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

An American Sunset, October 29, 2012

So, a little over two weeks ago, I sat against a wall of windows that looked out over an airfield of giant planes, all fueling up for different destinations. We were in one of the Aer Lingus terminals, and surrounded by Irish folk waiting to return home.

As we sat there in the late afternoon, something funny happened. About half a dozen burly Irishmen stood up and pulled out camera phones and their other photographic "weaponry." They began shooting pictures of the New York skyline as the sun was setting. I couldn't help but chuckle. And then it occurred to me--maybe I was missing something. So, I popped out my iPhone and snapped a couple of pics myself.

It was a beautiful sunset. And without the excitement of these enthusiastic photogs, I would have ignored it, in favor of surfing the net or flipping through a magazine or guidebook.

I couldn't see things the way they were seeing them--through an outsider's eyes.

It wasn't the only time during our recent travels that an outsider shed light on a world that I think most of us in America are too disillusioned, and downhearted to see.

On our flight from Chicago to New York, I overheard a young Italian woman discussing her future, and the hopes and dreams she has for herself. She was traveling home after spending time in the Midwest studying. She very much hoped she would be returning to the U.S. for her collegiate studies, and the man she was talking to seemed surprised to hear about her eagerness.

She explained that there are no jobs for her back home, and the freedom she might have to explore career opportunities at home is very limited. I found her account a little surprising myself. The young woman said she wasn't sure what course of study she wanted to follow, and back home the educational structure requires students to select a specific course of study. In America, she would have the opportunity to study with a much broader approach, so she could discover the right career path and avoid having to take a job she didn't like.

As an American, I always took for granted the educational opportunities I had, and while I know that many Americans struggle to have an opportunity for higher education, at least if they get there, they can choose their own path, or even change it.

I know that in the current economic situation, millions of Americans are unemployed, or find themselves in low-paying jobs that are barely making ends meet. It's a tough time. In times like this, it's hard for us to care much about how the rest of the world is doing. But the Irishmen with the cameras, and the young Italian woman reminded me that sometimes we need to look at our situations through different eyes.

We had the opportunity to watch a lot of news while overseas, and we were shocked to learn that unemployment in Ireland is at about fifteen percent. That's nearly double the current unemployment rate of the U.S. Ireland, along with Greece, Spain and Italy, has found itself in the news in recent years for their serious levels of debt, and the fabric of the European Union threatens to unravel as the more economically powerful and successful countries try to keep it afloat.

Along with watching a lot of news, we road in several taxis. And as fantastic as the anchors of RTE' and the BBC are, nobody has the pulse of a nation better than an Irish cabby. On our ride from the Dublin airport to the town center, we had the opportunity to talk to Tony. We try very hard not to be the brash, hurried and impatient Americans that we often see traveling around us. Jeph usually cracks a few jokes about whatever travel dilemmas we "dumb Americans" have found ourselves in, and self-deprecates to the max. In our thirty minute drive, Tony revealed his view of how Ireland got into such dire straits. In the EU, immigration is pretty easy, and in most countries, the government provides for you if you don't have a job. It's expected. The Irish economy is teeny tiny, by comparison to many of its neighbors, and obviously miniscule compared to that of the United States. But he made a point of saying that unlike Las Vegas, what happens in the U.S. economy doesn't stay in the U.S. economy. When we nosedive, the world nosedives. They're all watching the U.S. Presidential Election with concerned and baited breath.

So, when it comes down to it, we may not care about the rest of the world, or our impact on it, but rest assured, the rest of the world still looks to us as a beacon. We're the country that still shines a light of hope for the rest of the world--whether we want to be or not. They view our success or failure as their potential success or failure.

I'm not naive, and I know many of my friends and associates look at the current economy, and want to point fingers of blame. I haven't made my political views a secret, but regardless of what I believe, I'm not so certain that I'm right, and everyone else is wrong, that I would even begin to pontificate about who people should vote for, or what they should think.

A New York Sunset

But a week before our nation peacefully elects the leader who will try to steer this ship for the next four years, I think it's work sharing that while we may be looking at ourselves, and we may be thinking about how bad everything is, there are people everywhere else still seeing America as the place to be. They still see the best hope of change, vitality and greatness on our shores.

Having a positive outlook doesn't create jobs. It doesn't bring down the costs of health care. Positivity isn't going to save Social Security or Medicare. But looking at everything through the mucky, filthy, gray glasses of hopelessness and negativity isn't going to get us anywhere either.

And at the end of the day, we may not care about each other, and we may despise each others' views, but ultimately, just like all of the people who came to this country with hope, we are each other.  And we still are the hope of the world.

In God's Country--U2

Rings Around Fingers, October 28, 2012

So, I have this little, silver ring I wear on my right ring finger. It has Jeph's name engraved on it in the ancient Irish alphabet called ogham. When I put it on, I try to make sure I face the letters up and down so when I look at it, his name is read right to left by me. I bought it for myself about ten years after we got married. It was inexpensive, and by now it is all scratched up and has definitely seen better days.

