Moving in with Mr. Fox

Let’s just get this out of the way right away. No beating around the bush here. I’ll just come right out with it, ready?

Relationships are hard af. Specifically romantic relationships, and especially when you live with that person.

I love the man I am with. He is ingenuitive, charismatic, loyal, caring, funny, and I am so damn attracted to him. He’s also persistent, doesn’t take any shit, and a true defender for the people he loves. As if that weren’t enough he has this son that is sweet as pie, and honest (probably) to a fault. That kids’ face couldn’t tell a lie if it tried.

In the three (plus) years that I’ve known him, I have seen him grow into a (more) mature, selfless, confident man than the one that met me for the first time at a Starbucks (he was fifteen minutes late). We walked through a park that evening, and I knew this man would be a really significant part of my life. We fell in-love fast and both having strong personalities our egos got in the way for a while. So we parted ways and both dated other people- eventually reuniting. It was inevitable. And it feels right; it feels good. I’m happy, and my kids are happy. He’s committed to not just me- but them too. 

What more can I ask for?

A lot. (Like for starters can he not chew so loud?!?)

Before moving in with him, it was about 9 years since I lived with a man. That’s 9 years of not sharing the bed or covers, or bathroom, or decision making with another human. That’s 9 years of my life being uninterrupted by someone else’s habits. That’s 9 long years of bailing when things get complicated or burdensome.

For a long time I thought I’d just live out my life like that; dating people until it stopped being fun and thrilling, and then moving on. Then there were times when the loneliness crept in, and I felt like sharing your life with someone was surely better than going at it alone, or in relationships with people that I wasn’t really invested in, or weren’t really invested in me.

So when he came back around initially I knew I wanted him back in my life. At first I wasn’t sure to what extent until I started asking questions like; do I want to wake up without this man, and do I want to share my life with this man? Was I willing to give up my freedom?

The truth is he fit; he fit right into our lives, and schedules. Dinner conversations were enhanced by his fun loving spirit, and jokes. I started to really want to build things with him; real life things. And I still do. I’m excited about our future.

But here’s the thing. It’s hard. Some days I don’t want to be bothered by putting effort in. Some days it pisses me off when he runs the shower for ten minutes before he gets in. I get annoyed that he won’t take ibuprofen when his back is sore. I get frustrated that he gets frustrated with me- as if I can’t do anything that would warrant another human’s annoyance with me.

I spent a large part of my life believing that marriage, although right for some- was just not suited for me. But I’m starting to see why people do it. I also think it’s very telling that when we talk about it (marriage) my kids laugh and talk about how they cannot picture me getting married especially with the white dress and all the fireworks. Quite frankly me either. I can forgo traditions, and I'm not religious so making a big fuss feels unnecessary. But I love weddings- don't stop sending me invites to yours. 

This isn’t about marriage though and if we will or won't marry. This is about the day to day grind of living with someone who has different habits, ideas, and ways of doing things than you do, and then adjusting your expectations, controlling behavior, and level of asshole-ness so that they don’t duct-tape you to a wall.

Living with him has not been all fun and games. It’s a lot of planning and coordinating and being "too tired." It’s me asking him to fix shit, and him asking me if he has clean work clothes. Gender specific roles are alive and well in this house folks.

But despite that. Despite the hard nitty gritty, irritating, eye-rolling, sighing hard work that living with him is- it’s worth it. We fit. Our ambitions are in sync. Our personalities mesh well. He understands my sense of humor and sarcasm, and knows I mean no harm. I understand his wit and charm and I know he’s genuine.

I could go on and on, talking about the highs and lows of shacking up. But I’ll close with this- he is worth it. What he and I have managed to put together in a few weeks really speaks to what our future looks like going forward. And what it looks like is this: it looks like navigating a new land with no map, buying supplies along the way- arguing about which supplies we'll need for survival, and then having a good laugh when the majority vote is in- and that I'm wrong once again! 

Anyway I’m not sure we get to choose who we fall in love with- but damn I am lucky I got to fall in-love with him.

Happy Monday & Much Love, 

Stephanie Ann

5 Reasons to Embrace Shady Kids

“My dad doesn’t like you.”

This is what my kid’s friend said to her the other day in my kitchen, and she couldn’t have said it at a better time. Seriously- get this- the two were baking a cake to celebrate their 4 years of friendship!!

Now let me get this out of the way, my kid, well- she’s no saint. Further, she and her friend have made more than a few questionable decisions together. I mean- the two of them together are like Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum; giggling their way through life getting more and more confused the further they think. But they’re also like Alice; sweet, naïve, curious, trusting, and adventurous. 

