Manatees and Elements

When I was in elementary school, maybe third or fourth grade, my mother let me play hookie from school. It was winter, cold, and gray. She took me to see the manatees at our local springs.

I love those springs. My high school best friend and I spent many summer days there, baking in the sun, and freezing our way swimming to the boil. Aside from those memories, my favorite thing about going to the springs was the manatees. 

They are a graceful bunch, those manatees.

They only came when it was cold, since the water was warmer in the springs than the river.

So, on this bleak, damp, frigid day, my mother allowed me to stay home from school and spend the day watching the manatees. I'm sure we walked throughout the park, too. I'm a sucker for a museum and monuments and history, so I would imagine she let me linger and look. 

It is a good memory.

Lately, I have been thinking more about my mother. And, maybe I am too hard on her, maybe I judge her too harshly. Maybe I am just softening towards her, and finally distance is allowing me to be more gracious in my thoughts regarding her. 

And, I wonder if that day, she needed me. She needed me to love manatees, to watch me watching them. To call her over to see them. To read the signs aloud to her at the old schoolhouse. 

The momma and her babies, nursing. Gah. My eyes are leaking.

Maybe she needed to see me content, and in my element, so get some contentedness for herself.

I write that because sometimes, I just need to see my kids being themselves, doing what makes them, them. 

Because there is nothing better than watching someone being who they were created to be.

I went to high school with some incredibly talented and driven people. Gifted in all kinds of ways: musicians, artists, public speakers, dancers, teachers, and the list goes on and on. 

And some are gifted at caring for others, seeing a need and filling it, and somehow doing it in a way that leaves one feeling accepted and equal, not pitied.

I've had a few of those the past couple of years. More than I deserve, for sure. People I am not certain I would have made it out of the hardest of years as in tact, had they not been there to make sure I ate and slept and knew I was heard, and accepted, no matter how clumsy I was in behavior or appearance.

They saw my need, and were willing to be themselves around me, thus filling my need.

People, we need each other. And, we need each other to be ourselves, and in our element, with each other.


I love them. I want one.

I need you to be you. Not who you think you should be, not who you've been told to be, but you. Whether it is boisterous and charismatic, or subtle and quiet, or both, or in between; we need to see others be themselves. 

It makes us braver, I think. And, it gives us permission, when we see someone else in their calling or gifting, or whatever you want to call it, to be in our own gifting. That maybe we are all running the same race, or fast walking it, but that we do it together, and in our own proverbial lanes. 

I cannot run in my friends' lanes. I will trip them up. But, if I see one next to me, I can be encouraged to run alongside them. To slow down if need be, or quicken my pace if I get a bit distracted. Or, maybe I am encouraged just to see them running in their element.

Sometimes, it has to be enough to take joy in someone else's joy.

Friend, be in your element, whatever that may be; be who you are, be the person that you know in your gut you are absolutely purposed to be. In being you, and doing life as you, you give others strength and hope. 

Be you; and if you need to see someone else being them, you can find me observing the manatees.


This one is me, in manatee form. Diving face first into food.

Sunbeams Like You

Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam
Sunbeams are never made like me.
-The Vaselines, sung in my head by Kurt Cobain

I think I must be part plant. 

Because when it is morning time, and the sun is out, I blossom. My limbs stretch and my mind awakens, and all is right with the world.

I used to think it was the beach that sparked some kind of happiness in me; but now I see that the beach is a friend. It commiserates with me: whether I am pensive, giddy, or sad. It acknowledges and affirms; but that is it.

It is the sun that I need. I need it near as much as I need air.

And I have become needier these past few years. 

Air. Sun. Green.

Those are my three keys. I need to see them, breathe them, touch, write about them, bask in the light and richness.

I told my husband that I think I photosynthesize, like plants. He does not believe it is possible, but he is no botanist, so what does he know?

photosynthesis: putting together the light

Is that not one of the loveliest chemical reactions ever to be described?

