What fuels YOU?

Starting up a running routine again, after years of avoidance, has been interesting.  After training for a marathon when I was in my forties, I seemed to have lost the "joy" of the Run.  I've missed it, the Joy, not the Run...but couldn't seem to pursue it as I've aged.  Now, at nearly 58 years young, I have found my desire to seek my joy again. 

The last couple of years have been hard on my body, making it clear that I am well ensconced in the middle of that tide, pulling me ever to my winter years.  Struggling to learn about my "new" old body, with thyroid disease, Hashimoto's (an auto-immune disease), and just plain simple aging processes, it has not been fun.  Watching my old high school chums turn into grandparents and seeing the reactions of young people all around me deferring to my age, I knew I had to get serious.  Having had a child late in life (I was 42 when giving birth to my youngest) drives me to vindicate myself, to drive myself into staying fit and healthy so I can be the best mom I can be while he is young.... It was a big motivator.  Staying alive.  I mean, really alive... not just living.  There are things we want to do as a family, things we want to see and places we want to go.  I don't want to be unable to climb mountains and forge valleys as needed....So, my journey began in earnest.

I faithfully maintain a wonderful Boot Camp class... doubling up this month so I am Boot Camping every day except Sunday.  Isotolp Fitness has been such good medicine for my body, but more importantly, for my spirit.  I have become strong...not just strong-er, but really strong.  I have become confident... well, more confident... still working on that.  But the work-out has really taken my aging body, and is putting life back into it that I never thought I would see again.  I am very very careful, these days, what I put into my mouth.  There is no magic pill.  It takes a mountain of will power to keep those corn chips, Celtic Nachos, bread, and cheese from entering my body.  It isn't always fun.  But it is always worth it.  And... believe it or not, I am finding my long-lost Joy. 

Everyone in my Boot Camp has inspired me.  Yes, they are all much younger than I am.  But I am just as strong.  I am just as alive.  It is a wonderful feeling.  They have gotten on this "obstacle-mad run-challenge-yourself" crazy train of Spartan races.  And, it pulled me.  I said I would never run again (bad knees, old age...ya da ya da).... Well, never say never.  I signed up for a Spartan Sprint in March.  Taking a deep breath, I donned my running shoes, so I could start preparing.  I know I tell people, "I am doing this just to 'finish' ..just to have fun"  but I know me.  I want to do well.  I don't even think about how old I am, unless it can inspire me. 

I started running at near-by Lake Pine.  It is a very civilized path, hugging the pretty man-made lake.  Paved, of course.  People run it, but mostly people stroll.  With baby carriages, and lots of dogs on leashes.  I have not, as yet, felt the need to upgrade to the National Forest paths that are ruggedly advanced and wild.  Well, okay, I am starting to feel the need to upgrade, but I am deathly afraid of getting lost on the trails.  Hahaha.  I will have to overcome that soon.  But running at Lake Pine has been the first step to my discipline.  And to finding my joy.  That isn't saying that it has been FUN though.  Nope.

I hated the first day out there.  To put it mildly.  I couldn't breathe right; my jogging bra felt too tight and was not letting enough oxygen into my lungs... my knees were starting to give me pains.  And the people.... oh, my Lord.  The people.  My fuel was "pure annoyance."  To this day, I can use the very same annoyance to fuel my runs.  Thank goodness for people.

The path is only so wide.  You would think it wide enough, to look at it, to aptly provide for numbers of people to use it.  But that is not the case.  Too many people, obviously NOT runners (ever), meander in groups of three or more... gaggles of people....spread out across the path so as to easily chat while they meander... apparently unaware that there is a whole world of other people using the path also.  And this happens mostly while on an upward incline, if you can imagine trying to maintain a speed going uphill while having to change direction to go around and off the path into territory uncharted for poor old wobbly ankles.  That would not be such an annoyance if said gaggles would honor the sweaty runners' plea of "to the left, coming to the left" while maybe moving out of a lane with a simple step to the side....but no.  Many people stand their ground, while looking you in the face as if daring you to "steal" their little piece of path.  "I was here first" is not the way to think of public walkways....Boom... there is some fuel for me to speed strongly past them, getting me to my goal much quicker.  Thank you for providing that passionate push for me....