Since I bought the ring, I occasionally see advertisements in magazines for jewelers selling flashy, bejeweled rings designed for a woman's right hand. These rings are supposed to be a statement about the owner's personal independence and freedom to live her life. Like a lot of women, I'm enamored of the right hand rings in those pictures. I'm a little bit of a jewelry nut, so why wouldn't I be attracted to a little bling?

When Jeph and I first started talking about the prospect of getting married nearly 17 years ago, I was just graduating from college, and he had his first job out of grad school. Paying rent was more important than saving a couple months' salary for a big rock to put on my left hand. We picked a marquis diamond solitaire that he could afford to make payments on, and I picked out a wrap in which I could have our birthstones set. I didn't know much about picking out a ring. I didn't know what to look for in the way of durability. I just picked out something I thought was pretty, and that I could turn into something meaningful.

Sadly, my lack of knowledge netted me a ring that wouldn't hold up. I repeated lost stones out of my wrap, and had to have it repaired multiple times, and even replaced. Over several years of battling this infernally beautiful ring that wouldn't last, I gave up. I stashed the wrap out of sight in a box, because I couldn't wear it, and I couldn't bear to see it sitting around and not on my left hand.

Eventually, Jeph and I agreed that we would get the ring replaced, and I found a fantastic jeweler to work with. We designed something really special that reflected my Celtic sensibility, and I was assured that this ring would be built to withstand the type of work I do on a day to day basis. A year or so after I got my new ring, Jeph took it in to have it cleaned and he had an oft used phrase engraved on the inside of it for me: "Nation of two."

Over the years of our marriage, we had come to realize that in times of struggle and in times of joy, we were together. We would get through those tough times, and enjoy those fantastic times together. Sure, we have friends and family, but at the end of the day, our life together is ours. We are a "nation of two."

When I bought that little, silver ring with Jeph's name on it, it was another ring I chose. And I wear it on the finger those magazine ads suggest should be the one signifying that I still have my freedom and independence--as if to say that the one I wear on my left hand is the one I wear signifying my sense of being tied to my husband.

I suppose it depends on how you look at it. And I suppose that there are as many different kinds of marriages as there are rings to be worn. Over the weekend, I was thinking about my ring fingers and what the rings I wear mean to me. I am very fortunate. The marriage I find myself in is one based on partnership and commonalities, but it is also based on a knowledge that we are two equal and separate individuals. I grew up watching my mother's first marriage--specifically the struggle of her husband to control her, and her struggle not to be controlled.

Those struggles are not a part of my reality. For that I am grateful. In my jewelry box, there is a tiny little ring with two entwined hearts. Each heart has a tiny little diamond chip. This was the promise ring my mother's first husband gave to her. This pretty little ring I fell in love with as a girl, is now a symbol of promises broken--a ring that was intended to be a symbol of my mother's submission to a man who needed to feel he was in control. I still think it's pretty, but I am wise enough to understand that even the most visually beautiful things can be dark and deceptive.

Love, and the symbols we use to mark each other, should always be like those rings in the right ring finger ads. Love shouldn't bind us. Yes, it makes us responsible to each other, but only because we want to be. It should make us hope for each other and the happiness of one another. It should be an opportunity to share a lifetime, but also to support and work toward each others' dreams. Love should understand that when we commit to each other, we do not discard ourselves.

When I look at the rings on both of my hands, I know that I have a fortune that not everyone gets to realize. I have two rings that are just like those right hand ring ads, and so much more. They're symbols of my chosen partner in life, and symbols of the freedom I feel in loving him.

Everyone should be able to look at the rings on their fingers and feel so lucky.

The Book of Love--A cover by Peter Gabriel

Surrendering the Dream--Let it go

So, there are moments in life in which you have to accept that a dream is coming to an end, and you didn't even realize you were sleeping.

The world of work is difficult. There are a billion things we all would like to be doing everyday, and in the perfect world, we'd find a way to get paid for all of them. Most of the time, we end up sacrificing something in order to pay a bill, have a roof over our heads, and shoes on our feet. But, hopefully, we don't hate what we do in order to meet those needs.

I've been guilty of putting all of my eggs into one basket, multiple times. I've been guilty of believing in things that sometimes didn't believe in me back.

The first time around, I was going to be a journalist or writer. I still love to write, and I still hope one day that doing so will be a larger part of my existence than it is. For one, I know it will take far more discipline than I have now, and a wellspring of energy that I don't have most days. For two, being successful at it, will require that I find people who believe in me as much as I sometimes believe in myself.

The second time around, I realized that the first basket wasn't going to help me meet the needs of bills, roofs, or shoes. So, I fell in love with an idea, and went back to school to become a veterinary technician. I still believe in the idea with which I fell in love, but it took me a while to recognize that idea didn't necessarily believe in, or love me as much.

