Home Sweet Town Houzistan

I am having a difficulty finding somewhere to write in my new digs. Certainly, it stands to reason that since I am as shiny as a new penny here, it will take me a while to find my spot. But there are other issues getting in the way, as well. Since our moving team decided what we needed at our temporary housing instead of sticking to my list, there have been unforeseen challenges to me working at home. For instance, a writer needs good lighting. I had listed the necessary lamps t be delivered to our temporary digs, but the movers decided to give me only one lamp, but supplemented me with a fondue pot and several Bundt pans. Don’t get me wrong, I am not about to take the gifting of the fondue pot for granted, but a little lighting beyond what could be mistaken for prison cell chic, would be nice. The next thing a writer needs is flat surfaces to write on, say like a desk, or a bench, or table for instance. I will admit to you we do have a few of these of things, but since we were gifted with several dozen boxes that were supposed to go to storage, which will now and forever more be referred to as The Big House, they are covered in layers and layers of stuff. Stuff, I might add, that was supposed to be trekked to The Big House. I am currently writing on a several stacked pillows, while leaning over all the electronics and cords. My comfort’s current consideration is the least of this. I am a bit of a control freak about the environment I write in. I have spoken to many writers and they face the same quandaries I do about the space where they write. For me I need peace, quiet, and clean. I have none of these here in Town Houzistan. My uber-cluttered environment has me feeling clogged and my back can only take so much before I steal away part of my makeshift desk to lie down on the floor, the only un-cluttered surface we have. There are also weird happenings here in Town Houzistan. Last week we had the emergency squad and police here to rescue either a boy or a man, I couldn’t tell, from the communal pool. It turned out to be an unfortunate near drowning incident. The weird part of that is no one seemed to know where he lived or who he was related to. Next we had neighbors who threw one helluva party on a Thursday night with so many people; they spilled onto the patio and the parking lot that was twenty yards away. Last night the fire department showed up to extinguish a grease fire in someone’s oven. The day before a police SUV sat in our parking lot for over an hour, and that is only what I saw. When I asked a neighbor if this place was always so busy, he responded, “No, this is unusual for here. It all just started a few weeks ago.” He asked how long I had lived here and I responded with a vague shrug, not wanting him to know we moved in a few weeks ago. I find myself not sure what to do. I want to be busy writing, creating, and furthering my process, but I feel weird and watch the internet and TV instead. In truth I really don’t feel guilty about my bad behavior, just odd. It takes time to figure who you are when you move to a new town. Just finding the Post Office can set me back a few hours. Having the internet to rely on has been a God send. Remind me to send Al Gore a big “Thank You” note. If not for the internet, settling into my new town would take infinitely longer, trust me; I’ve done the leg work on this one. I thought about writing in a café or a book store, Barnes and Noble has free WiFi, but yelling at the patrons to “Pipe down!” because I can’t concentrate and can’t afford to lose my train of thought might be problematic. I currently have a small space outside with a bistro table and chairs, covered in fresh rain drops. It’s under a large oak tree, in a quiet corner, isolated from the growing amount of police traffic. It’s a perfect place to write if it weren’t raining, or swarmed in mosquitoes. I have excuses for not writing and they are damn good ones. While I am not usually fluent in procrastination, this time, I am allowing it. Nay, I am practicing it. I know soon enough I will bore of my boredom and get back to work. In a short time I will be chomping at the bit to finish what I started, hushing those who dare speak to me whilst I am writing. That time is coming. But today, and tomorrow, probably, and maybe the next day, I am a bum. As my dialogue sits idly waiting for my return, my twitter account and facebook and other media escapes have been tended to as diligently as if they were a garden of rare roses. I have to go now. “When Harry Met Sally” is on and I have four new followers and pm on facebook, and I still haven’t checked my LinkedIn.

