Tag: Strength,

A Cheerful Countenance

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Independent Woman, Uncategorized2 Comments

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Have respect for yourself, and patience and compassion. With these, you can handle anything.

This morning I woke up to the light. Normally, of course, my day starts off in darkness; I like to get my run in before work and visit my morning buddies as well. But today is Sunday and rainy with a forecast of more snow later today. The birds are out, looking for the small morsels of food on the surface of the melting snow. Perhaps spring is near? My hope is that my run will not be disrupted by the seasonal hazard of black ice-such a drag for dedicated runners like myself!

The past week ended with a celebration. My youngest son turns 20 in a few days so we had a surprise birthday party for him last night.  The gathering was not large-just enough friends and family not to make it overwhelming for him.  For me, the night was the perfect metaphor for our present life. Laughter, love and the feeling that we were all at “home”.  As the party was winding down, I went upstairs to retrieve the coats for two of the guests. The sounds of boisterous conversation filled the house and my heart- a needed reminder that my life is beyond good.

Everyday I say the I am grateful and lucky. But there are times when I am utterly human-challenged by the things that I want more of in my life-money, time with my fiance’, etc. There are things that I want less of as well- the responsibilities of  home ownership (I know there’s a dead mouse somewhere in my basement-the stench is horrible!), less worries about the boys’ independent financial future and mine as well. And dealing with anything from my past can at times leave me with an emotional hangover.  I am sure that I could go on, but really, not one of us escapes life’s woes, worries, or trials.

The difference is simple. How we react, respond or move through conflict and challenge makes a huge difference in how life can treat us. And yes it is all about karma. I shared a meal with a friend of mine last week. We have recently gotten to know one another and he seemed surprised if not curious about my three recent stories regarding the abuse and other personal struggles that I had experienced. He has observed me consistently being cheerful and upbeat and wondered, is it real?

The winter climate makes for a contemplative season. I try to embrace it without examining my navel too much. I try  to allow for the clearing of my perceptive lenses during this season while I anxiously await the coming of spring.  In his recent blog post, “How about a Short Sermon?”, Rob Bell speaks of the difference between analysis and awareness  as he takes a second look at Psalm 118: “This is the Day that God has made.” He writes of how easy it is to become cynical about the war, poverty, divorce, addiction and betrayal that surrounds daily. He wonders,  Really, God made this? For him and for me it is not about getting stuck in the muck of life nor is it about “glossing over”  its horrors. It is about the awareness that yes it is ” rough and bloody and heartbreaking” but it is also full of beautiful potential and possibility.

February has been the month that has forced me to get down and dirty with both my present and my past and I suppose my future as well.  The process is both difficult and healthy. I had not realized that for some period in my life that corruption and abuse had become normal. Talk about glossing over! We cannot allow ourselves or anyone we care about to be maligned by others who believe that they have power and control over us. They are at ease with twisting the truth in order to not face the truth about themselves. Some of them are beyond redemption.

So what am I aware of?  That we don’t have to stay stuck.  That we have to consistently outsmart the corrupting influences in our lives. That life and love can begin anew. And is my cheerful disposition for real? Yes!

When you are immune to the opinions and actions of others, you won’t be the victim of needless suffering.

Somebody That I Used to Know*

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Independent Woman8 Comments

Today a new sun rises for me; everything lives, everything is animated, everything seems to speak to me of my passion, everything invites me to cherish it.

~ Anne De Lenclos

Last week’s post was a cathartic experience for me.  For too long, I had an inner itch that I could not scratch.  I welcome the relief!  What is truly amazing, however, is the positive results-both outward and inward-that my reflection brought to me.  Carol Burnett says: “Words, once they are printed, have a life of their own.”  I am hopeful, of course, that my words will help others who struggle with self- identity and loving themselves first.

In the short term, my life has taken on yet another layer of lightness. As we journey down life’s path, I believe it is important to peel back and let go of anything or anyone that has a negative affect on you. Say what you need to say, do what you need to do and keep on moving!

This week, two colleagues of mine shared some observations with me. One said, “I want you to take out some photos of yourself from years past up to the present so that you can see your transformation.”  She went on to say: “You have changed on a molecular level.” WHOA!! I guess I hadn’t noticed!  Still another said, “What is it that you are doing? You have a gleam and glow about you!” I attributed the latter compliment to my diet and exercise regimen and the fact that I am in a healthy relationship. I also love my job, my sons and all other aspects of my life-both big and small. But the former compliment comes from someplace else.

So I guess this is why writing last week’s post was so relevant. By writing about the person who is a link to my past, I have been able to come a little more forward about the trauma of  the emotional and verbal abuse that was at the root of my marriage. I am not ready to actually share all of the details about it; although many of my friends and family have known those bits for a long time. It actually took until my marriage was over to fully admit what had happened. Still worse, the boys have shared what they remember about their father- what he said to me and about me and how he treated me.

I had a bit of an epiphany earlier this week. It came as a result of some issues between my youngest son and his girlfriend. Luckily, they both  deeply care about one another-enough to work through some problems together and seek my advice as well. Unfortunately, some of the problems that both my sons have had with their father come into play in their relationships at times. They deal with it as best they can while at the same time  fear becoming like him. A tough place to be for sure!