My body, no, my soul, needs light; my soul needs to put light together, to be put together with the light. The light puts me together.

I need life that makes me thrill in its wonders. Pink blooms on glossy stems with light reflecting in all directions, being courted by a breeze. I need drops of rain dancing on grass in the light of day. Waves crashing in salty motions, coarse plants matted in the grainy sand, and a golden orb mirrored in the water.

I need life in motion.

When I cannot see the sun I search for it. I purposely seek it out: I need it, desperately. I need the reassurance that it is there, though it hides on occasion. I need to know that it has not disappeared forever, that it is still setting its sight on me, too.

It is likely that I am a sunflower in a human disguise.

And some days, I am like Kurt Cobain, and I believe that Jesus don't want me for a sunbeam. That Jesus don't want me.

When the sun hides its face, I withdraw, and cower into myself. When it seems like Jesus hides, I retreat, too. Because it is on those days I am not certain he wants me.

But that is a lie.

I am a sunbeam. Or, as a sunflower, a representation of the work that is done by, and with, a sunbeam. Even on those days the sun rejects me, I have enough. I have enough light to be put together until the sun shines in its full glory.

I wish I could tell Kurt Cobain he was a sunbeam. Somehow, his lyrics moved and stirred something in me in my adolescence. They gave voice to my emotions when I had no voice of my own. Since I can not tell Kurt that he was a sunbeam, and Jesus wanted him very much, I will tell you.

You are a sunbeam.

You are significant.

You reflect and utilize light in a way no one else does; and we need it.

And, more than needed, the way light is put together in you is wanted.

Sunbeams are made just like you.

Need more reassurance or want to talk, or whatever, email me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com

You are precious to me, dear sunbeam.

Bare Bones and Wordy

I feel like a chicken bone

Picked clean of my

Skin, fat, and muscle.

Picked apart, but there is still meat on those bones.

I find myself writing little lines of prose here and there; with a sharpie on the calendar, in the notes on my phone, on a scrap of paper found in my purse. Because even though this is the most draining time of life I have yet to experience, in every way, there is still a little more I can give. Even though the chicken bone looks clean, there is still yet another sliver of flesh remaining; and so it is with me. While I am exhausted and emptied, there is still a few drops of me left. 

So I let the drops leak out. It is the only way to get more of me. I write, I sketch, I color, I do whatever I can to squeeze out the drops of creativity; and I put them in my cracks. Like tiny pieces of putty, I use those drops to fill in holes. 

That is my gift. God gave me a gift for words and silly things; and I use them to heal myself. I use them to let God in, to let Him heal me. 

I find myself in words

Reading, it is my home

It is in words that I belong,

I belong to them.

Reading somehow nourishes me; creative language nurtures and comforts me, gives me the ability to articulate and voice my emotions. Writing reveals me, prunes me, allows me to stretch a bit more with each word.

Do what nurtures you; not what nurtures your ego, or hurts, or vendettas, but what nurtures you. You, the person, the soul, the one that was made with intention and purpose. 

The more you give yourself to the craft that nurtures you, even when weak and road weary, somehow, the more healed and whole you become.

Life will find a way: let it.

Some people sing. Some people organize. Some people formulate mathematical equations. Whatever your thing is, whatever it is that was planted inside of you by God, do it. Do it well or do it feebly, but whatever you do, do not forsake it.

Do not hide, or bury, your talents. Let them out into the light, let yourself be in the light. Sweet friend, no more hiding yourself. No more hiding your talents. Be you and all that being you entails; be you with all of the muchness you can summon.

Let your gift, talent, dream, see the light.

For far too long I refused to allow myself to dream. I refused to read books that were works of fiction. I did not write poetry or essays. And I was stunted, shortened, and despondent. Because, for better or worse, the silly and wordy things are the things that God chose to seed inside my soul. And when I reject them, I lose a chunk of my purpose and zeal.