Dirty Little Assumptions

Stereotypes are set up as an easy way to judge someone without taking the time to actually know them. For example, there was a woman in second hand, dirty clothes, shopping in a discount store with 4 little kids running around her cart. The small boys were dirty, the little girls were wearing mismatched outfits and the cart was filled with snack crackers and juice boxes. An older woman disgusted by the sight and sound of them walked up and said, "Why on God's green earth would you have all these kids if you could not afford to feed them properly? You should be ashamed of yourself!" The woman was me, their father was deceased, the boys just got done with soccer practice, the girls dressed themselves, I was in my cleaning clothes, and the snacks were because it was my turn to buy for the team that week. She judged us by what she thought we were, not by any actual information. She was wrong. Be careful what you assume. It is almost always contrary to the facts. Another example of assuming and making judgments is years ago when my children were small they attended a private catholic school. It was parent night and there was a woman dressed to the nines in a black lace dress, with opaque black stockings and stiletto heels. She wore a long black fur coat and her hair was swept up and her makeup was done. She was single, and aloof. None of the other mothers would talk to her; she stood quietly to the side, never making eye contact. I overheard a mom call her a name. I don’t want to repeat the name, but let’s just say it referred to her being a prostitute. I noticed how the other women circled around their husbands and turned their backs purposely to the woman in black. Another woman behind me whispered to her husband how inappropriately dressed the woman in black was. While nothing was said directly to the woman, the message was loud and clear. This woman, who had clearly over dressed for the occasion was not welcome. There was an air that this woman had either purposefully or inadvertently offended the other moms. I asked a teacher I knew well if she could feel it. She answered that she could, but she felt the others were embarrassing themselves. While no one had asked the woman in black about herself, they only assumed things about her. Here again, the woman in black was me. I had a dinner date with a very handsome, successful man that evening at a nice restaurant downtown. It had been the first date I had in months, but it landed on a parent night. I had considered not going to the school because I knew I didn’t have time to change clothes, and the idea of showing up in heels was terrifying to me, because I had already faced that particular character assassination squad. My children asked me to go because they had art work to show, teachers to meet, things of pride to be displayed. So much to my chagrin, I dressed for my big date, and went first to the school. I had called my date to tell him I had to participate in this school obligation, and he offered to go with me. He had sons of his own, and understood why I had to show up for my kids. I declined because we hadn’t been dating too long and I didn’t want anyone assuming anything about the relationship. My dress was black lace, but it was not low cut, the hem was knee length and the sleeves were long. My now infamous dress was elegant. Ask my parents about it; I wore it one year to a New Year’s party with them. I was dressed like a grown woman going to a nice restaurant, but what if my hem was high, or my cleavage did show? Would it have seemed more appropriate for people to judge me? I got shamed for being the parental harlot, when in fact, all I was doing was going on a date as the Widow Foley. That’s the thing about facts, they tell the story for you, so there is very little to judge. OK, one more and this time I will tell you outright the woman was me. In 1992 I suffered a full arrest, leaving me with what the medical community referred to as a “cognitive deficit”. Here is what I mean: I could not read, write, drive or remember what my address was. I had trouble following conversations, and doing some pretty basic tasks. I remained with my “cognitive deficit” for awhile, months, actually. I had to re-learn things I had originally learned in Kindergarten. I was in such dire straits at times; I did not even know to be embarrassed by my condition. What I did know was that I had to explain my condition frequently to people so they would slow things down for me, so that I could fully understand. Well, that was until a nurse who had been administering immunizations to my children said this, “Oh dear God! How awful for your husband! He didn’t get his wife back? This must have devastated him!” I stood staring at this nurse as if she had just slapped me, my face growing a deep and painful red. Her first response was to tell me how bad my husband had it, seriously? My children, very young and impressionable at the time, listened to her say that to me and took it all in. Once we were in the car all their questions came flying at me like a spider monkey. “Yes, I am not the same anymore. I don’t know if I will ever be who I was. No, that wasn’t very nice of her to say. Yes, daddy is unhappy this happened. No, he did not say he doesn’t love me anymore. Yes, it’s true I don’t know what I used to. No, it doesn’t mean I am ‘retarded’”. My kids are smart. They saw and heard the judgment come flying out of the nurses’ mouth, and wanted to know what it all meant. While I could not justify to them why this person had decided to exclaim her opinion, what it did do was open a dialogue with my kids about what had happened at the hospital while I was there. In language they could understand I explained to them how my heart stopped beating, my lungs stopped breathing, and my body stopped working for minutes until the doctor could bring me back to life. “So you were dead?” the older kids asked. “Yes, in a way, I was gone for a few minutes, but they were able to bring me back, so I could be here for you.” In the back seat I heard a collective, “Wow.” Suddenly I was a cool mom, who had been like Lazarus and risen from the dead. My children were the real ones who had to deal with my cognitive deficit. They were the ones who had to remind me of things, be patient as I learned how to read again, write again, and find my way home. It was my children who witnessed my frustration at having to become someone new, different from who I once was. I’m incredibly grateful it was them, the little non-judgmental ones who loved me so very much, it did not matter who I was, just that I was. I am not one of these people, but all of them. I am not a worm who can be cut into pieces, living separate from the other parts. All of these scenarios belong to me as one person. Like every person I have ever met, I am complex, diverse, and ever expanding. To assume that I am merely one of these characters is to assume there is no depth to me, no possibility in me. All these stories taught me and my children, that people are not always what they appear to be. These instances taught us to be kinder, more compassionate to others, and always remember that we want the same courtesy extended to us. Go ahead and judge my kids out of hand, I dare you. My son the skate boarder will knock your socks off with his poetry. My oldest whose intellect is so fierce it’s scary, will melt your heart when holding a baby. My oldest boy who appears to be techno crazed and surly will make you fall down laughing at his silliness. My youngest child, a tiny waif, will tackle you to the ground and pummel you if you deserve it. They are not what one might assume. They are multi-faceted gems. There are times in life when we must make judgment calls. But there are more times than not when judgment should be reserved for when all the facts are in. I concede, not everyone is nice. It is not safe to trust everyone you meet. What I am hoping for is that we are able to stop ourselves from making snap judgments about situations and people where all the facts are not in. Just filling in the blanks to suit our own agendas is not good enough anymore. We should be evolved enough to give a situation the proper amount of time in order to garner all the facts. Assuming and making judgments about individuals is a dangerous thing. If you can do to it others, then just remember, it can then be done to you, and I would certainly hate to hear that.

Confessions of a Terrible Wife

I haven't written here because I got hacked. I felt so invaded, so vulnerable, so I stopped. Part of me got really angry, and part of me felt so hurt. Why hack this blog? Nothing I say is of any real importance except that I relate to people on an emotional level. Anywho, I decided that I can't not write because some a-hole hacked my account. I did what was necessary in order to secure my account again and here I am. I am confessing to being a terrible wife. I am not saying this in order to gain sympathy. I don't want any. I am saying this because I really don't think I am the only one who thinks they are terrible wife. Don't get me wrong, I think there are things I am good at, such as, I am a good friend, a tender lover, a brilliant interior designer, a stellar dog walker, but this wife thing, yeah, I am really terrible at it. I am not sure of what it means to be a good wife. I don't believe in that whole "stand by your man" thing. I resent when my decisions are whittled down because I am obligated to someone else and their work, or life choices. I am fiercely independent, incredibly stubborn and often selfish. As a female who grew up in a confusing time of having to work and maintain a 1950's home with perfectly appointed furnishings and a freshly scrubbed floor, I am the worst. My belief is if you want to have a perfectly clean house I will point you to the vacuum. If you want a delicious meal, I will show you where to shop, hand the coupons and the directions to the range. I love to cook, so most of the time I do it, but when I don't feel like it, I don't. Mike and I have been having some very real discussions about what my life is going to look like since I am having to move across country again. I had to relinquish my position as a financial aid advisor at our community college in order to be in the same state as my husband. It's not a decision I am happy with. I should not have had to choose between being married and being employed, but there it is, and I was bitter as I made the choice to be with my manfriend. It's not my job that moved. It isn't my choice to move to the city where my manfriend now works. None of what we have been going through has anything to do with me, except it does. Thoroughly pissed off by