But the situation between my son and his girlfriend got me thinking about the repetitive pattern that abuse can sometimes take if it is  not squelched from the beginning. And for me, this goes back to my experiences during my marriage. At its deepest level, abuse comes from a sense of abandonment. At some point in a potential abuser’s life, they have been left either physically and/ or emotionally bereft by a significant relationship. Over time, this can lead to a lack of trust in all relationships, but most especially when there is a significant other involved. Those who feel abandoned carry the pain of those past (and sometimes present) hurts with them. Often, it can also be a form of grief over a broken relationship. If not addressed, the pain can and will manifest itself in anger-almost always towards the one or ones you love but never at the person or people who hurt you in the first place. Worst still, the anger can lead to abuse-always towards the ones closest to you. If the abuse continues and professional help is not sought, the abuser becomes a permanently broken and damaged person.

And this is what almost happened to me. I was abused by my husband slowly and insidiously over the course of the marriage. Over time, I become an increasingly angry person who took out some of her pain on her children. I was an anxious and panic ridden woman who was nearly broken by my abuser. Thankfully, I got help before it was too late. As I began to stand up for myself and not project my hurt onto my sons any longer,  I began to advocate more for my own needs (and those of the boys). But the abuse got worse. He became increasingly silent, secretive and neglectful. As the three of us drew closer together, he grew further away from us. He was absent a lot-especially on weekends. And when he was home, he was never “present” and was very often angry upon his return from his weekend excursions.

So he decided to leave. The next 14 months were horrendous but I was stronger than I thought I was. I continued to get help as did my sons. Their dad continued to devolve and make poor decisions. My youngest son moved in with him. He needed to be with his father-in his mind if he lived with him he would not be left again. Over time, he got to know his father on his own terms. My oldest, on the other hand, tells me he figured out his father when he was fourteen- two years before he left! And now my youngest is back with me after enduring the same abusive situation as I once did.

And here is where we’ve landed. My youngest is struggling with the pain of a broken and hurtful relationship with his dad. He doesn’t like how he feels and wants to be better. So, he is getting help-Hooray!  His girlfriend is wonderful; she wants to go with him if he needs her. He knows that he is not a bad or even a broken person. He knows that he has a big heart and  wants more than anything to become a whole man.

You may ask yourself,  “What is this layer of  lightness that she is speaking of?”  Well, because of today’s blizzard, I was able to enjoy some very lovely extended time with my Starbucks friends. Per usual, the link to my past appeared ( she is my ex-husband’s current girlfriend) but  I was not at all bothered. Shortly thereafter, I noticed that she was speaking to a man-nothing unusual- and this man was with a young girl. It looked like they had come in from the bagel shop next door. Their conversation continued until they departed, passing my group as they exited.  Then it occurred to me-this man was my ex-husband! I had not recognized him at all!

I had just experienced a fantastic breakthrough. A feeling of complete emotional disconnect. Never in my life would I have ever thought that I would not recognize the father of my children-a person that I had been with for 22 years.  It was wonderfully uplifting, joyful and empowering. It means that I have come to a peaceful place with the pain of my abusive marriage. ( I want the same for my youngest son and hope that someday he can forgive his father).

The person I was when I was with him no longer exists. She is just somebody that I used to know.

* With thanks to Gotye!

On Being a Bold Woman

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Independent Woman20 Comments

Credit: interviewsaloud.comOne of the most courageous things you can do is identify yourself, know who you are, what you believe in and where you want to go. – Sheila Murray Bethel.

On a recent morning, I was enjoying my usual morning visit at my local Starbucks, chatting with the staff and the other regulars whom I see daily. The store has always been a positive community connection for me. I can honestly say that I have never met someone that I have not liked having a conversation with-even if it is just for five minutes.

Beginning last spring, however, a person with a link to my past began to frequent the establishment at the same time as me. I tried not to make too much of these “coincidences”, but I did feel forced to be on my guard. Lately, the frequency of this person’s appearances has increased and my sons have even  found themselves in uncomfortable and insinuating situations with this person in the recent past.  So needless to say, when this person was in close proximity to a conversation I was having last week, I was not pleased.

I want my morning experience at the store to be one of the highlights of my day. And I want to handle negative circumstances with grace. But I could not help but feel that this person was acting boldly. And I could help but think that her “boldness” had negative connotations attached to it.

Later, at work, I began to question my thoughts on this feeling. So, I asked my colleagues to tell me what they think being a bold woman means. Still later, I asked other women and men outside of work. Their responses helped me to rethink my own reaction to my experience. More importantly, they helped me to redefine and refine the other person’s actions more appropriately.