Another "fueling device" is to post my goal on facebook, for all the world to see.  When I feel like slowing down, or walking, I picture the words OUT LOUD that I so proudly posted... and Boom.... more fuel.  I cannot go back on my words, and there is the added spirit of motivation.

Visualizing the goal's end in victory... boom, that is another bit of fuel.  I can use that whenever I need it and as often as I need it...sometimes it is needed more than others, but it always works for me.  In my head, I imagine coming into the finish line, BIG, with arms spread wide and crowds cheering... even if I "only" ran two miles.... hey!  It's MY imagination... and whatever works, right?  I might look like I am limping, sweaty, and a mass of old lady tears with pee running down my leg and ready to collapse...but in my head I am a champion.

Yesterday I completed a 6.6 mile run averaging 9.7 minute miles.... this is just a beginning now.  I am almost 58 years old and I am a runner.  What fuels YOU?

Of "Jumping" Times...

Jumping.  How fun is that really?  Jumping rope.  Jumping for joy.  Just plain jumping.  If you are a child, the word jumping fairly calls obligation for you to do it.  Jumping.  Oh, inner child....just wait. 

Jumping overboard.  Jumping Ship. Jumping to conclusions.  Jumping takes a fair amount of trust in ourselves as adults.  Trust in ourselves and in the security of our environment.  Trust that we will land square footedly, without injury to our aging bones.  These days, jumping isn't much fun.  As I have gotten older, ahem...wiser?, my trust in myself and my world has gotten weaker.  It takes more courage to "just jump"....

I remember, as a young girl, springing from the roofs and balconies of homes and cottages out at the beach where I grew up.  Climbing...I was a climber...and prideful of the heights I could reach.  But climbing meant inevitably, jumping... and oh how I loved to jump.  Springing up and off, spreading my arms like wings and landing...always landing.... on my feet, knees bent and letting my body roll with the earth and the sand ...Taadah!  Jumping up with the whole joy of the flight and the edginess of solid earth, as something to be counted on, knowing I wouldn't fall farther than Mother Earth's bed.

Memories now.  "Jumping" has become something respected, and even feared.  NOT jumping has become my aim.  Because nowadays, if I jump, it is usually not on purpose and becomes known as "falling".... Falling ends up with a painful landing, not controlled nor desired. 

Now the worst jumping I do to myself is "jumping to conclusions."  Which can be horribly disabling, and should be considered dangerous.  The latest "jumping to conclusions" has ruined quite a few days in a row for me, ending in nightmares in which I am suffering and out of control...jumping to conclusions is not doing a damn bit of good for me and I must find a way to stop.

I have spent the last year and a half struggling to maintain the beautiful and fortunate good health I have enjoyed previously for so many years.  My body is falling to pieces.  Between thyroid and old broken bones and knees that ache, and eyesight that is failing...now the beautiful golden skin I have been growing on my body since before birth is betraying me.  Everyone said it would.  Skin is the largest organ of the human body.  It is a lovely thing to have, indeed.  Skin covers all the gruesome mechanics and oils and blood and guts, making life pleasurable to ourselves and to everyone else who doesn't want to see the mess underneath. 

I have become aware of how horrid we could look without our skin, by watching a series called "The Walking Dead" in which lovely human people, attractive in their own right, lose bits and pieces of their skin, becoming patchworks of gore.  It doesn't seem to bother them, however, since they are in fact "dead" and only the "walking" part of them seems to be alive.  Oh yeah, and the part where they get hungry to eat living people, also.  But I am digressing.  Skin.  Beautiful skin.  Skin that can have cute freckles, to accentuate innocence, skin that is white and pale and fragile enough to see the pretty blue vein that reminds us of the delicacy of life, skin that is tough as leather and strong and worthy of warriors.  My skin is sort of olive, especially in the summers after the sunshine warms it as I play.  Dark skins, light skins... skin that can measure health by changing colors if we become ill.  Skin that holds temperatures of our soul in place... hot, cold, making us aware of life itself. 