Instead, God chose things the world considers foolish in order to shame those who think they are wise. And he chose things that are powerless to shame those who are powerful.
1Corinthians 1:27 NKJV

Want to know why I choked my talents? Because I did not think I was good enough at them. Or because other people did them better. I labeled them as foolishness because I heard someone else say it was foolish. Someone said that my way of doing things was childish, so I stifled it.

Writing that last paragraph sickened me to my core, but it is the truth. I stopped being me because someone else thought it was stupid.

This is why I beg you to be you: because I know the disease of living by another human's measure of your worth, and it will surely bring you death. Jesus did not die on a cross for you to measure up to another one of His creation's yard stick.

Fly, take root, and bloom, little seed. Then repeat.

Y'all, it is all grace. It is all grace. These little words, it is a grace I get to write them. It is grace that I get to take twenty six letters and arrange them into words. It is grace that I no longer demean or demoralize myself with someone else's words. Please do not take offense by this: but you do not define me. And I will not take offense when you do not allow me to define you.

Be you. Do what makes you, you.


Grace to you, and peace, from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.
Philemon 1:3 KJV

And now, fat full

of words and prose,

I am contented.

Garden

"Got a garden of songs where I harvest all my thoughts / wish I could harvest one or two for small talk."

Ani DiFranco

All the thoughts, thriving together.

I have a lot of thoughts, just sitting in my garden. Are they seeding and rooting and growing; or are they simply rotting? I do not know. But I do know this: I thought I was better than I am. I thought I was big and tough and brave; thought I could do it on my own.

But, I am sad.

It sounds like my garden is rotting.

I thought the depression was under my thumb; but it seems that instead of me indenting it, it is leaving its mark on me.

Fight or climb; work with or against.

And I struggle. 

My little garden is sad that she does not get to grow her thoughts. 

I thought I was bigger than the depression; turns out making it a competition is no longer beneficial. Because there is no bigger or better: it just is. There are choices to be made. 

I would rather sit and just, not. 

Instead I just sit in a ball of insecurity, agonizing over the next minute and then the next one, all the while doing nothing. No tears, no anger, no release. 

I am the same Heidi I was before being motionless, before birthing a baby, before getting pregnant. I am still her, and I am quality goods, and I am goods with a depression. 

And that is okay. Plenty of goods came from the depression era.

Depression era glass, to name one good thing.

And plenty of good things have depressions in them.

Africa's Afar Depression

I am learning (in a painfully slow manner) to work with the depressions instead of against them. Instead of using my energy to fight, I'm turning the glass to see it in a different angle, to capture the mosaic in the light. To find the good in it, to see how the indents let light through.

And it is hard. Hard to turn it and work with instead of fighting against or giving in. Hard to make it work for me.

And I wonder how one with any other malady views their disease. Does one with glaucoma only focus on the haze or the light they see through it? 

Even in the smog there is light.

It all comes down to choice. Choosing the emote the good, because one knows it is there and not necessarily because they feel it.

I am not fighting. 

I am turning. I am changing. I am rephrasing. I am absolutely refusing to believe that this depression holds no good for me in it. 

 ". . .all things work together for good. . ."

Romans 8:28 KJV

I know there is more to the verse. And it applies to me and I am focusing that all works for good. Including depression. Somewhere in depression there is a prize for me and others. 

So, I choose to not wallow in it; because the prize is not found in wallowing. No, that is where death lies.

There's good in it, somewhere.

The prize is in finding the works for good. And maybe it is in doing the works that the real good is found: the actual act, and not the outcome.

Depressions are marks that become wells. Wells that can hold weight and water. 

I want my wells to be satisfying. For others to drink from the wells and be stronger, not hindered. For my wells to actually hold something and not be bone dry: would that not be worse than bitter waters? At least with bitter waters you know to stay away... but with empty, there is no indication, there is simply a well.

Come on in, the water's fine.