So here goes (with credit to Jen, Jeff, Pam, Art, Gretchen and Pat and any others I may have forgotten):

A bold woman is authentic and committed to her own personal values. She stays true to who she is. A bold woman is loaded with courage, understands the risks at hand but still takes a leap of faith. A bold woman never settles; she keeps moving forward even when it is not popular. She is daring in the face of cultural limits, expectations and conventions. A bold woman is a person with only the highest of confidences and a will strong enough to defeat any obstacle or achieve any ambition. A bold woman does not apologize unnecessarily and isn’t afraid to be called a bitch. ( How many times have you done the former and been afraid to be the latter?). She stands firmly in her beliefs with an unwavering heart.

A bold woman is confident in her own skin. A bold woman inspires others to be awesome. A bold woman knows her strengths and weaknesses, but chooses to be the best she can be at all times. A bold woman speaks up for what she believes in. A bold woman will not let others control her fate nor her emotions. A bold woman is proud of herself. A bold woman does not make excuses. She takes responsibility and makes a plan to be better every day. A bold woman inspires, not just with her words but with her actions as well. You can feel a bold woman’s energy from across the room; a bold woman knows the power of silence. But, in the face of a challenge, a bold woman says: “Bring it on!” A bold woman is not offensive, rude, or condescending. She inspires others to be the best they can be.

I allowed myself to fall victim to a false cultural perception of what it means to be a bold woman. I am a big believer in the hidden messages or lessons that can come from challenging encounters, situations, or people.  The recent spate of “accidental circumstances” have shown me that this person is far from being bold.  You can draw your own conclusions regarding her character traits. However, I am grateful that she helped remind me of what a bold woman really is. AND she called attention to the fact that I AM A BOLD WOMAN.  For me it is all that truly matters.

“I’m my own sovereign nation, dedicated to a transformation…”

from “It’s Alright” by Dar Williams

 

 

Remembering My Mother

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Uncategorized19 Comments

photo credit: www.wellhappypeaceful.com

* This post is being republished in honor of Mother’s Day and as part of poet Kellie Elmore’s Free Write Friday challenge:  http://kellieelmore.com/2013/05/10/fwf-free-write-friday-m-is-for-mom/.  Enjoy and Happy Mother’s Day!

A mother’s love is instinctual, unconditional, and forever.
– unknown

I do not recall a time when I did not feel lucky to have my mother. Oddly enough, when my brother and I were growing up, she was known as the meanest mom in the neighborhood because she was so strict. Rules were simple: make your bed every day (with hospital corners), clean up after yourself, do the dishes, and come when she called you in for dinner.  In fact, we had to say that we were coming or she would keep calling our names so that the entire neighborhood could hear her! Bedtime was the same time every night, even during summer vacation. It seemed quite unfair to be lying in bed while the rest of our friends were still outside playing at dusk!

But while my mother was strict, she never withheld her love and affection for us. She always paid attention. She was involved on various levels in our activities, whether it was being the church choir mother or a fervent supporter of our running. She included us in her dessert making forays. I loved her homemade frosting; most especially when she let my brother and I eat the frosting off the mixer blade. My mother made the best macaroni and cheese; although as a little girl I did turn my nose up at it. I cannot remember why, to tell you the truth! Perhaps it was because when I did, she always put aside a bowl of elbows with butter just for me. It was a smooth and creamy mixture made with processed American cheese, butter, elbow macaroni and milk. She would line a baking bowl with butter, place squares of cheese on the sides and then add layers of pasta, cheese and top it off with just the right amount of milk. Many of my childhood memories are steeped with the tastes and smells of my mother’s cooking. I believe it was one of the best ways to show us that she loved us. It was also a way that she could show off her creative side. As the years rolled by, my mother’s cooking evolved to fit the latest healthy cooking trends of the time (good-bye canned vegetables and red meat!). She also had an extensive cookbook collection from which she would talk about (in great detail) and experiment with her newest recipe. I am sure that my mother’s love for cooking and passion for food are the reasons that I enjoy them both. To this day, I still want to call her up and ask her for cooking advice. For me, this is one of the hardest parts of losing her; she was always on the other end of the line to give me tips -which started off as cooking and quickly segued to the real reason that I was calling her.

My mother’s other passion was her unending love for my father. This was consistently evident when we were growing up. She used to bring him his juice in bed in the morning and his beer at night! When he would be relaxing on the couch, she would often appear out of nowhere and jump on top of him and smother him with kisses. My brother and I would groan with the predictable response of “EEW!” of course. To the outsider, it would appear that she always catered to him. But my mother always said, “People may see what I do for daddy but they never see what he does for me.”  I know now that they always put their love for one another and their marriage first and foremost. I am certain that this is why my brother and I love like we do and believe in commitment (despite my own circumstances).

My mother came from the generation where women were expected to marry young and have children. Higher education was not a priority. But during my elementary school years, my mother was bored at home with my brother and me gone most of the day. So, she took a “mother’s hours” job as a cafeteria worker in the local schools.  It was a great way for her to use her skills and love for cooking and still be there for my brother and me. This was during the early 1970’s and many women were affected by the cultural shifts of the women’s movement. Some were returning to school, others divorcing or at least beginning to make small shifts in their marital roles. Years later, when I was a grown woman, she and I were talking about relationships. She said to me, “It took me 15 years to realize that I had an opinion in my marriage.” This was about 1974, just as the women’s movement was taking hold. Let me be clear, I am in no way claiming that my mother was oppressed- she was not. I believe that she, like other women (and men for that matter) was beginning to understand themselves outside roles as wives and mothers.