That’s why I decided to pull them in closer; finding activities they can do together that would be more closely monitored. Besides they’re thirteen year old girls. Just that in itself speaks volumes about where they’re at (mentally) in life. This world is big, and confusing, and I’m not going to blame social media. It is what it is, we live in the time we live in, and we deal with it. End of story.

Anyway- I wasn’t surprised because this isn’t the first time I’ve heard this type of talk. Hosting her friends at our home over the years I’ve heard the words, “my mom doesn’t like you,” or “my grandparents don’t like you,” more than a few times, but never in regards to my daughter. I’m not even surprised my daughter isn’t liked by someone, because trust me- I understand. I’m her mom, and I know her well, but I am surprised that adults are so careless as to let their distaste for a child be made blatantly aware to their own children.

If your kid brings home a shady kid, and you’re response is to tell your kid you don’t like that shady kid- YOU ARE DOING IT WRONG!

First off, the message you’re sending to your kid is this: “you’re a shady kid too.” Kids need validation that the choices they are making are good ones- so if you flat-out say you don’t like their choice in people, odds are they are going to internalize that to this: “I make bad choices with bad people.” Is that the self-talk we want our kids repeating in their little brains? No. That is not conducive to instilling positive self-esteem in our children. In addition to that, you’re basically telling your kid, “I know you’re too dumb to see this, but you brought home a bad seed.”

Now this gets a little complicated because our kids don’t always make good decisions right? And we obviously don’t want to praise bad decisions, or stand by and do nothing. But a part of the way kids judge themselves is based off of the people they hang around- So if you are saying their BFF is sketchy, the message is clear, “I am sketchy too.” So here’s the deal… ready? People can make bad decisions without being bad. We separate decisions from people, and we don’t say everything we think in front of our kids. 

We proceed with caution. If we don’t have a legitimate reason for disliking said kid, and we’re just getting some bad vibes, we pull those babies in closer, keep our mouths shut, and just observe. If there is validity to why we don’t like this kid because of choices we know they made, we can talk to our kids about those choices, get their perspectives, and offer our own viewpoint.

Secondly, you just ruined any chance of your child confiding anything to you about their friend, that they, themselves may begin to question. You have relinquished your role as “wise advice giver,” to “overtly judgmental dick.” Our jobs are to counsel- not judge. We’re supposed to teach them how to make good decisions, not criticize the ones they do make.

Third, they are going to try to prove you wrong. This one is really unfortunate. If and when they do realize their friend is shady AF, they are going to cling to that friendship to the very bitter end to prove they’re right and you have no idea what you are talking about.

Fourth, in their attempt to please you they may play both sides. So when they’re with their friend they’ll talk trash about you, and when they’re with you, they’ll tell you the horrors that the “shady kid,” is up to. So now you’ve taught your child to gossip, and withhold, and make jabs. Good job mom and dad. You’re successfully raising a “flaky fake,” who is more worried about people pleasing than they are standing up for what they believe in. Way to go! Syke! You are doing it wrong.

Fifth- You’re kid is going to tell. Your kid is going to tell my kid, and me, and the rest of her friends, and we’re all going to feel sad for your kid, and think you’re a douche monster. But I’m smart, and I know this game, so I’m not going to say anything bad about you in front of your kid or mine. Instead, we’ll talk about how I know that must have been hurtful to hear. I’m going to remind my child that she is more than the choices she makes. I’ll question her, and ask her what she likes about herself, so she is reminded that she loves herself, and how very little your opinion of her matters. At the end of the day, and when it’s all over my kid will still hold her head high. She’ll use her decisions- all of them (good and bad) as stepping stones on her path to learning who she is and who she isn’t.

Why Scheduled "Me Time" is Essentially Bullshit

A challenge I’ve relentlessly faced as a single mother is all sorts of uninvited feedback from all sorts of well-meaning people. I know these people (most times) mean me no harm. Yet- it seems as though being a single parent opens the door and throws out the welcome mat for others people’s ideas and opinions about our lives.

Lately I hear the phrase- or phrases very similar that go something like this: “You get to have a life.”

If you’re a single parent you probably hear this a lot too.

I know what they are trying to say- I really do. They’re trying to tell me that it’s okay to do things separate from my kids. It’s okay to take, “me time.” A slogan I’ve come to loathe, but one no less that carries a message on the importance of personal well-being and self-care.

But-

It still makes me cringe, because I already have a life. It’s full and it’s filled with love and meaning and joy and laughter. It’s also filled with endless piles of laundry, repeated reminders to finish homework, unending bickering, and unfinished chores. But- it is a life. It is my life. It is my purpose. It is the thing that grounds me. It is the reason I am both together and a “hot mess.”

And yes, I want to be fun and exciting and carefree sometimes, but I also just really want to sit on my sofa and tune-out. True- there are things I want to do sans kids, talents I want to refine and places I want to visit, but- I also know that when I’m not with them- (most times), no one else is either, and unless leaving them is a necessity it feels irresponsible.