I want the easy. I want the cured. I want the smooth surface.

But that is not me. 

I am Heidi: wife, mother, friend, sister, homebody, writer, reader, runner, needy, road tripper, student, hopeful, haunted, needed, tenacious... and there's so much more to me than a list even. 

And there is so much more to you, too. 

You are more than a list. More than a name. You are more than a body.

You are enough. You are plenty.

And what could be more than that? What could be more than enough; more than plenty?

Today I just need enough. Today my plenty is enough.

"We both have gardens of songs and maybe it's okay / that I am speechless because I picked you this bouquet."

Ani DiFranco

Deleted

I got deleted. My words and intent and heart... deleted. Again.

"Fell off the jet way again."

When I was younger I got deleted a lot. I was told I did not remember properly. Or that I just made things up. In adulthood I was told the person just simply forgot the things they made me endure as a child. Made to feel like I was either crazy or my hurt was not worthy of remembrance. 

My innocence deleted, no apologies.

I do not remember many things that happened; but I can feel them in the shadow of my memory bank. I can feel how my psyche will not allow them to surface. And what I do remember is mingled with different sights and smells that sometimes distort whether the memory was of pain or joy.

They are there, but I just cannot reach them.

Punches thrown on Thanksgiving. Insults hurled at Christmas. Palpable fear at birthdays. Horror movies under kitchen chairs.

These I remember but then they were all thrown away because the person did not know better. My path beaten, all for the ignorance or illness of my caretakers.

I would journal insults and harsh words said for future reference. And though I knew I did not lie in my diary; when I would confront the person I was met with ridicule. 

Just as though my words and memories were deleted by them. 

Worthless.

Let go of the deletions: you are worthy of remembrance.

Of course, that is simply not true. My words and memories have value and exist, regardless of who tries to delete them, or block them. My heart and intent are valuable because I am valuable. My hurt matters because I am a living, breathing person. 

You, my friend, have value no matter who refuses to acknowledge it. Parent reject you? That's on them, not you. Not. Your. Fault. Leader or mentor makes false accusations against you? You don't have to prove a thing because you are already approved. You are alive, brave one. You don't have to prove yourself to anyone but you. Get unfriended on Facebook? Find me and I'll friend you and keep you as my own. You are living no matter who unfriends you-that makes you a tangible and valuable being.

Wayne and Garth may not be worthy, but you are.

Know who you are. Know that your mere existence is worthwhile. Know that you choosing to live and breathe against the odds is a task to be treasured. 

Your words, intent, and heart matter. And they can never be deleted by any mere mortal. Refuse to allow their rejection to be accepted by you; meaning, accept yourself no matter who rejects you or tries to silence you. Keep speaking. Keep living. Know your immense value. And live it.

Need a ear to listen or eye to read your words? Email me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or comment right here on the blog. 

Bitter Girl

"The butter melts out of habit/the toast isn't even warm."

Ani DiFranco

Oh, Ani. She has so many words to express my feels.

I have been making it a habit to have ten minutes of silence sometime throughout my day. Ten solid minutes where I purposely shut my mind to my extraneous thoughts and to-do lists. Oftentimes a word or phrase will come to mind and that will be my theme or mantra for the day. Last week it was the word still. And in my mind's eye I went through different "stills" from my life. The nursing staff that mistreated my husband. Words that cut me to the quick spoken by a mentor. The family member who lied. And it all came back to me holding on to the grudge, refusing to forgive because I want (demand?) justice. 

I want their blood (not literally). I want them to pay. For the nursing staff to lose their licenses. The cutting words to be choked on. The liar to be publicly humiliated. For me and my honor to be vindicated.

I know that is ugly. And it is also true. 

I am bitter.

 Bitter out of habit. Bitter due to neglect of acknowledging the grudges I hold onto for dear life.

The bitterness leaves one haunted, hardened, homeless.

And she said unto them, Call me not Naomi, call me Mara: for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.