I will never forget the day when my mother received the news that she had been accepted as the payroll master in the Treasurer’s Department of our local state hospital. It was my birthday and I had just gotten a phone call saying that I was accepted at my #1 college choice. For some reason, neither my father nor brother was home that night so she and I went out for Chinese food to celebrate. We never had Chinese food before and I remember it as an especially good meal. To this day, I can even picture where we were sitting in the restaurant! My mother worked in that position for 19 years until she retired. She was beloved by the patients and was known for her compassion, attention and humor. Often, she was the only outside contact for these people and she made each one of them feel special.

My mother loved her grandsons and they were equally crazy about her. We were so blessed that my parents lived close by. My sons always knew that both my parents loved them and would be there for them. I remember being in awe at the immediate love that my mother had for her first grandson (my oldest).  I learned that love has the power to span generations when my mother became a grandmother. And when I became a mother, I also learned the fierceness of a mother’s love. My mother helped me to become a good and then a better mother as the boys were growing up. She would also remind them of how much I loved them. During his teen years, my youngest son was rebelling and giving me a hard time (this was also when the divorce had taken place). After she was diagnosed with terminal cancer, he and I took a trip to see her. She and my son had a chance to spend some one on one time together. They talked of many things, not the least of which was how much I loved him. She also reminded him that he only had one mother. It was to be the last conversation that they would have and it proved to be powerful. Because of it, my son began to make his journey back to me.

My mother kept me strong. During my divorce process, she was consistently available to offer sound advice and words of encouragement. She never allowed me to give up or give in. Better still, she was absolutely thrilled when I began dating the man that was a member of their local running club. She had subtly played matchmaker some five months before we took the plunge and was ecstatic when we made it “official”. Some three weeks before she died, she told a friend that he was her “parting gift to my daughter.”

As I sit here today, I know my mother would be proud of me. My sons are on solid ground and well on their way to becoming well rounded men. I have landed on my feet and have developed the confidence to make my own decisions that will allow me to have a solid future both financially and emotionally.  She would be equally proud that I am finally a budget conscious fashion diva! My mother had a wonderful sense of style and for years I didn’t catch on- I was a blue jeans and sneakers (or boots) type of gal who wore no make-up. I can see her saying “I always told you that you were beautiful.”

On Saturday , November 3rd, I headed down to Tampa Bay to help with the fourth annual Purple Stride race that helps raise funds for pancreatic cancer research. Pancreatic cancer is the fourth leading cancer killer and the least funded (2%) of all cancers. The race in the Bay area was the brain child of my mother whose hope was to participate in it before she died. Unfortunately, she did not make it. I know that she would be happy, however, to see how much the event has grown over the years. Through the leadership of my father (who serves as race director) and the dedication of others, fundraising has grown from $45,000 the first year to a goal of $140,000 this year. Friends and family ran and walked for team Patty-Me-Girl.

Though my mother is gone from this earth, I feel her presence within and around me every day. Sometimes I find myself saying the things that she would say or even acting like she would in certain situations. I definitely see myself in her. And that is a very good thing!

How Yoga Saved My Life

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn YogaLeave a comment

 Do you know what it feels to have the light of love surround you when all the darkness falls away?

Dave Matthews

I love yoga. I love the practice. I love the challenge. I love the sense of feeling grounded as soon as I hit my mat. I am so grateful that it has become a part of my daily life-especially when I am not on my mat.

I was having lunch with my graduate school friends about four years ago when the conversation turned to the topic of hot yoga. Two of my friends had gone to a local studio and were sharing their experience with us.  They turned to me and said, “Trackstar, you’ve got to try it! It is right up your alley because it is so intense!”

Unfortunately, my friends could not remember the exact name of the place. They knew the city where it was located, however, so I began my search. Picture the journey: a rainy, cold and dark November evening in an area that was completely unfamiliar to me. I began having second thoughts when much to my surprise, I arrived at an old house. The studio resided in the basement. I gave it a try that night and then another.  Somehow, in spite of the fact that I liked the experience, something about the studio did not feel quite right to me. In a later conversation with another of my graduate school friends, she shared that she knew of another hot yoga studio in a different part of the city. Maybe this was the one my other friends had spoken about!

The minute that I walked through the doors of the studio, it felt as if I was home. Immediately, the place gave off an aura of warmth and welcome.  Something inside of me understood that this community was a place for healing.  Up to that moment, I had been running twice a day in order to alleviate the stress related to the finality of my divorce process. Well, I wasn’t feeling better at all; I knew that I was risking injury with my current regiment.

When I entered the studio doors, I was also coming to grips with my mother’s diagnosis of Stage 4 pancreatic cancer. In essence,  I was a broken person. I had nowhere to put my dual grief. One of the things that I remember from that period was the amount of time I spent at the studio. Essentially, whenever I wasn’t out running, I was there. It became a chief focus: go to work and go to yoga. I am sure that I took care of other mundane tasks; after all my oldest was applying to college and I had to pay bills, take care of the house and put food on the table. But I was drawn to the practice because I knew that is where I needed to go in order to move through my pain.