my lack of choices, my lack of support as a spouse rather than an employee in this, I started to really stew. "What about me?" I mumbled around the house. Yeah, what about me? In my head a good wife would take all this in stride because Mike is the primary provider. But he is not the sole provider, no married man ever is, regardless of what his wife does for a living. I felt invisible. At nearly fifty years old, I began to notice in this relocation how very little I was being considered on any level. Recently, I applied for jobs doing what I did down here. I have no degree, never finishing college, but opting for family life instead, so I am now considered unqualified for a job I already had been doing. I would like to say I handled well, but in truth, I got angry all over again. I thought about what a good wife would do. Would a good wife be waitress at 50 in order to help her family or would she opt for the housewife title, staying home, cleaning, cooking shopping, doing the Rosary every Tuesday morning with the elder women of the church. How would we financially survive if that is my chosen option? If I don't work, will we make it in the big city? Besides, I am not a motivated housewife. I don't care if we have dust bunnies. I would rather try and make them pets than lug the vacuum up a flight of stairs to suck them up. I look terrible in house dresses, almost never go to the salon, and hate grocery shopping with a passion. While there are aspects to being a good wife I like, there are more that I tend to push against. Tell me I am obligated to do something and every fiber in my being begins to rebel. I was sitting outside, taking a "union break" sipping some extra strength coffee, when I looked down at my wedding ring. I like being married to Mike, I do. On the inside of the ring it is inscribed, "for my Kel". Yes, I am my beloved's and beloved is mine,blah, blah blah. But I am starting to think I need another wedding ring, one I give to myself. I need something that says while I like being married, it is not the definition of me. While I choose to be with Mike, I don't need to choose all his life and he doesn't need to choose all of mine. I will be the first one to tell you that living on my own, without my Michael, has been pretty awful, so this isn't about being single again. Been there, done that, bought the t-shirt and worn it out. What I am talking about is how to make a cross country move that is meaningful for me. While the bottom line is we are doing it for Mike's job, I need to find a way to own my decision to join him. I fear, otherwise, I may get restless or bored, or resentful that I HAD to move for HIM. A good wife moves for their husband and makes it work for them. In my head, that's how I see it. They pack up their life, hop on a plane and then proceed to unpack, making life comfortable for their spouse. But I am not a good wife. I am thoughtless about Mike's comfort, assuming if he wants his pillows fluffed, he will fluff them. Michael, my Michael, knows I am a terrible wife. He knew it long before we got married. My first marriage crashed and burned partially due to me being a terrible wife. Danny needed a traditional wife. I tried, I did, but ultimately, I failed miserably and then went about the business of swearing off marriage. I knew I was terrible at it. I didn't understand it, or even really want it. I wanted kids, a home, some creature comforts, and a partner, but not necessarily a husband. Husbands are obligations, filled with ultimatums, like the one I am faced with now. One of my young ones asked me, "Why do you call Michael your manfriend and not your husband?" "You want me to be totally honest?" The young one nodded their head. "I am not fan of marriage, and really not fan of husbands. It's a bit of a trap and I am not wholly convinced, either is worth the hassle. It's a lot of give for women, and I am, maybe too selfish to give that much, so by making Michael my manfriend instead, I am choosing to be with him rather than out of obligation." The young one looked at me as though I had grown an additional head. "But Miss Kellie, why get married then?" It dawns on me that I look a bit like a liberated hypocrite to my young one. "Because it was important to us that we are bound. He asked, and when the love of your life bends down on one knee and offers up a beautiful diamond ring, showing you how very much you mean to him, you make the compromise. Love trumps ideals." The young one nods, but I am skeptical if she really gets it, so I say this, and mean it, "Look, I am a terrible wife. I am not good at most traditional things that are expected of wives. I never wanted the title, but the commitment is something different.I am not standing up raging against the institution of marriage, I am recognizing my own short comings. I am not criticizing those who get married and do it really well, I am admitting to myself and to others that being tethered to someone is difficult for me, so while I am not totally opposed, I do have to tailor it to me, and my quirkiness. Some of it comes from not wanting to owe someone anything or feel as though I am bought and paid for. I rarely ask for anything because I never want to owe anyone. Believe me when I say, this my bad." The young one looks deep into my eyes as if trying to discover some other information. "What?" I ask. "May