Ruth 1:20, KJV

"Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter."

Ruth 1:20, NIV

I read that verse in different versions. I used to read it and think that Naomi was crazy to not see how good she still had it, ungrateful to blame God for the life she was living. Then recently I read it and thought it was wonderful that everyone else still called her Naomi instead of Mara; and I took that to mean that they still saw one who was pleasant (Naomi means pleasant) and not someone who was bitter. That her loved ones saw her in a beautiful light; no matter what frame her mind was in. Now I read it and admire her: she was bitter and she owned it.

There is a saying that you cannot conquer what you will not confront, and you cannot confront what you will not acknowledge. And I cannot change what I do not own. I hate it when cliches are true for me. Ugh.

I will not stop being bitter until I own it, put it in my hand, and admit it is in my possession. And I do not want to own it because it is ugly. And I like some ugly things. It is true--ask anyone who went to school with me. I was a bit eclectic and I liked it. But this.. this bitterness? There is nothing eclectic or unique or redeeming about it.

It is just plain old ugly bitter. I cannot get accustomed to the taste of it: no one can.

 

I don't wanna, either.

It is dark and ugly and lonely. And I cannot change it when I refuse to own it. Either way it is mine: but when I refuse to own it I don't see how I can change it. When I own it I can think, be, different.

I can assure you that is not my elephant...

I do not have the ending right now. I have not arrived. And I am a bit miserable and it is difficult to see beyond the big fat bitter elephant in the room. Still fighting to make it so I do not have to own it because it stinks to know I am bitter and that other people see so clearly what I thought I had hidden. It is a process. I am learning and doing. I am moving forward... inching forward at a sloth's pace... closer to being like Mara... closer to being like me.

Mara was such a brave lady. She flat out said that God was dealing with her bitterly and that is what she would be calling herself until further notice. I never thought I would ever say I want to be more like Mara; but today I do. Brave and owning up to who and what I am. Even the ugly. That is what oftentimes makes a person beautiful: when they own the ugly and use it for beauty.

Oh, Frida. She took the things I remove from my face and made them iconic.

Use it on purpose and not out of habit. I want to live on purpose, not because of obligation, and surely not because it is habit. I want to breathe and move and love and live on purpose: not out of duty or because it's just what I do. And if I am going to be bitter I want it to be a choice and not something that blindsides me. I will be bitter on purpose or not at all. And I will keep choosing until the choosing sticks; one day the bitterness will be spread more thin and the pleasant will be more substantial. I'm practicing living by choice.

Mara was brave because she lived on purpose. I want to live on purpose, too. Join me? Living life on purpose even when it sucks the breath and force out of you? Choosing bitter or pleasant because you have the choice? I did not get to choose my growing up or genetics: but I do get to choose how I live with them and adapt. No matter what you believe as far as spirit or religion: you have a free will. Use it and use it on purpose; eyes wide open and heart thumping with abandon. 

Be more than butter that melts out of habit. Because you are more.

Please do not go it alone. Reach me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or here in the comments.

Daydreamer

I'm a dreamer. An all out full fledged dreamer. I want what I may never have. A few dreams are too deep for me to express to anyone but my husband and God. They are so deep they hurt to have... yet I still dream them, almost defiantly. 

When I first became an adult and later a Christian I squashed my imagination; believing it was a waste and my dreams to be too indulgent. It was time for me to cast off those childish things and grow up. Oh, but when I squashed the dreams I squashed a chunk of what makes me, me. What a tragedy to go well over ten years denying myself my dreams. If it didn't look spiritual or have a spiritual leader's stamp of approval I killed it before the first slip of a root could form. 

Then this depression thing came up. And it sucked. Still sucks. I hate my emotions being tumultuous.  It's exhausting to fight the urge to think of only the most horrendous and painful memories. It's exhausting to differentiate between what is real and what is chemical. And it's not my brain's fault.

