It was only a dream...

Well, look at that. I used to write. 

It's been ten years. How can that be? So much has happened since then. I've spent the last few days rereading old posts, having randomly thought to go back and look. Honestly, it feels as though it was all written by someone else. Someone I used to know a long time ago. Someone I just want to gather in my arms and hug until she squeaks. Because I think she really needed a hug.

Today I am objectively happier in every possible way. Of course there are things that aren't perfect, but life is never perfect. I had almost convinced myself that things really weren't that hard before. That things were always pretty okay, and any pang of anxiety about the past was simply a bit of passing melodrama. 

But looking back - REALLY looking back, I realize that thinking that way isn't fair to that girl who just wanted to figure it out and make everything okay. I realize that I can't minimize the journey, or take for granted the peace and the security that she worked so hard to find. I still spend a significant amount of energy on gratitude, but it's usually for the salient daily happenings. Rarely is it for the perseverance and bravery that girl showed by never giving up. She was so alone. That is what sticks out now. She was so, so alone.

The anxiety is still there, but it's a dull hum that doesn't stand up to rational thinking. Medication helps. Experience and wisdom help. Success helps. And not being alone anymore...well, it's kind of like having a tight collar loosened at the end of the longest day. You can still feel that it was there, but you can finally relax and take a deep breath.

I'm still kind of neurotic. I still lack the confidence of someone native to success. I'm still afraid that if I don't maintain control, everything just might fall apart. I don't think those things will ever go away. But I don't feel completely overwhelmed and beaten terribly often. I don't wonder how I'll keep it together until next week, next month, or next year. I rarely cry.

I used to keep a sticky note on my monitor at work. It had three letters - "IFP". 

"I Feel Pretty"

I needed to be reminded to give myself a bit of a break. To not always be so hard on myself.

Perhaps I need a new note. "IWFT".

I worked for this. 

I worked so hard. And I earned this life of relative luxury. 

Thanks, former me. You're pretty awesome. Come here and let me give you a hug.

I'm not terribly proud of my behavior lately. It's as if everything has just been too hard, and I haven't been able to keep my head up. I've spent the last week in my apartment, hiding from the world. I don't want to talk to anyone. I don't want to do anything. I don't want to go anywhere. I just...don't want to engage.

We're getting to be regulars at Al's Diner on weekend mornings. "Our usual counter seats?" he asked as we walked in. He was still holding the dog leashes in his hand. I smiled as I took them and put them in my purse.

I've started this post so many times, I should already have a novel.

This time, I'm just going to write. It will have to sort itself out in the end.

I've been so careful in relationships for so long, I had almost forgotten just how much fun it is to jump in with both feet and let the current take me where I need to go. I've let myself worry about the end from the very beginning, and I've kept a part of myself in reserve, afraid of what would happen if I didn't keep distance and perspective. Not wanting to lose myself, I've refused to allow myself the freedom to dream.

That may possibly be changing.

I've met someone who has unknowingly given me permission to feel free again. He makes my heart smile, and my crunchy exterior crack. His simple, straightforward approach to me is refreshing, honest, and endearing. He makes me laugh, and he makes me want to give of myself.

I'm not hesitating. I'm not worrying about the circumstances (which are unique and a bit of a challenge, but not unreasonable or impossible). I'm opening, and feeling.........well........sweet :)

Perhaps it will not work. Perhaps he will move on to something else. Perhaps he is not for me. But until I have reason to believe otherwise, I'm going to believe that there is a possibility for great things.

If nothing else, this is beautiful just because of that.

Listen to your head, then follow your heart.

Take the risk! You won't regret it.

Believe in the power of naps.

Hope for more than you expect.

Be silly with children.

Forgive yourself.

Have an occasional glass of wine in the dark.

Make wishes.

Watch fireflies.

Stop worrying!

Indulge in things you shouldn't.

Focus on the bigger picture.

Allow yourself a cookie.

Love your grandparents.

Never waste whipped cream.

If it's worth doing, do it passionately! Otherwise, don't do it at all.

Stay up too late talking.

Walk in the rain.

Use big words whenever possible.

Allow yourself to giggle.

Smile more.

Invest in the perfect bed pillow.

Trust your friends.

Splurge!

Sing in the shower. And in the car.

Love your mother.

Feel pretty. Or handsome. Whichever fits.

Let it go.

Laugh often.

Trust yourself.

Listen to birds.