I have memories of hard work, sweat and tears during that time.  Hot yoga takes you to a different plane; it peels back the layers of toxicity and negativity that invade your psyche. The beauty of the practice is that while space is shared with others-sometimes just inches away-it is profoundly private. I could let go and no one seemed to notice. When my mother died just 70 days after her diagnosis, I sought the solace of my mat.  My time on it became a divine experience and I am not afraid to say that I felt my mother’s spirit during many practices. I was also grieving the loss of an 18 year marriage; I was beginning to understand that the practice was an avenue for me to move forward into a new life.

Time marched on and I found myself talking endlessly about yoga. When finances got tight for a period of time, I practiced twice a day at home. My sons knew how much I loved yoga and conspired that Christmas to buy me 2 classes.   I remember seeing them with their heads together, engaged in deep conversation while we were buying our tree on a cold December night. Apparently, they were discussing my gift! For my birthday in the spring, two more classes were purchased followed by a Mother’s Day excursion to the studio for more. My youngest attempted the drive himself the day before and got lost!

The studio became another supportive community for me. I cannot begin to explain how each of the instructors helped me to become a more whole person. They are gifted people who have the ability to tune into the needs of their clients. They helped me heal and become a more confident woman. I will never forget the day that Elizabeth came up to me after a session to pay me a compliment. She said that I looked different in the practice now from what I was at the beginning. When I shared my story with her, she said that she could easily see that I was happier.

Yoga is an integral part of my life. It helped me become a better, more peaceful person. It helped me to realize that the ending of my marriage was a gift. It helped me to enjoy a healthy loving partnership with a beautiful man.  When I first entered the studio doors, I walked in darkness, now I walk in light.

Namaste

Moving from “WE” to “I”

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Independent Woman2 Comments

There you go baby, here am I. You go your way baby and I’ll go mine.
Now and forever ’til the end of time.

It Doesn’t Matter Anymore~ Paul Anka

“When do you stop saying we?” my friend said to me late this summer while we were having dinner. She, like me, had been in a long term marriage with children-although she had been married for 30 years and had twice as many children as I. Essentially, she had spent half her life as one part of a unit.  She was expressing quite cogently what many of us no longer marrieds had felt at one time or another.

When at first your commitment dismantles, you feel a wide variety of emotions. The breaking apart of the “we” is at once nauseating, excruciating and outrageously surreal. Sometimes you get lost in the reverie of various scenes from your marriage that remind you that at one time you and this other person made a life together. Then, once you begin to accept that it is over, you move from loving the “we” to loving the idea of “we”.

I think that this is the part where many of us struggle the most because we live in a world of enforced coupledom. I remember the separation as a time of profound pain and grief. Yet, the first question people asked me was “Have you met someone yet?” Or, “Are you dating anyone?” I wanted to scream! As much as I knew that this person and I could no longer be together, I still longed for my family unit. Outwardly, it had the appearance of happiness and stability and success. So, no, I am not seeing anyone!

Then, of course, if you are not dating yet but your not quite ex-spouse is, you really feel like a loser. It is the ultimate in rejection once you find out that he or she has quickly moved on to another “we”.

But enough of that nonsense!  “We” can be vastly overrated. Especially when the “I” gets lost in the translation. I am absolutely certain that this happened to me over the course of my marriage. I came to believe (and still do) that as long as I was a mirror reflection of my spouse, then everything was fine. I could not ask or do anything for myself or even express myself. So, while the ending of my marriage was at first a failure to me, I began to understand that the best part of myself was about to be reborn.

In lots of ways, I had it easy. I had great a support network- girlfriends, family, my faith community, therapy. I had a terrific and rewarding job. I was in graduate school where I could hone my intellectual skills. It was in the latter that I realized once again how smart I was! Not only had I buried my emotional needs during the last part of my marriage, but I had stowed away all of my intelligence as well. My enthusiasm and energy in graduate school were legendary. I know that it was there that I began shedding the layers of the person I had become. My graduate friends were witnessing all of it and I hope that they found it enlightening and entertaining!

In other ways, though, it was quite lonely. The door had been shut on my old life. I could see the door of my new life at the other end.  But the journey back to myself was like a walk down a long, dark hallway. When graduate school was over, I spent a lot of time alone. My oldest was now in college and my youngest was spending more time with his father. Sunday afternoons were the worst. I had neither the means nor the wherewithal for the middle-aged (jeesh!) bar scene. Hey, I had had a very wild youth anyway. No need to go there again!

But being alone and at times even lonely is a good thing. You are forced to sit with yourself. The time you take to just be without the distractions of dating, drinking and drowning your sorrows in unhealthy choices is really a holy experience. I remember really figuring out what I wanted for the rest of my life AND what I didn’t want.