Not my fault. 

It reminds me of the story of Jesus and the blind man (See John 9). The disciples wanted to know who sinned to make the man blind: the man or his parents. Jesus said it was neither. Y'all. That is so freeing to me. I believed for so long that I must have caused this, brought it on myself. Yet I know deep down I didn't. So I fight the urge to go back to the pain. Sometimes it knocks me out and I get up quickly. Sometimes it takes longer. Still I get back up. There's a hope inside of me that won't let me die. 

No blame to be had, no matter the accusations.

Turn you to the strong hold, ye prisoners of hope: even to day do I declare that I will render double unto thee.

Zechariah 9:12 KJV

That strong hold, that safe place is me being a prisoner to hope. Believing against all reason that I have all (any) reason to hope. Even when I hate that hope it still nags at me to get up and live. To do it again. Because there is no try: there is only do or do not. So I get up and I do it again. And I fail miserably. But that hope that I sometimes curse won't let me give up. My will to live defeats any urge to give in.

And that same hope has still been clinging to the imagination and dreams I've for so long denied. Dreams of dancing and loving and trusting. Dreams of writing and schooling and truthing. Dreams of running wild. Dreams of being free to just be me.

The dreams will grow.

It reminds me of the Smashing Pumpkins song Mayonaise. It didn't really occur to me until just now that I identified with it strongly because one line in particular described me:

"No longer will I follow/Can anybody hear me/I just want to be me/when I can I will."

Y'all. That's been my heart's scream and plea for as long as I can remember. I just want to be me. Not a model. Not just like so and so. Not my mother. Not what people think I should be or am. Not a categorized me. Me. I want to be me. But for so long I wasn't allowed to be me. And even worse than nobody hearing me: it felt like nobody cared that I couldn't be me.

My heart screams for me to not follow what I was taught by my parents and grandparents. It screams at me that I am good enough. More than good enough. It screams for me to not listen to the depression and anxiety. It screams for me to try something different. To believe that my dreams have my purpose hidden inside. That my dreams are just the seed--my purpose is so much bigger than my dreams.

I'm dared to believe that I'm valuable enough to be heard. I'm dared to keep doing and failing because soon enough I'll be to the part where I can and will be living the dream. The dream of being me. 

Oh, what a beautiful risk.

The depression I hate is the very thing I have to thank for my awakening. The doubting of my faith is the very thing I have to thank for the renewing of my beliefs. The tears and the pain and the memories that I have tried so hard to discredit... they're the very things that bring me here to writing. 

Which until recently I've only dared to believe could ever be a possibility.

It's what I've always wanted to do. 

So instead of following the depression I fight. I scream on the pages for anyone who is willing to hear. Plain and homely as the words may be, I just keep being me. And I can now. So I will. 

I remain (thankfully) a prisoner of hope.

Even little weeds beckon you to dream.

What is it that you need to say, for someone to hear? Please say it. If you can't say it, write it. And if you can't write it, think it. Don't give up. You are valuable. You are filled with purpose and meaning; therefore so are your words and dreams. Think them, write them, say them. For the record: I'd be honored to hear them, read them, look at you even while you think them. You are so, so brave. You give me strength: just knowing that there is a you out there living makes life sweeter for me, too. I don't quite know how to ask you this except clumsily: please let me be there with you. Whether it be proverbially or not: let me sit with you. Email me at ladyscholarheidiva@gmail.com or comment right here on the blog.

I'm proud of you, dear and brave one.

. 

You.

I have a list of things to do. 

And yet I am here, compelled to write by that driving force within me. 

I want to talk to you, my dear reader. I want to tell you how proud I am of you. You are living. You are alive and breathing and I am amazed by you. You are beautiful and wonderful and I want to hug your neck and kiss your cheek. You are so valuable and significant and yes, you are worthy.

Worth more than all of the pearls in the ocean. That's you.