And “me-time” lately feels like one more tiring thing on my to-do list.

At the end of the day me-time looks a lot like me falling asleep watching Netflix on my laptop, only to wake up a few hours later reminded of all the sh** I should’ve been doing instead.

Here’s what it looks like when I make plans to go out and do things sans kids: “Ohemgee! I cannot wait to see you and do ‘the thing.’ It’s going to be such a good time, I really miss you!!”

Here’s what it looks like when the time actually arrives: “Dammit- why do I make plans?! I don’t want to go. Stephanie just do it. Me time-is important. You made the plan now do the plan. Don’t be a flake.”

Here’s what it looks like an hour in: “Wow! Look at you out and about doing the plan! Go girl. I’m so proud of you.”

Here’s what it looks like two hours in: “Well that was fun- oh- they’re not done yet. Bummer. How much longer is this going to take really?” **Checks time. Feigns interest.**

I know going out with my friends and meeting new people is important- don’t get me wrong here. I’m far too young to become a recluse. But the over emphasis to do the things and make the plans that fall under the umbrella of me-time is really starting to feel like a hostage situation.

It’s not that I’m not going out with great people. I am. I am surrounded by wonderful, funny, inspiring, talented friends and family. It’s not them- It’s me. I’m so bogged down by this idea that I must go out and enjoy myself that it ends up feeling like a chore and I end up not enjoying myself at all.  There are these ideas out there of what “me time” should look like- and I try to live up to that- yet I’m just not cool with that, and it ends up feeling forced and erroneous.

The message I get from catchphrases that get tossed around feels like a set of instructions of sorts on how to live a fulfilling life. It restrictive. Limiting.

Don’t regulate my free time- that just all kinds of oxy-moronic. Yet- the pressure I feel to comply when I hear this stuff is heavy and burdensome and taxing, and then I need a nap after making a mental note to conform.

And in case you’re wondering spending your free-time napping rather than socializing is okay. It doesn’t always mean you’re isolating. And then again maybe you are. However I’m a big advocate of listening to your mind and body, so if its telling me to withdraw from people for a bit, maybe there’s a reason. Maybe I need to hear something that only the quiet can bring. Maybe I’ll hear what I need to from the music that blasts in my ears- tuning you out. Others people’s voices get so loud and deafen the voice inside myself that knows what I need. I can’t always get what’s best for me from you. You have great ideas and suggestions, and sometimes that stuff works great for me- but sometimes it doesn’t, and I need to tap into my own source for direction and guidance.

Myself and I receive enlightening insights about what I need when I’m in the stillness, or the loudness of my own chaotic life.  The cost of buying into other people’s ideas about what a fulfilling life is or looks like- is way too high. I can no longer pay that price.

Lots of people have lots of (unwarranted) good ideas and suggestions for my life. But at the end of the day- it’s my life. Being a single mom- my life is going to look really unbalanced sometimes, it’s going to look messy, chaotic, and maybe even a little fragile in places. I’ve readjusted my expectations though, and I’m okay with it. It feels good to know I’ve given my children the very best parts of me, and I know when I’m due some time to myself. Trust me- I can feel that. I can feel it as strongly as I can feel the hunger pains for supper kicking in on days I’ve skipped breakfast and lunch because I was too busy forgetting to remember to eat.

Update: I wrote this last year, and never posted it, but since then I feel less and less like a single mother everyday. More on that to come!! XO

Much Love,

Stephanie

A Page in My Diary about Death & Friendship & How to Make it Last

 

So. My friend is dying. Probably soon. I’ve began writing a book about his life, and he messaged me the other night to tell me that I better get what I need within the next four months. The cancer is taking over. It’s aggressive and is showing no mercy. I can’t stop thinking about his family, and what a tragedy this is. I know he isn’t the first person to get a terminal diagnosis, but it makes me sad and frustrated. I wonder how people do it; how do they cope? How do they continue on with life when so much of what’s important and meaningful to them has been stripped away? Although- if he’s had any influence on them whatsoever, I think they will be brave and bring light, and humor when the final curtains are drawn on his life. Never the less his wife, kids, grandkids, and other family members will be changed for better and for worse. And in addition to that there is an entire community of people across the country who have been affected by his mentorship in one form or another, and will be equally changed for having known and lost him.