Then a wonderful man arrived in my life via my late mother. When we first met, I was not sure that I wanted to be in any relationship. When we corresponded and talked on the phone, I still wasn’t sure. I did like him, though. When he visited me for the first time, we spent 11 hours together talking about everything. Then I gave him my “take it or leave it” speech. He called four days later and asked if he could see me again, stating that it was the most honest conversation that he ever had with a woman. I was hooked!

So here “we” are and here “I” am too. Though we live far from each other, we both agree that we like it this way (well,mostly! ) for the time being. I like my space. I like recreating my own life here. But I also like knowing that we are both equally committed to the relationship. I am still amazed and astounded by the level of loving respect, encouragement and support that I receive from him. For me, this is the essence of intimacy. We both get to be “we” and “I” equally. I get to breathe, filling the space between so every little piece of me is seen.*

Thanks to the song, “Breathe” by Michelle Branch*

The Love Jar

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Family4 Comments

Where there is great love there are always miracles –

Willa Cather

The LOVE JAR. Well, that’s what we call it, anyway. The blue and gray pottery jar with the cork lid sits on the counter near the dishwasher. “Unconditional Love” is engraved across the front. We’ve had that jar for seven years now and it has been incorporated into our family’s language. It was given to us when life as we knew it blew up. Julia’s gift brought me immediate inspiration and became a vehicle for the three of us to experience joy and laughter. When I brought it home to the boys, I told them that the jar would be a means for us to make good memories. Then we came up with an astounding idea:  “Let’s go to New York City!”  So, we devised a plan to put away as much money as possible into our “LOVE JAR”.  Both boys immediately broke open their over-sized piggy banks and poured their change into the jar. I emptied my wallet of loose coins and spare one dollar bills. My oldest son, (who worked at an after school job at the local grocery store) volunteered to contribute a portion of his paycheck to it. My youngest son agreed that anytime he received money as a gift, he would put it in the jar. Spare change from each grocery store excursion was added. We even began to find money on the ground-some in major denominations!  When we told friends about our trip to the Big Apple, they would drop money in the jar whenever they visited.

The jar was magical! When I called my aunt to ask if we could stay with her for four days (she lives in the vicinity), she said that she would be thrilled to have us. We were relieved to know that we would be staying in a safe place with someone who knew and loved us. The trip was to take place right after Christmas- just in time for the school winter break.  And we were ready! We met our savings goal and off we went.

It is difficult to put into words how it felt to be in the warm embrace of my aunt’s hospitality and generosity. Not only were we fed and sleeping in warm beds, but my aunt drove us each day to the train station and presented the three of us with rail passes for the duration. When we went into the city one last time, she handed me cash and told me that I’d better not come home with any change!  The trip was the first of our many happy new memories that we were making during that time. And it would not have been possible if not for Julia’s thoughtfulness.

Needless to say, we came home from the trip with money to spare. It resided in the LOVE JAR where it continued to be depleted and replenished over time. The jar has become a reliable resource for us. We took a second trip to the city six months later, seeing new sights and enjoying warmer weather. It helped us enjoy our “Celebration of Three” party that spring. Part of our recent weekend trip to the mountains was funded by the jar. Sometimes we use it to buy something as simple as a stamp, a gallon of milk, or a loaf of bread. To this day, friends still put money in whenever they visit.

The LOVE JAR is my family’s miracle. It was a way for the three of us to begin to heal from one of  life’s worst heartaches and become a whole family in a different way.  We take care of each other. We rely on each other. We hold one another up. We love one another unconditionally. The LOVE JAR has restored our faith in the meaning of and power in family. THANK YOU JULIA!

My Running Marriage

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Running4 Comments

I always loved running…
it was something you could do by yourself,
and under your own power.
You could go in any direction,
fast or slow as you wanted,
fighting the wind if you felt like it,
seeking out new sights
just on the strength of your feet
and the courage of your lungs.
-Jesse Owens

Well, I cannot say that I have always loved running.  After all, I have been involved with the sport on various levels for forty years. And like all committed relationships, we have had our ups and downs. Because I started running when I was just eleven years old, I really didn’t know what I was getting into-much like a very young bride!  My father was  a very enthusiastic runner of five years when he encouraged my brother and I to enter the sport. I  think that he saw the positive opportunities that running had offered him and wanted the same for us. Also, the early seventies was an especially heady time for young girls and women to participate in races. The support for us was very strong despite the infamous photograph of  Jock Semple’s attempt to pull Kathryn Switzer from the Boston Marathon!

I suppose you could call the beginning phase of my running marriage the “honeymoon period.” At the time, I ran with lots of boys as there were no girl teams during my preteen years. The playing field was equal because many of us were first time runners. There was only one other girl (that I recall) who joined the group and we became fast friends. We ran together every day and the two of us would go on to join future teams as we approached our high school years. In fact, the very first running club that we joined had its own women’s team. I remember being amazed at the ages of some of the women on the team- could women over 30 or even 40 really run?  Weren’t they too old? I believe that these women were the true pioneers of the sport, having entered it later in life as  wives and mothers. Women whose own generation had little or no access to organized sports as young girls.