I make an observation?" the young one asks, quietly. "Yes, of course." I try and open myself to this young person who I am fairly certain is about to lay some truth on me. "This way of thinking makes you look very insecure. Is that why you don't like the wife thing? I never saw you as insecure before..." the young one trails off and looks at the floor as if I am about to punish her for saying something offensive. "Bingo! Yatzee! You got it! That is exactly why, so now you can see this really is my bad. I really am a terrible wife. I may never truly get the hang of it. The only thing I can do is make sure when I am my most terrible that I apologize to Michael when it happens." I embrace my young one, squeezing her tight, knowing we just shared a very human moment where we got to look at me as a girl rather than just a grown up. "Miss Kellie?" "Yes, darling girl," I release my hold on her. "You may be a terrible wife, but I really like who you are as a person." I hug my young one again. "Yeah, me too. I have really grown on me." Together we laugh and release all the serious that had built up between us. I look into the face of this young woman who will one day have to discover for herself what marriage and being a wife means, and say, "Define your life for yourself. Never allow anyone to tell how you think or feel. You are not only allowed to be who you are, but I want you to know we will celebrate it!" I am by most standards, a terrible wife. I am OK with that. It's the thing in me that allows me to continually question, to keep trying new things, to push through and discover my own path. This thing that is happening to us, this forced march of sorts, it's causing me to be a really terrible wife and ask myself to find out what I really want to do next. By the time we settle in our new town, my terribleness will reach an all time high. The good news for Michael is his girlfriend will be back in full force, and there is nothing hotter than that.

I Did Not Write the Last Post that Appeared Here

All Bottled Up

I wish I had done something like this for 2012. I could have used the motivation to see the things that really matter instead of getting wrapped up in the barbed wired of things that ultimately do not. This year I know better, so I am planning to do better. I will turn 50 years old this year, I will be moving to Chicago this year, I will face unemployment and the difficulties that arise from moving across country this year. I will be having a very busy year. I am thinking about going back to school this year also. I am thinking about starting my own business this year, doing a Youtube channel this year, writing more this year, finishing my plays this year, learning to stay in my place of knowing rather than panic, this year. Why all this, this year? Because, why not? Why not dare to be different? Why not believe mind, body and soul things are happening for the better? Why not get rid of the cynicism, the negative speak, the self battering? Why not? I have done the extensive math about how things can go horribly wrong, but what about the numbers leaning to the other side? What about the odds that things will be utterly amazing, surprisingly delightful? I am now betting on those odds. I plan to write something joyful everyday and place it in my jar. I see things all the time that are surprising to me, or that make sit back for a minute in awe. I see things in my own backyard that are quite remarkable, so why not write them down. I have the 15 seconds that it takes to make a note and stuff it in a jar. This is going to be a big year for no other reason than the moving part of it. But beyond our stuff taking another hike, I believe to my core this is an opportunity for me. I know what I want, so now is the time to try and make it happen. What if I fail? What if all my hopes and dreams fall spectacularly apart? Don't be daft, I tell myself, failure is the only way to learn from my mistakes. Success or education are my only options now. I could play it safe and do what I know is nearly certain, or I could look at this as a chance to do something I desire, am passionate about and have wanted forever. If I try and I fail, then so be it. I failed and failed and failed, depending on your definition of failure. I am still here. I did not die from, or become incapacitated by it or even become so embarrassed that I holed up in my house never to be seen or heard form again. I got up, faced the failings of what went wrong, figured out how I could either change it or I walked away knowing it just didn't work. I currently have no earthly idea of where I am going to live, what I will be doing to make a living or how I will be spending the bulk of my time. Those are all unknowns and will be for a while. What I do know is I will be living with my husband again, I will be closer to home than I have been in nearly a decade, and I will meet interesting people, because that is as much a part of me as my eye color. I will fill my jar and drag it with me to Chicago so I can one day open my 2013 jar and read about all the magnificent things that happened this year. I will lay in Michael's arms and laugh out loud at our adventures. And I will learn from all the mistakes I will inevitably make. By this time next year I will make a new jar and begin filling it with all the wonder our future holds.

Can You See Me?

