The birth of my blog…

Nov 15, 2018 | Writing

When you write, you have to attempt something greater than you can possibly hope to accomplish. That is the only way you can leave a hole, a gap – some chance for a miracle.

It’s funny: I thought that today, of all days, I would write a post filled with my own words – long, reflective, and full of introspection about all this blog has offered and invited since its inauspicious beginning one quiet evening, November 15, 2005.

But then I read Heather Harpham’s words above, her writing, and realized nothing more needed to be said.

Well, maybe just this:

The writing I’ve done on these “pages,” has been far more than some “chance” for a miracle. It has been nothing but such, over and over again. Relationships that have changed me forever. Confidence I could have never imagined. A voice I might not otherwise have known, heard, trusted, or honored. Gratitude beyond measure.

Champagne on a Tuesday

Oct 31, 2017 | Mothers and Daughters, My sort-of Sermons

My oldest daughter, Emma Joy, turns 21 today. Yes, Halloween. I can still picture her, just placed in my arms, with her hospital-donned hat; it was tied with two bows: one strand of black yarn and one strand of orange.

So many things have changed since that all- night of labor and blessed morning delivery; so many experiences, emotions, stories, “life,” that have made her into the miraculous, amazing, and powerful-and- tender presence and person that is her. The baby. The girl. The teenager. The college student. The young woman.

But this has not changed: I am as taken and overwhelmed by her now as I was 21 years ago; as grateful and humbled and thrilled and yes, as teary and emotional.

I will pour myself a glass of champagne today.

And though the two of us are not together, I will toast her – knowing (and thrilled) that she is enjoying toasts of her own, on her own, with friends who see her for the miraculous and amazing and powerful-and-tender woman she is, friends who love her deeply.

In a few days, I will drive to her college town. We will raise a glass together – her now of legal drinking age, me picking up the tab.

I find this hard to believe, hard to imagine: how could this day possibly be here? But then, that’s exactly what I felt the day I found out I was pregnant…after years of infertility and disappointment.

It is appropriate and right to not wait until Champagne Friday or our across-the-table presence from one another, to offer this toast; personalized and perfect for my now-grown girl:

You have done enough, Emma Joy. You have listened enough. You have said enough. You have cared enough. You have created enough. You have given enough. You have stood for enough. You have loved enough.

You ARE ENOUGH! Always and in every way.

And every bit of this was true the moment my eyes met yours, 21 years ago.

Happy Birthday, sweet girl. Oh, how I love you.

*clink*

20 Years Ago Today

Oct 31, 2016 | Mothers and Daughters

I’m awake far too early – no reason for me to be up at this hour. But rather than sleep – or attempt such, I decide to write – or attempt such.

20 years ago I didn’t have this practice, this morning discipline of pen on paper, but I’m guessing if I had, on this day then, this is what I would have written:

I’ve been eating ice-chips since 6:30 last night. I’ve been hooked up to monitors since then, as well. I watch and hear your heart, its every beat, on the machine to my left. I start, suddenly and anxiously, whenever there is either the slightest lull or
slightest spike. No. I cannot sleep. The Pitocin should have worked by now, yes? The epidural should have left me feeling less restless and afraid, yes? The promise that you will soon be in my arms should leave me feeling calm, yes?

But neither my body nor my mind are having any of it. Nothing complies. Something is in charge that disables my every illusion that I am, or ever was in control of anything that ever really mattered. I focus on the monitors, willing you to be OK, willing you into my world.

And willing or not, you finally made your entrance: 9:25 a.m. on October 31, 1996. 20 years ago today.

Here I am, awake far too early on yet another Halloween morning, remembering that day like it was yesterday. And in truth, forgetting all of the pain, all of the fear, all of the worry, all of the waiting for the moment you were finally in my arms. Remembering my tears of joy, my heart broken open, your heart beating strong and well and wild. Realizing that all of this is still true today.

20 years old.
20 years old.
My baby, my girl, my heart, is 20 years old.

I have to keep writing it, seeing it in print, to take it in. Still, despite how unbelievable, I feel the significance and truth of loving you for exactly that long; of being a mother, your mother, for that long; of hearing my own heartbeat in rhythm and response to yours, for that long.

And it strikes me: I have every reason to be up at this hour – that day, to be sure, and this one – to write in halting and incomplete and impossible-to-capture ways that today, 20 years later, I feel exactly as I did then: overwhelmed by love, overcome by you, undone by the gift you are to me. Then. Now. Always.

Happy 20th Birthday, Emma Joy: my baby, my girl (no matter how old you are), my heart. I love you.