Today I was considering my new friendship with him. How quickly it blossomed. I thought about how he confided to me the other day that I’ve become a confidant of sorts for him. He said I reminded him a bit of an old friend of his. I was honored. Later, it struck me as odd that I’m latching on to a dying man. It’s not that I haven’t had the time to get to know him better until now, because I have. He’s been in my corner from a distance for the last 7 years or so. It kind of makes me wonder what my therapist would say. I suppose it’s in sync with my MO. It’s no secret that I’ve found myself in multiple entanglements with men that couldn’t offer me anything, nor deliver on promises made. It’s ironic though; I feel like this dying man can offer me the world, delivered kindly, and truthfully with an F-bomb (or two or three). And go figure, he’s totally available.

Last night he showed me some photos of him in his youth; twenty something's, long hair, handsome and all bad boy. The kind of guy I would’ve swooned for in my twenties and begged to pull my hair. The look in his eye as described by him was, “What the fuck are you looking at?” I’d agree. He talked to me about what a rebel he was, and how angry he was.  I could relate; the rage, the fear, the search for belonging. My teenage years were tough. Sometimes I’m surprised I made it through. I’ve realized though, that those “lost years” prepared me. They got me ready for the woman I was to become. The one who some think is warm and caring, and well- some think is a real bitch. In all fairness, both are accurate.

My boyfriend asked me, “Why do you think you’re latching onto him?”

I talked in my last post about how through another woman he helped set me free, but the other part of that is that I’m afraid I only have part of the recipe, and a few ingredients. I need the rest, and as his illnesses progresses I feel like I’m running out of time. How selfish is that? I told him I wish I’d grown closer to him sooner. He told me it probably happened just in time. Maybe that’s true. Maybe not. Either way, I can’t help but feel regret for letting years of his friendship escape me.

I asked my friend if he was afraid of dying. I know that question might’ve sounded pointless, as the answer might be a bit obvious, but I had to ask. I needed to hear his answer. Like most of his answers, it was lovely, rare and insightful.

He told me he gets scared of the process. Dying of cancer is ugly; bed pans, soiled sheets, severe pain, and being a burden on his family. He said he has to remind himself though that he’s not there yet, and might not ever be. He also told me he gets scared of death itself, because there might be nothing after this. He said hell or purgatory don’t scare him, it’s just the ending and not being. He talked about how some of his own heroes have died of cancer. He thinks they “prepared him for it, led the way and are pulling for him.” He said that “comforts him and eases the fear.” Then he said something that really made me contemplate the way I live my life. He said, “The fear of not being is all about ego.”

I asked him to explain that. He said, “My ego can’t stand the thought of not being. The spirit understands humility and accepts it. The ego doesn’t, it wants to not only live forever, but rule. Our egos are our identity. It’s what we’re attached to.”

He told me about an exercise he was given that had to do with looking for unhealthy attachments in his life; things such as: money, people, position, image, etcetera. He said that he eventually saw that any attachment made change a struggle, and when he most recently did this exercise he told me he found, “A big one. The biggest one, and maybe the last one.”

Ready for this? He found he was attached to life.

Once my question was answered I regretted asking it. I felt like any response from me would be silly, and futile. Tears began to sting my eyes and roll down my face. As I sat in a Starbucks somewhere in Illinois I cursed his God for the unfairness of it all. I questioned life, and what it meant, and what it was all for.

It just feels like such a tease. I mean, it’s like here’s this life; have it, taste it, view its beauty, and experience the earth’s glory. And love; love hard, and deep, and true. And lose, and take a gamble. Do some deep belly laughing, and accomplish things, and fail. Inspire others, and give of yourself. Take a walk on the beach and feel sand between your toes, feel joy, and sadness. Go outside at dark to contemplate a starry night’s sky- but don’t get attached to it. Don’t get overly attached to this life. If you do- well you’re screwed because it’s going to make leaving that much more difficult.

He’s not even mad at God. He told me God didn’t give him cancer, and that his cells are just fu**** up! If he's not mad- well I sure the hell am. Everything feels frivolous.

He suggested I do the exercise as well. Ready for the irony? I’m attached to him, and I’m attached to what he brings to a community of hopeless people; hope, salvation, and freedom, and love.

I once heard that Eskimo’s (not entirely sure about this) have a tradition of giving away their most treasured item every year as a reminder not to get too attached to anything. I wondered for a bit what I’d give away. Could I get away with pretending to treasure my piled up dirty laundry most? Hmm. Now that’s a thought!

As the day wore on, and I considered more of my attachments I became less angry at his God. I started having this overwhelming sense, this deep inner knowing that I’m going to be a part of people’s journeys to death a lot. And so maybe like the men he respected prepared him; he’s preparing me. Plus, I get to be close to this man that I respect so much. I get to share some of his last time here on earth with him, and I feel lucky that he’s given me so much of his dwindling time. I’ve also come to see that everyone this man has touched will inherit a bit of his strength and courage. And if the people who he’s touched are anything like me- they’ll feel a duty to carry on with his legacy.  