Well.  As I have enjoyed my skin heartily, through all of my 57 years... starting at a young age appreciating all of its benefits... especially as a teenager when it became apparent that I could actually change my color all by myself by exposing it to the amazing warmth of the sunshine.  Oh, I used the clean smelling baby oil that my mom used for rubbing on my baby brother and sister...I loved the smell.  And when the sun heated it up, I was in heaven.  It gave me a golden color that I got complimented for, over and over again.  My girlfriends and I would have "tanning contests" seeing which of us lucky girls could get the darkest and prettiest tans during our Michigan summers before school started up in the fall.  I added iodine (yes, I did... thought it was a great trick that I learned from fashion magazines) to make my tan deeper and darker.  I basked.  I think I read about a thousand or more books every summer while I "worked" on my tan.  I was a lovely thing.

As you can probably see where this is going... yup.  Addiction.  I felt healthier with my tan, skinnier, prettier.... wearing white and feeling really happy when neon clothing became popular... wow.  Looking at some of my old pictures, I can't help but think I looked like a negative of myself.  My eyebrows and my hair fairly glowed in the dark with the lightness of the sunshine while my skin contrasted like a roasted shadow of youth.  Like a coffee bean with hair.  Pretty attractive stuff, eh?  (I laugh, in jest of youthful ideas...)

I have been lucky as I have grown up, with my skin.  I exercise a lot.  I eat right, most of the time.  I take care of myself as well as the next person.  I don't smoke (never did, never will) and rarely drink alcohol. I am consistent with my dentist appointments, and my ever-increasing doctor appointments, to maintain the health that I've enjoyed.  So what's the problem? 

On my last visit to get my yearly skin check by the dermatologist, there were a few "spots" that concerned me.  Especially with my history and relationship to Mr. Sol... and it proved to be worthy of concern.  I have an area above my right breast that will be burned out due to a cancer.  Luckily THAT spot is "just" a basel cell type, which is fairly superficial, and in early stages.  But it is just the beginning.  Here is where the "jumping to conclusion" comes in. 

I am not sleeping.  I worry all the time now.  I feel desperate to "do" something but am turning circles in my mind as to what and how and when.  It is making me crazy.  And frightened.  I frantically pulled my hair back from my head to see what I would look like bald and even snipped some of my hair off in my impulse to do what Susan Surandon did when she sheared her hair marking a moment in time to reconnect with her soul in The Banger Sisters.  Yeah.  That went badly for me;  luckily I can cover the snipped part with the top longer hair that escaped my panic.  But it better grow back fast.

I guess you could say that my "jumping to conclusions" didn't do any good for me.  And makes my case that it is dangerous.  But in writing this, I have discovered a new thing about myself.  Maybe IT can be used to do good.  Maybe I can get a hold of myself, in the "jumping to conclusions" and just jump.  Maybe it is what I need to wake up and start LIVING again.  Really living, not just doing laundry and cleaning my little world.  I need to use this "jumping to conclusion," to actually JUMP.  As in Jump for Joy.  As in Jumping Rope...for fun.  

I have been thinking about all the things I have wanted to teach my boyz, before I depart.  All the things I want to tell them.  Looking at my life, and realizing I haven't done anything near to the glorious adventures I planned for myself a quarter of a century ago.  This is where the jump comes in.  I have climbed to the top of the roof.  I needn't think about the landing, because we are all gonna land somewhere, somehow.... I am going to reach down to my inner child and find that joy of flight, of jumping, and of controlling my fear to turn it into LIFE.  I'm gonna Jump.

December Dreams... Of Spirit and Gifts

     Inside the Glass house, oh so long ago, the day after Thanksgiving was a most magical time to me.  The whole world seemed to change, the edge of daily deeds blurring into a sparkling hope of what's to come.  As a child, growing up in the late fifties and sixties, there was much to be gained from being young and impressionable.  A time when women wore "dresses" to clean their homes, and moms went to every single PTA meeting ever, and martini's were made and ready for the days to end and evening to begin. 