My teenage years were by far the most intense running period, no doubt. This is just like the first few years of a marriage, really. The honeymoon is over and it becomes time to settle in and get serious. So, I ran every day, logging in 50-70 miles per week  and participating on two teams-one at my high school and one AAU women’s team. (By then,My friend and I had gone on to join a nationally ranked women’s cross country and track and field team.) Also, about half way through high school, our town had finally allowed a separate girls team to participate in league meets. Running on both teams was exceptional-each had a unique running culture. By the time the high school team was formed, I had already gained a reputation as a serious runner, both for running with the boys and also for the fact that I completed a marathon at 14 years old!  Much was expected of me in terms of performance and leadership skills. Also, I had to get used to a different coach as my dad was (and always will be) my first and best coach.

The AAU team was a different entity altogether. There was a core group of girls who were the elite runners. They were highly talented and able to compete and consistently win on the regional and national level. (Eventually the international level as well- one of them won the first women’s Olympic Marathon). It was a privilege to be a part of the team as it allowed for opportunities to travel all over the Northeast region with a van full of like-minded girls and their very dedicated coach.  These were the days before walkmans and ipods so we would often blast music on the van’s radio; we listened to Bruce Springsteen (Born to Run), Queen and other big rock groups from that era. It was a thrill to travel to New York City and compete in the country’s first Bonne Bell 10k in Central Park. Women and girls were IT- Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” was playing loud and proud before the gun went off.  As a result of running with the team, I became a better runner because I was  running with faster women. My hard work paid off and, at 16, I was able to go with the team  to the nationals in California. Eventually, my efforts caught the eye of a college coach as well. Because I was a scholarly student as well as a devoted runner, I was given the chance to apply and subsequently be accepted to an excellent university.

And that’s when things began to shift for me. Sure, I went off to college and joined the requisite team, going to practices, running in races, eating and socializing only with runners. But it started to feel old and stale and repetitive. I was hopelessly distracted by a boy ( a runner like me, but a senior with a reputation as a bad boy) and frankly, I wanted to party on a Friday night and not get up early for practice or a race! By the time I was a sophomore, I was done competing- burned out and physically a mess. All the mileage I had put in as developing teenager had resulted in a painful, degenerative disk in my back. Looking back, as much as it spiritually pained me to leave the sport, I knew that I needed a break.

I suppose you can liken this period to a major transformation in a marriage (illness or the addition of children, for example). How do relate to one another as a result of this major alteration? At first, it was simple: very little exercise as I explored other avenues of interests and friends. Then upon graduation, I cycled a bit and walked everywhere. Still, the nagging back issue persisted to the point where I literally could not move. I have a vivid memory of trying to board a bus so I could go vote and being unable to step up. I was just 23 years old and felt 90!  Luckily, a chiropractor lived in my neighborhood and with his help, I began a very long journey to healing.

Essentially, my twenties came and went without any attention to running at all. I kept in shape by walking, riding a stationary bike and doing occasional weight lifting.  I got married and by the time I was 32, I had given birth to two babies. My back held up during the two pregnancies and subsequent births of two very big boys ( especially #2!!) Plus, I was doing aerobics regularly and pushing a carriage everywhere I went. It was at this point that my then husband encouraged me to start running again.  Coincidentally, this was the same age that my father began his running career! So, I gave it a shot- at first doing the walk/run thing and then eventually working up to Saturday morning runs with other busy moms.

My thirties were certainly the “comeback” period of running for me. I felt a renewed sense of commitment but on different terms than before. I was a grown woman who was able to make her own decisions about where, when and how far she wanted to run. Running was a choice and not the chore that it had become nearly a decade earlier. Eventually, at 38, I competed in a half-marathon. During the training, I never felt lonely and, in truth, felt a great sense of freedom and renewal during those times. I also spent time running with my father again. It was a terrific- we were both adults and our runs were filled with long conversations. I fell in love with running again!

By the time I reached 40, I was learning to balance running with the other parts of my life. When I had the opportunity to return to work full time, carving out a running schedule was a priority. My dedication to the sport was unyielding. I arose before dawn and would run despite the cold and darkness. I learned to be alert for wildlife and was awed each morning watching the sun rise as I finished the last mile. I was not the competitor that I was once was-only entering races sporadically throughout the year. Instead, running took on a different face-becoming my solace, stress reliever and saving grace.

Running in many ways was like taking medication. When my husband wanted a divorce when I was 46, running kept me steady and sane (or as sane as one could be during that upheaval!). I was also in graduate school, working and raising teenage boys at the time. Running cleared my head, organized my thoughts and made me more productive. By the time my forties ended, I had successfully completed graduate school (4.0!), gone through the divorce process, fell in love again and trained for and competed in a half-marathon!

So here I am, happily in my early fifties having caught the half-marathon bug.  The training schedule is not grueling and the race distance is just right for me.  I try to enter two races per year if I can. One of the best parts of the preparation is knowing that I will be running with the man I love. Our connection with one another has helped me to continuously strengthen my commitment to the sport. It is a heart warming feeling knowing that another person is there to support and guide you through the good days and bad days. He helps me keep it real-pushing me when I need it and helping me back off -especially when I am injured.