I feel this renewed sense of obligation to share my own experience, strength and hope. With his guidance and mentorship I did something the other day that helped heal and soften my heart a little, and it restored something that I thought my carelessness had broken forever. I think at this point in my life, he’s the only one that could inspire that level of courage and unpretentiousness in me.

Through his own fears he told me he prays for us; his people- not himself nor his own healing. It really is a privilege and an honor that I get to record some of this man’s life and listen to him reminisce as he takes me down memory lane. A lane that’s filled with simplicity and magnificence and miracles. A lane that shines brightly enough so that we may all find our way to it, and continue to carry the message of God and healing and love and laughter. A lane that he’s paved with grit, and courage, and heart, and care, and kindness.

Through all of this, through all of his pain and hardship, he has made me deep belly laugh, every single day since we started this journey together. I still can’t explain why I found my way to him when I did, and why we connected so quickly, or why he was the one to extract the willingness for growth out of me. I think that some things can’t be said with words and they can only be felt with our hearts. I’m beginning to understand what “language of the heart” means. And I have a gut feeling I’m going to crave it a lot more often. I will always hold him responsible, and thank him deeply for sparking a desire in me that I thought died long ago.

Much love to you all.

Stephanie Ann.

http://seemomdo.blogspot.com/2016/01/threesomes-spooning-and-cake-dying-mans.html

Short Story: A Realization About Purpose

 

 

It’s Sunday afternoon and I just dropped Nic off at work. Soon I’ll pick Angiebaby up from a sleepover. In the living room I can hear Elijah studying while eating “brain food.” (More on that later.) Odin is wore out, chillin’ in the hallway with a ball in his mouth. I’m not quite sure why he won’t put it down, because he’s obviously exhausted and has no motivation to play with it. I made a trip to Tractor Supply this morning to get him some new toys because he’s going stir-crazy in this house. Being as cold as it is, I practically have to kick him out of the door to use the bathroom- and he’s a beast. Try budging 90 pounds of stubbornness out of your door sometime. The shit ain’t easy!

Anyway- I’m babbling. This weekend has been really great. Despite the fact that I lost my shit on my daughter yesterday before she left for work, and then she ignored my “I’m sorry I suck,” texts all afternoon. Regardless of that- it’s been the kind of stuff that my childhood dreams of motherhood were made up of. (PS-Nic and I made up over soft-serve in the DQ parking lot when she got off work.)

I’ve been contemplating why this weekend has been so good, and why it isn’t always like this. Why some weekends I feel like I’m on a hamster wheel, in a tornado, or even worse- failing miserably to keep up with it all. I know a lot of families are busy.  I’m not saying we’re busier than you, but- we go hard. Maybe you go hard too. I don’t know. But if you do- you might want to pay attention, because I was startled by what I discovered this morning. Even though it’s not a new message to me. I’ve heard it before, hell I’ve tried it before. I just don’t think I’ve applied it like this before.

So- when my kids were all in grade school they’d come home in the afternoons, and that time was spent; watching TV, having supper, playing outside, doing homework, and whatever else we wanted to do. It’s not like that anymore. Pretty much everyone in this house has someplace to be every day from sun up to sun down. The days where we all have to be in multiple different places at once gets tricky. If we are acquaintances (you and I) and you have a car and live within the vicinity, odds are you’ve driven at least one of my children someplace. At least once.

Life is moving by at an alarming rate. There are so many things to do with such a small window of time to do them in. We’re all just going through the motions in this house. When I write out the calendar for the week, I always say a little prayer, “God give me strength, or if you prefer a pro bono personal assistant with a nice ass and good organizational skills. Amen.” Apparently God thinks I need strength.

So initially this weekend was made up of all this stuff I was going to do, and then I wasn’t going to do any of that stuff and I was going to take my kids out of town. Only, it wasn’t working out. I kept trying to approach it from all these angles, and then another barrier would show up. But I’m the kind of girl who once my mind is made up, I don’t cave. I go full force. And made up my mind was. We were going to visit some people and hang out at a water park.

But then something changed. There became a shift in my intent after I got a string of texts from my son reminding me that exams are next week, and he’s sorry but he’s not going to be able to go out of town with me. He compiled a list of foods that are good for your brain and asked me to buy them so that he can do really well on his exams. (Update: Since Friday that’s all he’s done is study and eat super foods.)

Ahh. There it is though. My discovery. Purpose. Through those text messages my purpose changed. It changed from: be everywhere all at once, and make it to everything, to: just support your babies.

Usually when I’m home I have a million things going on at once, all of my roles are being intertwined. My purpose changing at a moment’s notice. This weekend that wasn’t the case. I was just mom.