     My dad had a CB radio, that was as much "toy" for him as it was a communication device to make the world seem smaller and more cosy.  Every night, as he made his way home from work, we would hear his voice announcing "KBV3871" on the box in the corner of the kitchen.  We would all perk our ears, and come running to hear him tell my mom via the magic of radio waves to "get a cold one ready, I'm almost there."  It was my pleasure and duty to run to the basement, feeling the hard, cold cement steps descending deep into our beach house, and grab a cold Miller from the fridge, popping it open to present to a tired Pop as he came through the door.

     My mom would have her apron on, the table having been "set" by myself and my sister, and carrying each hot dish over to set on the hot pads placed "just so."  It happened this way every single night for as long as I could remember.  At least, on a normal night.  The night before Thanksgiving was different, offering not only a change in routine, but in atmosphere.  My dad never had to work the next day, so our dinner was made up of small bits of "specials"... easy dinners to make and clean up, making short work of our time at the table.  Once we cleared up, and the last dish was dried (yes, dried...as in, with a towel...no dishwasher in those days, except the ones named "Kris and Sheree")  the fun and the work would begin. 

     Pie dough was made, with lots of "sneaking" bits and pieces when "the mom" had her back to the bowl...(love pie dough to this day, despite all her warnings that it would give us "worms.")  Pie filling was put together...none of that canned stuff for us.  Sugar started to sparkle and slide around on the countertops, and even the floor a little, added to the dusty flour spillings that were inevitable.  Cherry pies, pumpkin pies, and ...my favorite, pecan pies were "built" and baked for the huge family gathering anticipated on the morrow.  More serious food prep started happening, starting with the big naked turkey and the pink fat ham that was studied and prodded before setting into the grooming of the main courses.  Dressing made, and stuffed into the cavity (gross) of the bird, glaze made to brush over the ham... green bean cassarole put together so it could be just thrown into the oven at the last minute.  And the painstaking slicing of the potatoes for my mom's special Augratin potatoes that everyone asked for each year.  (Not me, I called them "all rotten" potatoes...wasn't a big potato fan, even then)... It seemed that night lasted forever, and I was tired from my head to my wee toes when I finally got tucked into the bottom bunk. 

The next day always brought a flurry of activity, and excitement.  Mom usually made our "Sunday best" dresses, and we had pretty clothes to put on right after a quick breakfast of Life cereal and (eww) milk.  The house smelled good from the moment I woke up, and the warmth of the cooking and the activity made my new clothes scratch and itch, and I had to hurry to zip up my dress before it made me crazy with discomfort.  I always disliked getting dressed up, and prefer to live in jeans and sweatshirts now that I have a choice.  Even on Thanksgiving.  Our house filled up quickly, with the stomping off of boots and shoes of the incoming relatives, cousins squealing and whining and laughing and playing... kids getting shoo'd off to the basement or any other room but where the adults were gathering.  My sister and I had to politely stop whatever we were doing, as the commands started coming like contractions of birth, closer and closer together until it was dinner time.  We set up the "Little Kid's Table" since there was never a big enough table for all of us to fit around.  That "little kids" table is a big joke even today at family gatherings, since my cousins who never made the "cut" as adults still feel a bit ostrasized when it is brought up jokingly. 

     I loved our Thanksgiving Day gatherings.  I look back on my family of old, with such mourning... I miss us.  I miss all of us that have finished their journeys, leaving those of us behind grieving.  But in my memory, it is always the grand-ness and the love and the warmth and the laughter that stays with me.  After such a day, you would think the day after would be a let-down.  But it never was.  It was another beginning ... and the permission for us to welcome the Christmas holiday to our year.  The day after Thanksgiving was a welcome to the world of lights, and presents and kindness and hope.  And, for me, it expanded my imagination for many more years than it should have, for I welcomed the world of Santa Claus to my home.