Raise your face to the sun, close your eyes, put your arms out, and sigh happily.

Pet dogs enthusiastically.

Tell people how you feel.

Wear good shoes.

Listen carefully. But be selective in what you believe.

Love your life.

Love the world.

Love yourself.

Dream.

I was reading through old blog entries this morning, and wondering why so many of them were so very angsty. I also wondered why I have written so little over the last couple of years.

The truth, I think, is that I was never as dark as my blog would make you believe. It was just that there were moments when I needed to sort out the things that would fly through my head at speeds too quick to catch. I was learning to think smarter. I was identifying the tough moments (that everyone has, to be honest), and finding a way to exorcise them. I was evolving into someone with perspective.

Since I started writing, I've learned a lot about myself. I've learned that a lot of the drama that happens in your head is normal, and finding a healthy, private method of expressing it is good. You can't bottle up experiences like illness, death, breakups, or financial sector meltdowns. You also can't let them rule your life. You can talk about them, write about them, work through them...whatever it takes to move on from them. But you have to move on, and you have to let them go. Writing did that for me for a long time.

So why don't I write much now?

Because I don't have to.

Maybe I'll write some things that I want to. I have a few things wiggling around in my head at the moment that could use a good examination, but nothing that is battling to get out. I feel clean, and I feel healthy. I feel happy.

I was told this morning that I am someone who 'gets it', and almost laughed out loud at the concept. Not because it's not true, but because I never really imagined I'd make it this far.
I am still kinda goofy, but only in a way that makes me smile.

Thank you, blog, for providing years of free therapy. I <3 U.

A is at his dad's house tonight, and I have the house to myself. It is quiet, and there is nothing that has to be done before I go to bed.

It is amazing how just one evening of nothingness can recharge my soul.

I've been starting to burn out again, and I don't like it one bit. Why is it that I always have to push myself until I can't take anymore before I remember how to focus and put everything back in perspective? It's a vicious cycle that I need to break. I like the calm me. I enjoy the girl who takes things in stride and remembers to laugh every day. I want to spend more time with the quieter, more centered person who enjoys the small, beautiful things in life.

I know that a lot the problems right now stem from the bleakness of winter. The cold, dark days do nothing for me. The smell of grass, the warmth of rain, and the evenings filled with bird song and fireflies sustain me in subtle ways. I miss green. I long for lilacs. I pray for spring.

Bad things happen. Work takes over your mind, and people make you crazy. Errands pile up, and money becomes scarce. The house gets messy. Friends die.

How does one persevere and learn not to let these things take over? How do you maintain a sense of peace when all of those things drop into your lap when you're not looking?

I've gotten better over the years, God knows. Moments like tonight are more frequent than they used to be. I only wish I could find a way to stay in this place more often than not.

I guess all I can do is keep trying. I owe that to the girl who makes me smile...

Last night, I dreamed of the forest. Clear streams winding through ancient trees, with happy children laughing on the banks. My uncle Chester fished in the shallows as I looked on smiling. I was wishing that I could have allowed my son to spend his entire childhood there, oblivious to the troubles of civilized life.

I awoke to the sound of my alarm clock, well-rested. I'd slept through the night without awakening for the first time in weeks, and the vaguely frenetic fog that tends to follow me when I'm tired had lifted. I knew that I had too many things to focus on today, and that I wouldn't be any less frantic today than yesterday. But I could think clearly. I could start my day with a quiet mind. And I was grateful.

My life is a good one. I am fortunate in ways I can't even begin to count. But sometimes, it takes a simple, delicate moment - like waking up from a peaceful dream - to put all of the peripheral noise in perspective so that I can be appropriately grateful.

Perspective. It's like the sound of laughter in the wind, sometimes.

I do believe it's time for another edition of What Have we Learned?

• Life happens every day, whether or not you're watching. Death ensures that you watch.
• Cute shoes and handbags are worth it, every time.
• Be grateful if your thirteen year-old has little interest in Facebook. Also, be warned if you log into his account when he's not home - seeing nineteen friend invitations from girls who look twenty can be quite disconcerting.
• Salsa dancing is way super fun, even if you are convinced that you're the most uncoordinated person on the planet. Sometimes you can surprise yourself if you are encouraged to push beyond your comfort zone.
• If someone invents nail polish that dries completely in ten minutes or less, they can become the richest person in the world. I will personally see to it that this happens.
  