I’ve been here, present, and in the thick of it. And I haven’t doubted my decision for a minute. I feel like this is where I’m supposed to be. Home. Here. Rooting for my little champions. Feeding them brain food.

The only role, my sole purpose this weekend was support my babies. I have the rest of my life to support other people and go to water parks. I only have a few years left with these guys to teach them about honor and responsibility and purpose. My purpose was here, dishes, sweeping, keeping it quiet, and feeding brains, and I am totally okay with that.

Elijah never asked me to stay home. In fact I’m not sure that would’ve even crossed his mind, but as people who know each other well do, you read one another. I read him. I read right through “super foods, and quiet places to study,” to, “Mom I need you.”

He makes me. He makes me better.

I know it’s our job to make our children better, but sometimes we don’t know better. Sometimes, every now and again we have to let them guide us, and teach us a thing or two about life, and love, and support, and purpose.

I realized today that when I don’t have any other agendas, I can be where I am stress free, guilt free- essentially free. My purpose doesn’t get clouded and bogged down by other stuff and I can be fully present. Which even left a few pockets of time for me to do some things for myself like talk to a good friend, and write all this down.

As I left the house to pick up Angiebaby I heard my son call after me the same few words he’s called after me every time I’ve left the house for the last few years, “I love you. Drive safe.”

“I love you too, I will.” I say. As I close the door I think, “And thank you Elijah for showing me, on the days I don’t know how- to be your mom.”

In a world full of places to be and things to do, I choose here. I choose this purpose, this place. I have a way of letting my purpose pass me by, so I guess what I really mean to say, that at the end of the day, at the end of this day, is that I'll always remember this. The weekend that I was present and had purpose, and things felt meaningful, and kids were nice, and I enjoyed every minute of every dish I washed.

XoXo,

Stephanie Ann.

Threesomes, Spooning, and Cake: A dying Man's Regrets (of sorts)

I started this blog with the intention of posting every week. I have to admit though life has been hectic. I haven’t been able to stop and appreciate it, or get inspired by it long enough to have the words to communicate my experiences in a blog post. I don’t mean to say there haven’t been real genuine treasurable moments, because there have been many. But they’re fleeting. They pass, and we move on.  It has been many moons since I’ve been inspired to write like I am now. I woke up this morning and I just had to get this on paper. More than I had to feed the kids, or feed myself, or start the dishwasher. I had to get this on paper because it’s beautiful, and raw, and real, and terribly stoic.

I’m not sure where to even begin, so I’ll start by saying there’s all this business on whether or not one is a “crier.” People say things like, “I cried, and I am not a crier.” This statement is meant to give the receiver the impression that the moment was so intense that it made someone cry who ordinarily wouldn’t.  Or they’ll say something such as, “For the first time in a long time my first response was not to cry.” I don’t know what this one means exactly, but I’m pretty sure I’ve said it myself, and meant it.

Nowadays I don’t know whether or not I’m a “crier,” but I do cry. Sometimes when I cry it freaks people out. They’ve said things to me such as, “It’s so weird to see you cry.” Or, “I don’t know what to do when you cry because it’s so uncommon.” My son asked me why I don’t cry when people die. The response is complicated, and could easily take up an entire post on its own, but in short I go numb. But that’s not entirely true either. Sometimes I just see the beauty in the beast of death.

So in a way these people are right, I don’t cry a lot. It makes me feel like a pussy. I used to though. Oh god, I used to cry over everything. Then one day I just stopped. Instead of crying today I take a deep breath and say something like, “well this shit sucks,” and then just handle business.

I don’t think I did it on my own though, and by that I mean I don’t think I made the decision to just stop being a crier. I’ll get to more on how that happened later.

Anyway, I woke up thinking about crying today because well, I woke up crying, which is rare. And that doesn’t make me tough or strong, or anything like that. I think it’s safe to say I’m part of the majority of people who do not wake up crying.

But here’s the thing.

I’ve been communicating with this man, and odds are, he is dying. Maybe sooner, maybe later, but he’s ill, and unless he gets a miracle he will die of this disease. This man is special to me. He came into my life by way of the “trickledown effect,” and he helped set me free.

You see, he gave all this spiritual wisdom to this gal and she passed it on to me. It was just in the nick of time too. I was a real Debbie Downer. I cried all the time, stared at the wall, and contemplated suicide. It was a really tricky situation too, because I thought I was a part of a spiritual community that was supposed to be saving my life. Despite doing everything they did, and everything they told me to do, I still went home and cried and stared at my wall, and thought about who would care for my babies if I killed myself. I wondered how I could make it look like an accident. I’d go home from those spiritual meetings wondering why it wasn’t working for me and why I hated it so much. But I kept pretending things were okay, hoping that if I could just fake it long enough, I’d surely make it. I smiled when I didn’t want to. I talked to people I didn’t like. I acted better than I felt, and I got further and further from who I really was at my core. This in turn, made me more and more miserable with each passing day. The rules of this community, which were laid out for me to live and abide by, made me feel like a wild caged lion. I was angry and wanted to bite someone’s head off. I felt so trapped because I thought if I wanted to live I’d have to keep doing this, and that thought made me want to vomit. Now- I’ve always been a little bit of a hellion, a little rebellious, way too curious, and quite frankly pretty stubborn. The conformed life was not one for me, but damn I tried like hell.