Coexistence: Goodness AND Struggle

Jun 13, 2015 | Mothers and Daughters, Women's Wisdom

Emma Joy graduates from high school today.

For the past few weeks, nearly everything she’s done or said has provoked a flood of memories: holding her for the very first time, unable to take my eyes off of her as she slept, weeping at her miraculous presence in my arms, at my breast, in my life. I remember her first laugh (and how I repeated my same actions over and over again, just to hear that sound one more time), her first steps, her first day of school, her first time on stage, her first solo, her first heartbreak. And by the time this week is over, I will remember her cap and gown, her honor chord, her walk across a platform, her handshake, my tears, her smiles, her photographs with friends, her presents, our celebratory dinner, and her diploma in hand.

As glorious as every one of these moments are, not one of them cancels out my memory of the agony from which she came.

Our proclivity is high to only focus on the good, to  fix our gaze on the beautiful, to disallow anything that darkens our mind or heart’s door. I feel that temptation and lure, believe me, but somewhere in the mix of my life I have learned something else, something more.

It is the embracing of the complexity of life that makes it that much more glorious to behold.

My experience of becoming a mother was preceded by nearly  five years of infertility. Nearly 60 cycles of hope, waiting, disappointment, despair, and summoning up hope yet again. It exhausted me. It shut me down. And it pulled me apart. I held firmly to my faith on the one hand – longing for a miracle, and on the other, I threatened to throw the baby out with the bathwater (only there was no baby) – wanting to walk away from a God that so blindly turned away from my heartache.  Every 28 days I transitioned. Every 28 days another emotional rollercoaster ensued. Every 28 days I bargained again, prayed more, promised everything. And every 28 days I raged.

Admittedly, I was filled with ecstasy beyond-compare when I found out that I was pregnant. But way beneath the surface (and not revealed until some time later) was an awareness of loss. That pink bar on a home test meant I would no longer be able to say, “I understand” to the women in whom I’d found such profound solidarity and respite. The doctor’s eventual confirmation meant that I could no longer question God’s faithfulness or care. Both of these realities disturbed me. The honesty I’d been able to express – with women who shared my pain and with a God who allowed my anger – was raw and strong and powerful.  I didn’t want to let go of those experiences or the woman I’d birthed into being through what was one of the hardest seasons of my life.

Emma’s presence in my life and every bit of joy she’s ushered into my world is made that much more glorious because I feel (again and again) the grief, the sadness, the lost-solidarity, the rage and the over-the-moon pride and happiness and glee and satisfaction of watching her this very day.

Nothing is taken away from the goodness because the struggle coexists. Nothing. This is the stuff of life – recognizing, naming, allowing, holding all of it – not just the parts we prefer.

Even Emma’s graduation is complicated. It’s joyous beyond-belief and it means that soon, very soon, she leaves me. Goodbyes are imminent. Separation and growth are inevitable. Risk and challenge and trial and error and failure and learning and heartbreak and celebration will be what both of us will step into in the weeks, months, and years ahead.

In truth, this very day, Emma’s graduation day, sits me right smack in the middle of all my emotions, all my memories, all my hopes, all my fears. To run from the harder ones in the hopes of only experiencing the good ones is not only naïve, it lessens the depth and poignancy of all that’s worth honoring; it lessens my honoring of her. Every bit of this day is worth cherishing. Every bit of it is what makes it so real, so true, so alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine).

This post hasn’t gone quite where I expected – wanting it to wildly-affirm Emma on her incredible accomplishment, milestone, occasion. And I hope I have honored her by recognizing that in all the complexity of my story and hers, she has made it to this day with complexities of her own (and more to come). These are what make this day and this young woman so incredibly glorious.

In mere hours I will behold her in awe, in gratitude, and in the profound awareness of all that makes her who she is, all that has happened to get us to this day, all the messy, brilliant, excruciating, blissful stuff – past, present, and future.

This does honor her: every bit of me showing up – rife with feeling, fully aware, and real-true-alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine).

Step bravely and beautifully into all the life that awaits you Emma. Let yourself be real-true-alive (which is sometimes painful and always perfectly fine). And remember that you are loved and loved and loved for all the complexity that makes you, you: glorious, magnificent, my very heart.

About My HUGE Celebration!

Mar 30, 2015 | Hope & Encouragement

About four weeks ago, I posted a picture on Facebook of a glass of champagne, hinting that I had something to celebrate. This past week I did so again – declaring that the celebration was now officially “on.” In between the two pictures and the posts, many have guessed, others have blatantly asked, but most have just requested that I end the suspense already.