• Thirty-something is a lot less angsty than twenty-something. That still doesn't make forty-something sound any more appealing.
• It's important to visit your grandpa. Excuses will only sound lame later.
• I am fun, damn it.
• Hot Single Guy Night at the Grocery Store does not exist at Super Wal-Mart.
• I still can't shop at Aldi. Sorry.
• It's important to have Hope for the Flowers.
• Sometimes you need to try harder. Other times, you need to not try so hard. Figuring out which situation is which is the hard part.
• Keep moving forward. Sometimes, that means leaving people behind. Other times, it means carrying them with you. And every now and then, it means letting yourself be carried.
• My generally quiet life is very good for me.
• Charlie the Unicorn will always be funny, and Starfish will always love you.
  
• Yes, I have Europe's "The Final Countdown" on vinyl. Yes, I realize this makes me old. But it also makes me awesome.
• A has been waiting his entire life to be told, "I am not at liberty to divulge that information," by a government employee. You never know what sort of odd little dreams your kids may have.
• Spring will always come back eventually.
• Men are a lot more fun to have around when you've figured out that you don't really need them to be happy.
• Patience really is a virtue.

A friend of mine from work committed suicide Saturday night.

He drove his car into a canal in Lemont.

How do we know it was suicide?

"Churulo said tracks found through the snow and mud indicated the man attempted at least two or three times to drive over a hill into the canal because his vehicle most likely became stuck before forwarding and reversing multiple times."

Also, a client of mine passed away last week.

Also also, P's mother passed away last week.

Spend time with the people you love.

I think I'm going to go visit my grandpa.

I learned today that M has been diagnosed with ALS.

I am so angry that I could scream.

When my friend E died in October, it hurt on a level I'd never experienced. Sitting in the ICU, holding his wife's hand, and watching the nurses with hushed voices go about their business, there was a sense of desolation. Eighteen months of fighting leukemia seemed deserving of a more dignified end. Knowing that his family and friends had been with him every step of the way was small consolation, I thought at the time. The unfairness of death seemed to outweigh everything else. We had done everything we could, and it still was not enough.

But I took care of things. I made the phone calls that his wife could not make. I made funeral arrangements, and I made food. I picked relatives up at the airport, and I helped clean up his things. I stayed busy. I was useful. I fought the sense of helplessness by doing something - anything - to make things easier. I was okay because I was making a difference, no matter how small it was.

Now this.

I instantly realized that M's situation will be dramatically different. ALS has no cure, so the only hope is to slow its progress. I don't know how long it will take. I don't know how it will end; he may choose to end it himself before the disease becomes unbearable. I don't know what he's thinking, and I don't know how he will manage.

What I do know is that he will do as much of this alone as possible. He will not let me help, and he will not rely on family or friends except when absolutely necessary. He believes that accepting support is a weakness, and that asking for help is unforgivable. He will insist on preserving what he sees as his own dignity.

This is his prerogative, of course. But I hate it.

I hate it so much that I could throw up just thinking about it.

I know that we never could have made our relationship work forever. I realize that despite how much we've always cared for each other, our differences were too great to allow any permanence. I made peace with that long ago, and I won't kid either of us by pretending otherwise.

But it hurts desperately. I now realize how fortunate E was to have the people he loved at his side through everything, and how important it was to not have to fight alone. I see his family take solace in the fact that they did everything they could for him, and find some semblance of peace in the connection they felt with him as the end neared. I see the difference it made.

M will never allow himself to rely on me. He will begrudgingly accept some level of help from his sons, but most of the basic needs, I expect, will be met by strangers. Financial compensation is much easier to dole out than thanks, no?

I grieve already. I am horrified by the thought of him slowly dying alone. I can't comprehend the level of misery he will experience, or how it will be compounded by his stubborn refusal to let people love him. It screams of wrongness, and it rages at my sensibilities.

Maybe it makes me so angry because I know that I am so much like him, if on a much more subdued scale. Or because there are so few people in my life that I would be willing to ask for help if I desperately needed it, and I can't bear to lose one of them. Or because there are so many opportunities that have been lost.

I will say, though, that the saddest part of all is that I don't think the ALS will kill him. I think his pride will take him first.

And that is something I can not reconcile.

Strength, by itself, is overrated. We all admire the person who survives a tragedy, or overcomes an obstacle. The problem is that human nature demands such of us. Often, we have no choice but to do what needs to be done when the situation arises. Adrenaline and instinct are more responsible for our success than we are.