Then something really cool happened though. I started talking to this gal (the one that was bestowed with all this, what I call wisdom) and she was like, “Well maybe you don’t have to do any of that stuff. You should read the material again and decide for yourself…”

So I did. I started to see that I could live my life based on spiritual principals, rather than rules, and I started applying them. To make a long story short, I was set free, and I started to feel happy. I started to build real solid connections with people that mattered to me. I started being a part of the community I lived in. I started really participating (by choice) in this adulthood thing- and liking it. This was the result of one man taking the time to talk to a woman about spiritual principals and how to apply them to one’s own life. She then talked to me about those same things. I’ve yet to be restored to my old life (thank god), but I have been able to create a pretty cool new one with the help of that woman, God, and the experience that was passed down from this man. Finding God can be a complex thing in itself. Different people have different ways of going about it- and it just so happened their way worked for me.

So, fast-forward some. Him and I were communicating last night, and I told him I want to write his story down. The whole thing, not the one that everyone else gets but I want to write down all the nitty gritty shit in between. He doesn’t think he’s book-worthy, and maybe he’s not. Not by the standards of the #1 Best Seller community anyway. But, I feel like I need to do it. Maybe for me, and maybe for everyone else who may not have had the luxury of meeting this man in all his authenticity, sincerity, humor and dignity.

I asked him if he considered himself a Christian, and he told me he does, but that he ain’t a very good one (I disagree). Christians amaze me. In the face of a painful, brutal, unfair death they await salvation from Jesus. That to me is beautiful.

Life is fragile. My communication with him makes that abundantly clear. There is no rhyme or reason as to who goes and who stays. This is glaring as well. And as many times as I’ve found beauty in death, I feel like there is more beauty in this man’s breath. There is something great about this man. The way he always treated me like an equal, the way he’s reminded me before that he’s safe. He’s never treated me like he knew more or better than me. He’s unpretentious, and oblivious to his gift, and he allows others the freedom to live their lives without interrupting the process. He’s filled with the type of experience that not only inspires, but can actually save lives when shared. He does this often. He is in essence, an open book.

So, as we continue to talk about his health and how things will play out, he says to me, “Steph… I don’t have many if any regrets. I’m not sorry for anything I’ve done, but there are some things that I wish I had done that I didn’t do. Not many, but there are a few… and I had the chance to do them and passed them up. Nothing monumental. Silly stuff really. I wish I had kept playing in bands, and had a threesome, and had one really fast car. I wish I would have spooned with more girls too, and ate more cake.”

I tell him matter of fact that threesomes are overrated and I’m going to make it a point to eat more cake in his honor.

Afterwards I went to the bathroom and balled like a baby for a man that I’ve only been in the company of maybe 5 whole times, but who helped save the wretched little mess that I was. A man that lived a really simple life and at the end of his 55 years only wishes he ate more cake.

 So at the end of the day maybe I cry for good reason. Maybe my tears have a mind of their own, and shed as they see fit. I guess I don’t know for sure, but what I do know is that if I’m lucky he’ll keep sharing his stories with me, and I’ll know a little bit more about the man who helped save my life and has been rooting for me ever since.

The Secret Truth to Love that Nobody Tells You

 

What is all this love business about anyway?                                  

This past summer I visited my aunt. While I was there I was a part of a conversation that shook me a little bit. It challenged some of my ideas about what love actually is. I really spent a lot of time wondering if I had this love business wrong all along.

Let me say- visiting my aunt at her place always feels a bit like “coming home.” And- I don’t think that feeling is unique to myself, nor do I think that happens by accident. I can see there is a lot of hard work and preparation that goes into being a (frequent) hostess, and it is truly a labor of love. Whenever I’m there I do my best to show my gratitude for the gift of hospitality she gives by helping out as much as I can- with whatever I can. I don’t think it helped my cause much that my dog (rest in peace Ruka, sweet girl) pissed on her carpet every chance she got. But I digress.

We were sitting around, and as the dusk turned into night the topic of love came up.

“It’s not a feeling, it’s a verb!” I claimed.

