can still close my eyes and see is thousands of miles away. But if I could, in my heart's beat, I would jump at the chance to always be rolling around in it.

The Planets Bend Between Us--Snow Patrol