More admirable is stamina - choosing to fight the unsung battles, the quiet wars that are waged beneath the surface. Perseverance is a recognition that sometimes, there is no victory, but only an ephemeral prevention of defeat. It is choosing to push forward when no one is watching, and consciously refusing to allow hopelessness to gain a foothold.

At night, when all but the mind is quiet, it is that stamina, that resilience, that brings peace. It is its own courage. It is the knowledge that tomorrow, there will be more hope.

Strength is only an attribute when it is ingrained in character. Alone, it is a fluke - a moment that passes as quickly as any other, and might perhaps be captured and framed for future melancholy reminiscence.

Strength of character, though, requires a bravery that burns like a pilot light in the soul. While the body sleeps, time creeps past, and the world's attention wanders, its glows quietly, creating its own company.

Today, I choose to persevere.

Tomorrow?

I'll need to make a choice again.

I've been thinking a lot about the concept of home lately. Since I'm planning to sell my house and relocate into the city within the next year, it's something that quietly nags at the back of my mind from time to time. By the time I leave, I will have been in this house longer than any other; all of my life, I've been on the move. The last seven years have been a respite. So much has changed in that time, but this place has been a constant. I've done so much work to make it mine that it feels like an extension of self - my own shell, in which I feel safe and protected. It's a bit unnerving to think of leaving.

So what, I ask myself, makes a home? Everyone has their own definition, and each is meaningful. It always seems to have its own feeling, though. Something can smell like home, or sound like home. It can look homey, and it can invoke memories of home. But it always feels the same.

For many years, I thought of my grandparents' house as the closest thing I had to a home. We'd moved so often when I was younger that a lot of the places we lived just felt like houses after a while. My grandparents' house, though, was different. It smelled of Rose Milk hand lotion and fruit flavored Certs candies. The flocked wallpaper along the staircase never changed, and the faux black-bearskin bedspread in the bedroom where I slept always felt softer than green grass in the springtime. The chimes of the antique clock, the mystery of the laundry chute (from which Santa's voice would magically boom as Christmas approached), and the closet shelf filled with playing cards, dominoes, and a plastic bowling set were all so much a part of that sense of peace. I simply knew that at Grandma and Grandpa's house, there was happiness.

It's been a long time now since my grandma passed away. Nine years, which have been long and painful for my grandpa. The house is sad now, and he struggles a bit more every day to make it feel like more than a house. I still feel loved the moment I walk in the door, though. The memories are still there.

So again, I look at this house, which I have made into a new home. The bookshelves in the living room are packed with poetry and pictures, and the kitchen smells of cookies and spices. The clutter of A's childhood fills corners which are lit with sunlight filtered through wooden shutters. My big warm bed welcomes me in every night. Here, we have memories of our own, of good times and bad. We have laughed here, and we have cried. We have loved, and we have lost. We have done what needed to be done, and reaped the rewards of our efforts.

Finally, after so many years of searching for a home of my own, I now realize that it's not something you find - it is something you make. This house, in which we have lived for so many years, has been the first place that I've felt strong enough to pull together all of the pieces of my life and build something beautiful of them.

I have built a home.

And I can take it with me now, no matter where I go.

It's been so long since I've written that I'm almost afraid to start again. Time passes, life happens, and we settle into the grooves of existence. Writing seems less important - the need to create shape from thought becomes more of a curiosity, and all of those little moments that seem so poignant at the time just slip off into oblivion before they can be captured.

I want to write again. Not for you, my friend - for myself. It's amazing how much I enjoy reliving those moments that have been so neatly filed away in past entries. Having a record of the past ups and downs helps maintain perspective on the present, and...well, it just makes me smile.

I like smiling. Let's see if I can get this going again.

It was getting late as I sat outside on the patio. Finishing my second glass of wine, I closed my eyes and listened to the last of the birds wishing each other good night. The fireflies were out, blinking across the back yard. Everything was peaceful.

Catching up after vacation has been a challenge, and I'd stopped for dinner with friends after work. The quiet moment was blissfully sweet, and much needed. Inside the back door, the cat meowed quietly. I'm watching him while M & A are out of town, and I knew he wished he could come sit with me and feel the breeze in his face. I quieted him with a gentle word, and looked up at the darkening sky.

A single drop of rain fell upon my cheek. I smiled and took another sip of wine.