     My father made Christmas at our house.  He WAS Santa Claus.  Never would I have believed that my little dark haired daddy who was so reserved and quiet in his demeanor, was that magical HUGE presence in white beard and big black boots....but there you go.  Even when we lived in a tiny little trailer, I would be in awe at the Christmas Magic that I woke up to.  Between my dad and my mom and her wonderful baking, and the decorations that came out each year, handled gingerly and lovingly, ... the little candles shaped like choir members and angels and Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus...never lit, heaven's no, and for that I am thankful.  They were a part of Christmas tradition that I counted on without even thinking about it. 

     My dad's role in the decorating, besides putting up lights outside in the middle of cold Michigan winters, was to put up the tree.  Whether we had a real tree or a tree that we put together with sticklike branches that fit into holes on the "trunk" my dad always outdid himself.  I remember one year he got a "movie camera" and he put the "trunk" up of the fake tree, take a shot with the camera of it, stick a branch in, take a shot, stick another branch in, take another shot..etc until the whole tree was up, bulbs and all.... then he played it back to us and with the magic of movie-making the tree grew in minutes right before our eyes.... the more charming for the rare catches of mom's hand slipping in and out as he captured the tree "growing"...

     And Christmas morning...oh my.  We got presents that we didn't even know we wanted.  He went "all out" for Christmas for us.... later, my mom told me that our grandparents used to scold my dad for "spoiling" us each year, but it never phased him.  My parents must have stayed up all night putting together such a magical display of wonder for us... when we got up on Christmas morning (wee morning) all a-shaking and big-eyed, my dad was already behind the movie camera all set up for our first impressions to be captured forever on film. He never failed to amaze us, and never ever did he let us NOT believe in Santa Claus. 

   To this day, the day after Thanksgiving brings back those memories and so much more.  I miss my dad all the time, but knowing how much he loved this time of year, I think of him even more.  He gave us many gifts, some of which I remember and cherished, and some that have gone the way of forgotten things... but I realize the best gift he gave me, that he gave us, was the gift of himself, and of his heart and of all of the every day things he did for us that we don't even think about.  He gave us a love for all things "family"... and I miss him.  I work hard to give my family that experience of "magic" and the awesomeness of imagination and hope that he gave to me.  When my time comes for me to leave, for my own journey to "end" I hope my boys will think back to the traditions of our holidays and see what gifts they really are.  The spirit of love runs in families.  The spirit of love is THE gift that I wish for all of you.  Namaste.

Of Pumpkins and Flames, and the Warmth of the Fall.

The middle age of a woman is warm, and orange...not the dull, muted orange of a daytime pumpkin, but the glowing, welcoming orange of a night-time jack-o-lantern with a lighted candle inside.  The shape of us, as well as the soul of us, is at the mercy of our world.  We can fight it, and some of us do.  We can wallow in it, and some of us do.  We can embrace it..

I believe the light in all of us, has been there since the day we were born.  Each light is kept aflame differently, uniquely and gives us our individual will.  Our shell, our pumpkin, is the shelter given us that protects our flame, maybe adapting with time to adjust the feeding or the manipulation of our spirits. 

For some reason, I consider relationships more closely in the fall.  It seems a soft season.  Maybe it is the time of year that our inner flames need to be fed and nurtured, as our food supply is harvested in preparation for winter.  My age rests comfortably in fall, like being in an old easy chair.  The frolicking of summer has passed, and we all seem to need fall to steady ourselves and store away our energies along with our harvests, in preparation for the cold, harder days of winter.  I hold my friends and family a bit closer, wrapping them about me like a blanket on the cooler evenings of October.

Our experiences, in middle age, become deeper and more meaningful.  We see with a fairly clear eye where we have been, and remember the summer's energy in our dance.  And, we have a vision of what is to come, having observed the way of life that our elders have gone.  The circle of life holds our flame in the center, spinning faster and faster...until the flame puffs out, with the lingering smell of our spirits in the bit of smoke wafting.