I was at a super store, where nothing was particularly "super", shopping for large clear containers to pack up all my holiday stuff. You see I am getting ready to move...again. I am an accidental house flipper. It was never my intention to flip houses, but here I am renovating another house I will not be living in. It is the way of it for me. I knew as soon as I put in that damn closet organizer in, I was on my way out. Anywho, I was at the store standing in a very long line waiting for the singular cashier to check out the hundred people who were in line before me. I had gotten there really early, knowing that this close to Christmas, there would be a wait in store. My cart wasn't loaded down with Christmas goodies like it usually is, since I have only one family member with me these days. It was loaded down with large bulky plastic containers to fill with all of my holiday crap, so it can be moved back up north. How ironic that I moved 1200 miles from my hometown, so we would be spared the long distance move for my husband's company during the impending merger, only to have to pack up and move the opposite direction. We moved to Houston as a preemptive strike in 2004. We knew the merger was coming, we never expected them to move to the north. They showed us. As I stood there, shifting my weight from one leg to the other, bored and tired, I reached down to tie my shoe. When I looked up an elderly woman cut right in front of me. Her eyes down cast avoiding my face, she showed no signs of remorse for the clear breach of store etiquette. I was faced with a choice. Either I could try and stare her down, making her feel awkward the entire time for cutting in line, or I could engage her, showing her I was a human being and not a poorly organized store display. I opted to engage her, saying hello and asking her how she was spending her holidays. I knew when I left the house I needed to be patient. I knew people were frantic and panicked over the upcoming holiday, while I just needed mundane things, since I wasn't sure how much celebrating I was actually going to do. The older, wrinkle faced woman spoke to me about her son, her grandchildren, her widowed sister. She began to blame all things possible on the president when I shifted the conversation to Christmas. She went along with me chatting, looking me in the face, smiling from time to time. It was an easy conversation. She veered off slightly getting frustrated at how slow the line was, blaming the checker. Once again, I steered the conversation to a more empathetic place talking about how hard they work, how little they get paid, and how hectic the holidays are. Again, she went with me, nodding her head, speaking about how hard it is in the world today to just earn a living. She told me she was 80 years old. "My dad is 80 also," I said. We talked about having family so far away. I told her my kids moved and my husband was in Chicago. I ended up talking to that woman for about 25 minutes. We just stood and chatted, as we slowly made our way to the front of the line. I looked in her basket, where she had only five items. She wasn't cooking for Christmas and had bought potatoes, socks for her great grandchild, and a few other things. I made sure to look in her eyes. I stayed locked on her face, making her see me. In my head I thought, "I see you, I see you as a person, a woman, a mother, a grandmother and a great grandmother. I see how little you can afford, watching every penny to make sure you stay on budget. I see how tired you are, how much you have worked in your life. I see you." She checked her few items and grabbed her singular bag. She turned to me and said warmly, smiling, "Merry Christmas." "Merry Christmas, Ma'am", I said as I returned the smile. I could have gotten angry when she cut in that atrocious line. But I thought how much better it could be if I just turned an awkward silence into a momentary friendship, and I was right. I did see her, full in the face, for all the time we had together and she saw me too. I went from being a faceless nobody to someone she could relate to. It wasn't magical, or incredible or amazing. It was simply two people standing in line who had decided to make the best of it. It was human. As I left the store I made a promise to myself to be kinder this season, more patient, and give more of myself to complete strangers, even if they cut in line. I might just get a little conversation and a good story out of it.