Gradually, the rain began to fall in earnest. I turned my face upward, and felt the cool drops as they landed. The warmth of the evening made them a welcome gift, and I sat for a long moment simply wishing that life could always be so simple.

Night fell, and the fireflies continued their lazy paths around me, through the falling rain. After a while, I stood to come inside. My wine glass was empty, and the breeze was getting cooler. I lifted the glass to the darkness, and silently thanked mother nature for the brief respite.

Stepping inside, I set my glass on the counter and picked up the cat. He purred happily, and settled in to be petted.

Never forget to take moments for yourself. Life is too beautiful to let it pass you by.

As always, our camping trip was delightful. Hours of sitting by the campfire roasting things, lots of wild blueberries (which made for yummy pancakes over the camp stove in the morning), another canoeing trip I'll never forget (I might have to do a separate entry on that one), and all around total relaxation.

On the way home, we stopped at my parents' house for a barbecue. While we were there, my dad proudly announced that I had to take a look at the great DVD he had made of all of the family pictures. He'd categorized them all by person, and set them to music.

I knew this was going to be like watching slides from someone's cruise to Belize, but I humored him. After all, how bad can it be, right? Besides, I know he spent a lot of time putting it together.

So he popped it in, and selected my photos. They started with my wedding, and went on from there. About thirty seconds into it, I scrunched my brows and looked over at him.

"Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"That music. Is that....'Candle in the Wind'?"

"Good catch! I knew you'd like that song."

Hm. My life, in all of its glory, reduced to Elton John in midi format.

"Let's go to A...." I said after a moment.

I hit the menu button, selected A, and pulled him up.

Again, a few seconds in....

"Dad!"

"What?!"

"'Tears in Heaven'? Really?!"

"What?! It's a great song! Alec loves Eric Clapton!"

I looked at A.

"So let me get this straight...I'm a dead drug addict?"

A piped up, "And I'm the dead son of a drug addict! That's perfect!"

My mother, bless her heart, immediately laughed whiskey and coke out of her nose.

"You guys!" my dad huffed. "You have no appreciation for good music!"

He stomped away. I looked at my mother forlornly, and shrugged.

"Aren't you glad you paid for all of those years of music education?"

My mom, still wiping her drink off of her face, simply said, "It could be worse. Your sister is the 'Dancing Queen'".

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As I was standing outside this afternoon, watering my flowers in the rain with mashed potatoes between my toes, I smiled.

It appears that I've survived the last year (see past wailing and gnashing re: working in the financial sector during this recession), and things are better. For me, at least.

I'm fairly certain that I'm back where I want to be. I may even be stronger than ever.

This makes me happy, like mashed potatoes and rain.

Today is my son's thirteenth birthday.

Does it sound like a cliché if I admit that the time has flown by more quickly than I can fathom?

Yesterday, Mark and I took A and his best friend down to US Cellular Field to see the Crosstown Classic - Cubs vs. Sox in all of their collective glory. Halfway through the fifth inning, the boys wandered off to get something to eat, and after about 15 minutes, I was starting to worry. What if they were lost? What if someone robbed them, beat them, took them? What if....?

Mark laughed at me, and pointed out that we hadn't told them when to be back. "They're two teenage boys at the ballpark. Let them be."

Sure enough, they came back, having eaten a couple of hot dogs and explored half of the park. They were glowing - and enjoying a perfect day.

In my mind, they are still little boys. Look at these faces...





They stand on the verge of changing into men, and yet when I look at them, I still see the innocence of childhood. I remember taking A to the blueberry farm, and watching him set aside his little basket to eat as many blueberries as he could directly off of the bushes. I recall him begging to water the garden, and then spraying the hose into the dining room windows, soaking half the house. I see the worried face of a kid who was terrified of taking the training wheels off of his bike, in case he came across an unexpected hill.

This is the boy who still has the god-awful ugly stuffed bear I gave him as a baby, and was recently delighted when my mother sewed a new nose and mouth onto him - so much so that he took a picture with his cell phone and sent it to me.

This is the boy who used to finger paint in the pool, and make up his own words to songs...making me laugh until I fell over.



(I couldn't embed - grr. Click, and then hit 'play')

My little boy. My baby. Now a teenager.

Every day I love him more, and every day he gets a little closer to independence. Little by little, I'm learning to let him be his own little man, no matter how difficult it is to do so.

Happy birthday, little bug, and thank you for being the joy of my life.

From Pictures for Sad Children.