I have a couple of young friends, even younger than my firstborn, who have shared their spirit with me in spite of our age difference.  I am learning that time and age have a different meaning to the dimension of spirit.  We have been exploring together, on a path that has connected our individual journeys, knowing we will probably end up in different places some day, but we have the comfort of companionship right now on this path.  We have connected together easily, by the pull of a magic that happens rarely.  I think our inner flames have somehow recognized a familiar warmth from each other and works like a magnet...making three flames into one.This is one circle of magic that I am thankful to have in my life right now.

I have another "circle" made up of two fellow middle-agers that I know will be in my life forever.  We have made a community of three on facebook message, and it feels like a connection that will hold through thick and thin like blood.  We are experiencing our Crone-ness together, and I know this is a circle that will not end, even with the blowing out of a flame.

I am embracing the Fall of my life.

Facing the Sun...Absorbing the Rain

The sounds of a spring-time rainy day in North Carolina are soft, and fairly cosy. The greens look greener, the budding trees more full. But it dulls the edges of my heart in ways that bring discontent, as well as a limp laziness of not caring to my day. Unable to shake this off, and just do something, I melt and wilt deeper into my blanketed chair. Hugging my umpteenth cup of coffee to my chest, feeling a bit of the sleepiness from the warmth, without the futile buzz that comes with caffeine. Oh yeah. I am beyond mellow. Starting to slip into the old fetid swimming hole that is depression, I question my emotional maturity.

I had great hopes at the beginning of this year. New medication that was supposed to make me dance with energy and lightness, hope that our life was really making sense to the glories of the future. Chris' new position in his job, that would bring my dearest friend back in place of the stranger his old job created. I felt assured that we were making positive decisions regarding the most important four years of our son's education. Moving ahead with confidence, and the ability to ignore the flagging red tips of warning flags along the way, my heart was hopeful. I still had the ability to talk myself out of the slipped footings as I made my way through my days.

It became apparent to me that I was losing ground, when I found myself deflated and defeated and uninspired with my Irish dance classes, and even my hard-earned place in my Intermediate Boot Camp was making me whine and balk. My joys were turning against me.

Something is wrong.  But I don't know what.  

Dan, this one is for you. You are going to be good for my Family.

Wow!  It's been a long time since I sat down and actually had something to say.  Not that life didn't go on without you, dear Blog, but I found motivation and inspiration in odd times and did not make you accessible to me.  So, I am going to attempt to catch up.

This summer as been a challenge, good and bad, as all challenges are.  The only thing consistent to ME has been my Boot Camp class, which doesn't sound poetic at all, but has held me together body, mind and soul, to get me through some tumultuous waters.  Like the ocean, this summer has had a tremendous rip-tide that could have easily pulled me under and dragged me out to sea.

From the outside, looking in, I can understand how people may think my life is very calm and secure.  The very peace of it, however, is exactly what creates my storms.  I have never been able to feel truly settled, or calm, unless things around me are challenging and a bit dangerous.  As I grow older, less of me is being pulled into the eye of the tornado, and finding peace within an already calm space has become something I want to learn better how to do.  It isn't comfortable, as one may assume, and my body seems to crave constant pressure and movement.  Sitting still feels stagnant to me, even when I am overwhelmed with the need to "rest."

I am living with two men, one young and one ...well, "old"...(no offense, honey...I am still older than you)...Both of these men are currently very satisfied with staying still.  It is within them, a sort of peace that makes me feel as if their calm harbor is where they maintain their strength.  It makes me crazy.  Period.  I feel that I am their "nucleus" and they are pulled magnetically to maintain a close distance to me, and I am afraid to go anywhere outside of THEIR comfort zones.  I don't want to shake them up with my own frenetic need to wiggle and blindly jump about.

I am trying to fill my calm space with very active things, that I can be passionate about.  It makes me think of a cup of hot water with its energetic ions and protons and neutrons bopping around about and into each other as the water heats up.  Maybe I can maintain this calm exterior and NOT burst... so, I am starting up my Irish dance classes again.