I'm compelled to tell you God is happy with you. Not just happy that you are here: but happy with you. He looks at you and loves you. Yes, dear reader, I know you may not believe how I do. That's okay--I hope that the statement still reaches down to your hurts and aches and somehow tells you you are loved. 

I saw this and thought--happy with you but not with me.

I saw that statement yesterday on Facebook. And I want to believe God is happy with me. I want to believe my life is of some value. But everything in me screams that God is NOT happy with me. That I am a failure because I break down at the smallest thing. I want to quit after one let down. I do. I want it all to just go away. The weight of the responsibilities. I want them far from me. The expectations I will never meet. The voice in my head that tells me I'm dumb and no good. 

I just want to look at the sky and dream, no words or voices to taunt me.

I want blank.

Void. 

Empty.

Instead I keep going. Instead I keep pushing forward, striving, persevering. You and me--we are kind of the same. We don't quit, won't quit, and I'm not sure we know how to quit. In the face and noise of opposition we keep going.

I want to believe the words I tell you about you for myself. I want them to be true about me. They are, I'm sure, though I don't quite believe it. I'm thinking maybe you feel the same way. You can tell everyone around you how brave and powerful and just chock full of purpose they are... but on your ears they fall flat. 

So maybe if I tell you you'll believe it. Maybe you'll tell yourself it with your own voice and replace anything mean with words of hope and encouragement. Maybe you will come back and read this post the next time you just can't do it. 

Leaps and bounds of bravery.

Maybe the next time you want to cut at your skin you will put the razor down. The next time you want to drown out the noise with pills you will flush them away instead. The next time you just want to drive into nothing you'll come home instead. The next time you want to shut yourself in a closet you will call a friend instead.

Because you can do it. You will. You're not a quitter, my friend. No, you've been beaten down but you are not defeated. You're brave and smart and all the good things. You are. I see it. You are alive and I am just so proud of you.

You're slaying doubts and every lie spoken against you. So brave you are to me. And you make me brave. Thank you.

Just a Poem, No Pictures

Contradiction

Frustrated, agitated, empowered.

Doing brave things while frazzled to my core.

Bound up and purpose filled.

Paralyzed and constant in motion.

I live, endure, and do the things.

The voice nags it is never enough.

That voice is a liar.

Always enough. Enough. Always Enough.

Never the nevers and always the evers.

Forgiven and a forgiver.

The fist clenching my chest loosens.

Exhausted and running in my mind.

So many wannados, oughttados.

And I do, do.

One Brave Thing

Do one brave thing today. One. 

One day after Christmas I finally decided after being awake a while to sit up in bed and make my feet find the floor. Sitting there, folded over, and wondering how I was supposed to get up and take care of my kids. How I was supposed to get dressed. How I was supposed to make breakfast. And wondering if this is how my mom felt every day. Wondering if this is how I will feel for the rest of my every days.

I got up and made my kids breakfast. That was my brave thing that day. I got up though everything in me screamed for me to just go back to bed. Screamed that there was nothing worth doing, at least nothing that I could attempt to do that would be worthy of doing. Screamed that I just couldn’t fry the eggs or toast the bread. I made breakfast while everything in me screamed I couldn't.

So easy to get lost in the abyss, wondering further down to see what the well may find.

I’m not sure the words are in existence to express the despair I experienced, experience. The pull to be with the ones you love the most and that love you most contrasted with the unrelenting push to stay down. The longing to be enough mother, wife, friend and the fear that mistakes were made in making me mother, wife, friend. The fear that the children, husband, friends would find me lacking and leave me in my confused and restless state contrasted with the hope that they would love me the same, without judgment or fear.

Live. That's a brave thing to do. Alive. That's a brave thing to be.

I remember my mom making me breakfast and packing my lunchbox for school. I got nervous buying my lunch and she made the best ham and cheese sandwiches. Or celery smeared with cream cheese. And I would always find a napkin note in her tidy handwriting. She did brave things when she wanted to lay down and never get up again. And she drove me to school that year I was teased and bullied relentlessly. She was teaching me what brave does and I didn't know.