It’s not an engagement.
It’s not a book deal.
It’s not a lottery win.

But from where I sit, it feels like all three of these rolled into one.

Some history. On March 31, 2009, I got laid off from my job. I won’t go into the years of angst that created, the gallons of tears I shed, the anxiety and worry that plagued as to how I would continue to pay my bills, take care of my girls, and manage my life.

For six years now I have pieced income together. Consulting gigs. Contract work. All part time and three or four things at a time. I’ve purchased for my own medical/dental benefits, forgotten what
paid vacation means, and have slotted my writing, my daughters, my life into a schedule that has been driven by keeping plates spinning and responsibilities sustained.

One of those “pieces” has been my role as a trainer/facilitator with the Department of Labor. For 5+ years I’ve spent 3 days a week with Army, Air Force, Navy, Coast Guard and Marine Corps separatees/retirees – helping them with their transition from military to civilian life. I’ve stood at a podium, clicked through Powerpoint slides, provided witty anecdotes, written on more whiteboards than I care to count, talked about resumes / networking / interview skills/salary negotiation, and gotten choked-up when, each week, I’ve thanked them for their service and genuinely hoped good things for their futures.

I’ve been grateful. It’s been rewarding. It’s been constant. It’s paid the bills. And only a few plates have crashed to the ground.

In the midst of all this, I have been working on my business, this business, my heart. All along I have been waiting, hoping, praying for the scales to tip, for earnings to be significant enough that I can let go of outside work and devote my time and energy to that which I prefer. And all along I’ve been dreaming about finding any way in which I can be ‘location-independent’ – able to work anywhere there’s internet connectivity, my laptop, and good coffee – no suits, commutes, or witty anecdotes required.

Cutting to the chase. As of April 1, 2015 (exactly six years later – how amazing is that?!?) I will be working exclusively from home. Even better (if that’s possible), I’m being provided medical/dental benefits, paid vacation and holidays, accumulated retirement and sick time (whaaaaaat?) – all the things I’d long-since abandoned and complete flexibility as to how I structure my time and total freedom to integrate my business, this business, my heart into
every day – not just some; no longer squeezed into the slightest open moments, my lunch hours, late at night, and during the dark morning hours far before any civilized human is awake, let alone out of bed and at their computer.

In the interest of transparency, it feels important to acknowledge not only how hard it is to grow an online business, but to name honestly that mine does not support me (yet). Oh, the progress I’ve made. Oh, the gift it’s been to watch its slow-but-sure movement and growth. Oh, the thrill to pay taxes that hurt just a bit this year – realizing I earned more than I’d saved for.

It feels important to acknowledge just how hard it is to press on and persevere as an entrepreneur when we see people around us who appear to have somehow landed on the perfect formula, the ideal business model, the phenomenal and endless client base. I don’t know if they have, or not.

What I know with complete certainty is that I have built a business, this business, my heart, while working like a crazy person, making huge compromises in many aspects of
my life, and somehow surviving. What I do know is that it has been – and continues to be – a TON of work (unpaid, paid, piece-meal, part-time, and combinations thereof).

I am still in shock, quite frankly, not yet able to grasp what it means that five whole days stretch before me this week – and many, many more to come – without the necessity of a calendaring system sophisticated enough for the Pentagon, with nothing other than yoga pants as dress code, with no lunch to pack, with no traffic to endure. Really, I can’t quite get my head wrapped around it. But my heart? It is certain. It is sure. It is full-to-overflowing.

It will be a glorious day indeed when I am writing the post about leaving behind even this job because my business, this business, my heart now makes enough to support me (or a very lucrative engagement happens or the book deal comes or I win the lotto).

That day I will do more than post a picture of a glass of champagne on Facebook. You’ll see me bathing in it!

This morning I read my Sunday pleasure, Brain-Pickings Weekly, and nearly came undone over this quote:

Start with a big fat lump in your throat. Start with a profound sense of wrong, a deep homesickness, a crazy lovesickness, and run with it. If you imagine less, less will be what you undoubtedly deserve. Do what you love. And don’t stop until you get what you love. Work as hard as you can. Imagine immensities. Don’t compromise and don’t waste time. In order to strive for a remarkable life, you have to decide that you want one. Start now. Not twenty years from now. Not thirty years from now. Not two weeks from now. Now.

Sometimes we don’t get to choose when we start. Events overcome. Layoffs happen. Change is forced.

Always we get to do what we love – even if it’s in the dark, behind the scenes, after hours, and barely noticed. 

And sometimes everything changes. Miracles happen. Perseverance pays off. Grace pervades. Champagne pours. *clink*