My 2012 Balance Sheet

I was reviewing the past year as I always do in December. What had I lost? What had I gained? What had I learned? It is part of the reason I love this season so much, I suppose, my ability to take the time to reflect back on who I was and who I am becoming. My great question at the end of the season is am I becoming what I want to be or am following the wrong path? This year there were so many things that threw me off any path I might have chosen. I was beginning to feel as though I had no control over anything. I would be moving right along when another big life moment would toss me as though I were a rag doll. Let me explain. In the last seven months, no wait, let's go just slightly further back, in the last year, the year of 2012, my children were in a car wreck by all rights they should not have survived. I took on a full time job only to find out there was someone in my office actively wishing me ill will, Michael moved to Chicago for his job, Betty moved to San Antonio for school, my 20 year old cat got very sick and died, my sons moved back to Ohio, my very best dog got very ill at 17 and died, Michael got a much wanted and needed job offer back here in Houston and in the ninth hour it was rescinded, which left us to choose to move to Chicago so we could be together again. Whew, that is a lot even for me in my crazy life. OK, so in the vein of thinking of what I lost, I lost having my family with me. It's my first time ever not having my children nearby. No family dinners anymore, no doors opening and closing, no kid's friends showing up at our door at all hours, all of it gone. I lost living with my husband, my best friend, my heart mate. It has been a devastating blow. I come home to cook for no one but my oldest and she and I neither feels like eating most days. I lost two of my pets who had been part of my family for decades. And for a while I lost my confidence, when I discovered someone was trying to undermine me at my employment. I found this to be so shocking, since I still have no idea to this day why anyone would want to do that. I did lose things this year to be sure, but the next step is to see what I had gained. I gained a strength in me I was not sure I had. I was certain when Michael packed up his car to move to Chicago without me I would crumble into dust. So far that has not happened. While it hurts, I am still here, waking up, going to work and doing what needs to be done. I have gained friends at work. These are people I can count on, people who have invited me to their homes for holidays knowing my family is all away. I gained the ability to truly be alone and be good with it. After all these years of not having so much as a minute to myself, I wondered if I had the ability to be alone without losing my mind. Turns out, I can do it and appreciate it at times, even the times when I miss my family so much I ache. I have gained the ability to see more clearly than I have in years. I know for certain who I am as a person. I know what I am capable of at this time in my life. I know when I am on the wrong path. I gained the strength needed to continue to grow my heart. The don't call it growing pains for nothing. The final thing I reflect on what I have learned. I have learned that I can be patient, even during the days when I feel like I am crawling out of my own skin. I learned that I am stronger than I think I am. I have learned that while I can question if love conquers all, I cannot deny the resulting bond between me and those who have moved on. We are now closer than ever, because we choose to be. I learned that so much of what has transpired over the course of the year is not about me personally even as I am directly affected. It is what it is. Others have made decisions that affected me very personally without ever knowing I was even in the equation, so in order to not get mired in the crap of feeling hurt and eventually being altered by it, I can choose to be affected, weigh out the good and bad and swim into the current. It is very much the same thing I had to do as a child when I was body surfing in the waves of North Carolina. An undercurrent would come in on occasion and begin pulling me under. My father had taught me to swim with current so as not to be exhausted by trying to swim out. Eventually by using the energy of the waves to assist me, I would be able to ride it out and away. I believe this time in my life is much like that. I had to learn to go with the under tow in order to not be drowned or overwhelmed by it. This has not been the year I thought it would be. It doesn't resemble in the slightest the dreams I had for 2012. I have suffered in ways this year I could not possibly have seen coming. I have shaken all the fun out of the year, too. I found out I really don't give a damn what people think of me good or bad. I finally got it through my head their opinion is not the one that really counts, mine is. As much as I would like everyone I meet to enjoy my company, to see and use my talents, to see my heart and the good intentions I start everyday with, the bottom line is if they do, it’s good, and if they don’t that is perfectly fine, too. If I can stand in the mirror knowing I did my best then I won’t wallow in the other. I know for sure I am living according to my choices, both good and bad. I know that the times I stood paralyzed not knowing what to choose, I was making a choice to do nothing. I know that life is what you put into it. I know that the next year will force me to climb out of my comfort zone and push me to do things I never thought I would try. If the Mayans are right and the end is near, I have had one hell of a ride this year, and will be going out with a bang. If by chance 2013 shows up in spite of all the hoopla, then I know I need to get ready for more growing pains. I tell my kids all the time, “Life is hard, wear a helmet.” I plan on wearing something bedazzled with a lovely padded chin strap, because if I continue to grow at this pace, I will need all the protection I can get. It definitely needs to be better padded than the one I am sporting above. From me to you, Merry Christmas, Happy Holidays, Happy New Year, or just in case Pleasant Endings.