Today I got up and did my school work. I did my real job work. I did my fun job work. I switched the laundry from the washer to the dryer. I took mail to the post office. I fed my family dinner. I played at the park. 

I did all of that with a fist of stress clenching my chest. The anxiety burning an orb through my ribs. I did the things I thought impossible with a mean fist fighting me for breath. 

And it all started with one small-big brave thing: making breakfast and packing my mini diva’s lunch for school. 

There is light though it may seem far and fleeting.

Today I will do one brave thing. Join me? —we are braver together. And for the record: you are brave. You are significant. You are so strong and I am very proud of you my friend.

Three of the many who bring me back from the depths. I'm grateful. 

Pearls

pearl /pərl/ noun

1. a hard, lustrous spherical mass, typically white or bluish-gray, formed within the shell of a pearl oyster or other bivalve mollusk and highly prized as a gem.

2.a precious thing; the finest example of something

Here we go now...

I love Fiona Apple. Especially her early years. Lyrics and music that mirrored my sense of deep ache and passion; that gave voice to my emotions. One particular song has a line that's been playing in my mental soundtrack for the past few months is from her album Tidal:

But he washed me shore

And he took my pearl

And left an empty

Shell of me.

Sullen Girl, Fiona Apple

This image is breathtaking and terrifying to me.

I wrote out that song from memory today and when I double checked the lyrics I was amazed at how well I remembered each line. I can't seem to remember my husband's favorite pizza rolls but I recall song lyrics. 

After I wrote out the lyrics I followed with my own line:

Oh precious girl. Don't you know your worth is not found in the pearl?

Oysters can make multiple pearls. Pearls cannot make oysters. Oysters are brilliant and fascinating creatures. Pearls are not creatures but things created.

Lovely and still terrifying.

While organizing my kids' play room to make space for the presents they will surely acquire during Christmas I cried. So sad and confused, lonely and afraid. Afraid of being rejected, abandoned, and judged.

And those fears are valid. I have been rejected by my father. Abandoned by my mother. And judged by ones who had the opportunity to shelter me. As much as I hate to admit it... I'm grieving that. In years past I've tried to push the emotions under the rug or shove them down or worse: deny that they were valid and real.

My pearls. You can't have them.

I would look at the pearls that were created by the hardships and pretend that those were good enough. Because aren't they pretty? If I can just make those outside of me see pretty then I am pretty, right? If I can make the illusion that I am heidiva and full of laughter then they won't see the pain, right? If I show them the pearl they won't bother to look at the wounded oyster, right?

Right. 

Now that is my safe zone. Not as pretty and not so terrifying.

Sadly and truthfully: I've been living my life with my oyster shell half open, mostly shut. I'll let you in far enough to see the pretty pearls, but not so much that you will see the whole shebang. You may give me more grit and then I will have to make yet another pearl... And I don't have anymore room for more pearls, you understand? 

What I'm deeply afraid of and resist: being forced open.

And the pearls are not enough for me. It's not enough to have the pearls: I want life and the living that comes with it. I need to breathe in the open in order to be able to live. And be unafraid to just be whether or not I have any pearls. Brave enough to just let go of the pearls and be an oyster. Brazen enough to live the life I am purposed to live whether or not I get any other pearls. Secure enough to let people see the real me, oyster and all, audibly, and out loud.

You see, an oyster will be an oyster, with or without pearls.

The grit will come. And I am learning to live the life of an oyster with her shell open; filtering out the grit and choosing which grains are worth the pearl. Bit by bit, painstakingly, slow to the point that I don't think I can go any slower, I'm learning. Maybe no one including myself sees the progress quite yet: that doesn't negate that I am doing the work in learning to trust that I am safe, sound, and enough.

Beautiful, inside and out, without judgment.