My Irish dance academy has a new teacher, who is fast becoming a good friend to me.  My friend has one of those "calm exteriors" also, but I sense a kindred spirit inside, and I'm thinking his molecules are ever-moving and keeping up with the frenetic energy I contain as well.  His dancing is beautiful.  It is powerful, and yet sweetly smooth, as if he has a bit of fairy-light within lifting him off the ground.  I will dance like that someday, I think.  I can feel it.  I have taken only three classes with him so far, but he is teaching me about where the body has the most strength, in the most unsuspected places.  Who knew that to lift off, being on our toes would get us higher than pushing off from the very solid whole foot....?

Which leads me to this thought:  I wonder if our "power" in everyday living, both spiritually and physically really comes from the often overlooked small places?  Never obvious...maybe that's how people who have become very powerfully accomplished and famous, surprise us.  Take Mother Teresa for an example: She very quietly, steadfastly, and yes, calmly, took over the world in her own way and learned to contain her goodness and her strength to accomplish outrageously energetic things.  In history, there are many people who have learned to move their "cup" of energy without disrupting the calm ... learning to push off from the small places of their bodies, their souls, seemingly to defy the laws of nature...

I know many people who are proud to call themselves "Christians" will determine that it is "God" who is their strength and motivations, inside of their peace.  That's good, I think.  I accept that.  I think we need to use whatever visualizations and imaginations that we can to feed our souls, to heat up our energies. I like to visualize God, myself.  I am not sure of His absolute reality, and do not have "faith" in all that seems to be the makings of our society's Christianity... I think it is much bigger than that.  And smaller, too.  I believe every religion has those accomplishments, and finding the fires within ourselves individually takes an unearthly separation of body and soul... and giving it a name just seems to limit the possibilities.

I am, personally, going to start looking closely at the smaller, more hidden places of my strength...not overlooking every potential therein, nor underestimating the smallest or the weakest.  Let's surprise ourselves, and start jumping off from our toes, instead of our whole foot.

Ragged Days of Falling Together...

In crafting home-made paper, one has many options and processes to choose from. Being the kind of person I am, less exacting and more impatient to finish than others, I prefer to create ragged edges as compared to the precise and meticulously framed borders that accomplished artists market.

I find that ragged edges bond more seamlessly when I combine two or more paper sections together when making larger pieces from numerous smaller ones. Ragged edges adhere together with more strength, and also bond as though originating as "one," not being able to tell where one section ends and another begins.

It figures that I craft my life in the same ways. I feel much like a ragged person, whose edges are rough and unpredictable with no semblance of order and planning. I never really know what I will do next. Obviously, I accomplish little due to my many distractions and ever-changing interests. I have the attention span of a puppy. Or so it seems to me.

In looking through a Glass Half Full, I can be thankful for my ragged edges, as I have been blessed with a husband who sees my ragged edges as something attractive and exciting... and of late, my ragged edges shook up his world as well as mine for the sake of a life that, all of a sudden, could be cut shorter than we'd like. My husband is a sweet man whose edges were born less ragged than mine, but I'm seeing that he has intentionally been tearing some of his sharp lines, sometimes painfully, to mesh with my own. That is love.

I understand that I am a frustrating muddle of a mess more often than not. He is a man that prefers to know his boundary and the expectations of life. He likes to plan, even though he isn't particular when plans go awry. He just adjusts his boundaries. And such, he is gifing me with this process, so entirely "him." I see, now, that he is adjusting his boundaries often. He thinks about our next moves very carefully, too carefully for me, but he is meticulous and cautious taking a good long time in his decision making. What I failed to see, before, is that this is part of his process to start tearing bits of his comfortable straight edges off, leaving chunks of himself torn wide open baring itself to the elements. That is love.

We have a ways to go, while creating our "bigger piece" but I am seeing our edges beginning to fade one into the other. I recognize our different textures, and colors, still...and may always be able to discern our differences. But there is certainly more blending and bonding being done in these days than we can yet see with our eyes, but can feel in our hearts. I acknowledge the tearing that it has taken, the desire in his heart that keeps him hanging on to this very amateuristic piece of work that is "me"... I am seeing less and less of the "edge" that comes between us, and look forward to the days when we will be truly "one piece." Happy Anniversary, darling. Thanks for letting me be me. That is love.