I had allowed myself to be consumed by what I do, what I thought I should be, and what I thought I had the chance to become. In the process, I forgot that I was more than all of those things. I think we all do that a little bit when we don't have anything on the outside to anchor us to the ground and remind us who we are while we are reaching so high for those possibilities we may always be left...reaching for.

Very recently it took a year and a half of being knocked to the ground (hard) repeatedly for me to realize who I am, and who I want to be. I'm still not there yet, but everyday, I think I see myself a little more clearly. I see when I start to slip and let all the other wind in my world blow me around, and I mistakenly think myself powerless to stand against it. I forget that we all have power...power of self, it's just a matter of choosing to use that power in our lives when we really need to.

What do I mean by that? It's not a simple answer. Sometimes it means that we say "yes" when we want to say "no," because we know the currency we stand to gain. Sometimes it means that when we leave work, we really leave it there. Sometimes it means we accept that what's good, outweighs the bad for us, and we are doing more than paying bills, keeping roofs over our heads, or shoes on our feet. What's good are the friendships we build with people who share common struggles, values and hopes. What's good is the satisfaction that we do it better than most. What's good is knowing that someone waits for us at home--four-legged or two, and even if nobody else we encounter all day believes in us, they do. Sometimes the power of "self" means we know when a dream has been just that, and we are worth more than that dream to ourselves and the people who love us. And even when waking up from that dream hurts like hell, we're going to be all right.

Being aware of "self" means you have the power to recognize what's worthwhile in your life, no matter what else might be happening around you. There's always something worthwhile, and you always had some part in making that happen. There's always something to believe in--it's you.

I have a friend going through a tough time today. A day of disillusionment and loss. Tough places to be. It's a painful to wake up from dreams, but just as hard to have the feeling that somehow, you were asleep along the way, and that you've given so much of yourself over to a non-wakeful state. Letting go is never easy. But when you let go, you find, you can...let it go...surrender.


Bad--U2

Friends Need and Love You, Even at Your Worst.

So, a friend recently reminded me of something I already knew: friendship means you're there for the long hauls, and the illogically sad moments, just as much as you are there for the incredibly joyful ones. And surprisingly, in those moments, sometimes they need you just as much or more.

It's been a long summer, filled with more downs than ups, and it seems, in some ways to have dragged on way too long. Getting passed the emotional upheaval of loss is difficult when it's so deeply tied to your physical being; especially when your physical being is extraordinarily abnormal.

I've written about the miscarriage Jeph and I suffered over the summer, but I haven't written about the frustrations associated with how long it takes to become whole again. The one positive situation to come out of the process is that my ambivalence about motherhood is resolved. But we haven't been able to start over, and it still may be several months before we can. No one ever tells you that, but then again, everyone's situation is different.

We chose our path. We chose to wait until we were really ready before we tried. We chose to be at least 10 years older than most other couples before taking this leap. I often find myself in a world of women who chose more wisely, and who are starting their families long before the odds are against their success. Sometimes, that's difficult.

A dear friend of mine who suffered major obstacles in having her daughter, and only succeeded through in vitro, recently posted something on her Facebook page about the feelings you have when everyone else around you can get pregnant and stay pregnant without additional help. I certainly have not yet found myself having to go down the many difficult roads of seeking help for infertility, but I identified greatly with the feelings on that list.

And even as I admit my feelings, I know how unfair they are. It's nobody's fault that I had a miscarriage, and it's nobody's fault that we cannot yet try again. It's not fair that I sometimes feel so overwhelmed by the loss when I am surrounded by people who deservedly are experiencing so much joy.

I had such a day recently. I had an opportunity to go to lunch with a couple of really great friends, both of whom are expecting. One of those friends has played a major role in helping me get through the worst of the pain. The other friend is one with whom I also have shared some very difficult and life altering moments. And yet, I found myself in such a dark place, I just couldn't bring myself to go.

About a week later, the latter of those two friends helped me realize my mistake. In the moment I fled the scene, I thought I was protecting the two of them from my unfair feelings of sadness, and that they were better off not having to deal with me. I didn't want any of my feelings to take anything away from them, and I was afraid that's what would happen.

My friend has been going through some ups and downs with her pregnancy, and reached out to me. I explained to her what I had been feeling that day, and she told me she wished I had just talked to her. As I talked my way through the feelings I was having, and the difficulties in the process I have been going through, I came to understand that I had been a terrible friend--not because I was sad, but because I didn't share it. My friend needed me as much in my heartbreak as she needs me in my joy.

It's hard to share the bad with people. It's hard to feel like you won't be bringing them down. It's especially hard when there is guilt attached to those feelings. But if your friends are truly your friends, they don't want you to hide from them--no matter what.

That's hard to remember in the moment. And I'm not going to say that I will always get it right. But, I'm going to try to remind myself that I am not just the feeling I am having at any given moment. I am still the person I always have been. I always have something to share. Sadness and experience do not define us, they refine us.

Shake it Out--Florence + The Machine