Not a single person agreed with me. They were pretty much all in agreeance that love is- well- a feeling. And by definition they’re right. I googled it. On the definition of love, Webster says this:

NOUN 1. an intense feeling of deep affection 2. a person or thing that one loves 3. (in tennis, squash, and some other sports) a score of zero; nil:

VERB 1. feel a deep romantic or sexual attachment to someone

I do not accept that. And yes- I’m stubborn, and yes- I dislike being wrong, and yes- I frequently am, but this really has nothing to do with that. A feeling? No. That’s so minimal. Its bare bones, and no depth. It feels empty and shallow and reduced- reduced like the browning, and bruised bananas at the supermarket that nobody wants.

If that’s all love is; a feeling- by all means you can keep it. I don’t want it. I’ve had that kind of love, and the damage myself, and my lover were able to conjure up in love’s name was beyond a nightmare. I’m over it. I need more. I demand more. I must see, hear, and feel more. I need to stand in loves brutal grind prevailing in triumph; tired and all at once feeling exhausted and accomplished and inspired.

Love is a skill. For some that skill is fine-tuned, and expansive. For others it’s limited and fleeting. Then there’s a spot smack dab between the two, which sometimes looks really good, and like you’re all peace love and joy, yet other times it just looks sad and icky and messy and depressive. This is my spot, my space- I’m all up in this category. I’m both. I’m the grey area. The middle. The stretched out distance between the two extremes. And. I happen to like it here (most days). Love can be intense, and consuming. Reaching inside I rip everything out, and hand it over, and then there’s the constantly showing up as someone better than I feel like. It is tiring. Love will wear you thin.

In my mind the definition that has best described love comes from Corinthians 13:4-8: - and I’m not one who normally quotes the bible- but this is pretty brilliant.

 Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It does not dishonor others, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs.  Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth.  It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away.

How I interpret that is that love is a way of being. These are skills. It is work. It is effort. It is not easy. It looks a lot like me having patience with you on the days that you’re working my last damn nerve. Rising to the task of showing you kindness when you piss me off takes an energy that I don’t always have. It is a practice; an exercise, and as some of the people who know me can attest- is not my strong suit. But- it is a suit that’s being worked on constantly. I am endlessly altering, and tailoring, and adding fabrics that enrich that suit. Because- my god- the people I love are worth it. I am worth it. I am worth exercising and strengthening my love; the way I give it- and the way I receive it.

The Corinthians passage also makes this claim in regards to love: it is not self-seeking. I’ve seen my aunt demonstrate this time and time again. She wakes at the crack of dawn after a long night of entertaining, she steps over the bodies of her sleeping houseguests to fix my grandfather a hot cup of coffee, and breakfast. That is love’s work people. There is no reward at the end of that for her. No pot of gold. No accolades. Just her, and the love she performs. It’s a beautiful thing to watch, and as someone who spends a lot of time taking care of other people myself, I know it’s not easy.

So, in matters of love, let me be that. Let me feel that. Let me be the deliverer (or receiver) of hot coffee and bacon in the early morning hours after a sleepless night. Let me not forget that love is a way of being. When I am in love, I am softer, gentler, and more open. When you minimize what love is by calling it a feeling, you take away everything magnificent, and magical, and special about it. When you say it’s simply a feeling- well that’s great, but only you can feel your feelings so it really doesn’t do much good- unless you’re willing to put that to work. If you say you love me- yet have no patience for my neurosis then thanks, but no thanks.

And so- at the end of the day- I want to do more than feel love; I want to perform love. I love writing- so I do it often. I’ve put about five hours into this piece alone. It started out as one thing, but turned into something else. What good is me saying that I love writing if I never create anything with it? If I don’t put time and energy into it, do I really love it? If that’s the case maybe I would be considered an admirer of writing, rather than a lover. No?

I love parenting. I didn’t always. I was a young, and selfish mother. But the love I have for my children transcended that, and so I practiced it daily. I took classes, I read books, and I made mistakes. I learned, and I sought guidance. I prayed like hell for God to make me better, or give my kids someone better than I was. Little by little I got better at this parenting thing. I worked hard on my parenting until I began to evolve as a parent. I grew, and we all got better as a direct result of me loving them. One day I woke up and we all kind of liked one another. We’ve been in-love ever since. Which really just looks a lot like me doing a bunch of stuff, I don’t always want to do; or responding appropriately to situations that I’m not always sure I’m mature enough for- and after I’ve said goodnight to my kids, after a really long, hard day- being really super-duper grateful that I am their mom, and I get to do it all.

So- the secret is simple- Love is a verb, it is an action, it is a skill. And unless you are performing, creating, nourishing, cultivating, practicing, sweating, working, or being your love… Well then sadly, you are in like- or in lust- or in some other thing that is not love. And maybe- just maybe I'm wrong- but if I am- I don't want to be right.

 

Much Peace.