One thing that I have learned in this long term marriage is the value of patience. Too many times when I was young, I didn’t allow myself to think about what I was doing during races or practices. My body was in the game but not my head.
I didn’t think about how I was feeling and then when I did, I wanted to run from it.  I was tired of the effort. How many of you go through similar feelings in relationships? It is easy to throw in the towel and go on to something else. I think what I was experiencing during that time was a need for a separation. As I said earlier, it hurt me emotionally to leave. But the break was necessary in order for me to begin my journey back. It was the first step in learning to be patient with myself and with the sport. I needed to come back on my own terms in order to create a deeper and lasting relationship. Also, it is  a relationship that allows for balance. Now I supplement running with hot yoga and three days of strength training.  They enhance my practice and at times substitute for it.

Any healthy relationship is one in which you use your heart and your head. Runners do not always use the latter (or else they let it get in the way but it is the same idea). We suffer from a burning desire to move; we want to see how far our legs and feet will take us. As long as we are not running from something it’s okay. Run to please yourself. Run because you find joy in the going. Run with others. Then you’ll know that your heart is in the right place!

Where’s My Space?

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Independent WomanLeave a comment

“Women have sat indoors all these millions of years, so that by this time the very walls are permeated by their creative force, which has, indeed, so overcharged the capacity of bricks and mortar that it must  harness itself to pens and brushes and business and politics.”
― Virginia Woolf, A Room of One’s Own

The other night I was listening to one of my favorite Pandora Radio stations when an advertisement broke in for an apartment rental search company. The selling point for the ad was that a couple’s search for an apartment together was successful because it had a “man cave for him and plenty of closet space for her.”  I had to stop what I was doing because of its two implied messages. Women need closet space? Men need a “cave”  in order to retreat from their partners and/or children? The ad reeks of sexism and notions of a privileged class. It assumes that women have an overabundance of clothes and shoes and need substantial storage for them, and only men are entitled to an extra room just for themselves.

I don’t know about you, but I have one closet that houses all of my clothes and shoes for every season. When I was married, I shared that closet only by storing my out- of- season clothes in a makeshift hanging area in the basement.  That very same area also housed the family’s cold/wet weather gear. (My home has no closet space on the first floor so when colder weather does arrive, we hang our coats in the mudroom.)  All of my other clothing items are stored in a dresser or in a plastic container under the bed. I believe that this is quite efficient, practical and frugal considering the fact that I am a runner and yogi in a four season climate. Would closet space be a possible selling point for me if I moved to a new home? Sure!  But not because I am a female in search of wardrobe storage!  Seriously, 3 closets for 3 people ( 2 are male) is quite a tight arrangement.

The need for a man cave is a 21st century idea born of the sexist belief that women control all household matters-cooking, cleaning and decorating- and enjoy those responsibilities. Hence, because men now must also be more “sensitive”, it has resulted in their emasculation. They need a space to freely express themselves. Further, this concept presumes that all men are alike-they yearn for a place to hang their deer heads, NASCAR posters and read pornography. It has become so commonplace globally that Ikea opened a store in Melbourne, Australia with a “manland”.  The space was created so that men who didn’t  want to join their partners in shopping could have a place to relax and enjoy themselves in a “manly way”.  There are now man cave websites dedicated to decorating ideas and contests for the best caves, among other things.

The truth is that they are few of us in this world who have the square footage to enjoy a room of our own. Heck, I write this blog from my kitchen table because my desk shares space with the living area!  If someone is watching TV or the boys have company, the only other choice is my bed. And besides, the kitchen table is less crowded than my desk is! Additionally, my yoga mat is on the rug in front of the desk and my strength training equipment shares space with my washing machine, furnace and other basement storage items. We are squeezed but it seems to work.

For most of us living communally is an economic reality- we need help with the rent or mortgage. For others it is a lifestyle choice: marriage, children or one half of a couple. I think the trick is to find a way to have your creative “space” and share it within this realm. Didn’t we learn this in Kindergarten?

I have no doubt that I aspire to a clean and orderly home that is decorated as an aesthetic expression of my life and identity. However, this is not because I am female!  I am the homeowner; I have pride of place just like everyone else.

Truthfully, I have never given a thought to designing a room of my own. Maybe I need to engage in some fantastical thinking. And so do you! When my dream space is complete, I’ll share it with you and invite you to do the same.

Enjoy the reverie!

Traveling Light

On By buildingalifeofhopeIn Independent WomanLeave a comment

“Sometimes you’ve got to let everything go-purge yourself. If you are unhappy with anything-whatever is bringing you down, get rid of it. Because you’ll find that when you’re free, your true creativity, your true self comes out.”

-Tina Turner

This summer I took a trip to a far off place with my sweetheart. As with any trip, I fretted about how much to pack. And it was not because I needed to have fancy clothes and the shoes to match each outfit.  As a runner and a yogi, there will always be the extra clothes and the mat factored in for my trips. Still, it was important to me that I not have the luggage be a burden in my travels.

I am sure some of my thinking was due to the fact that I was once the mother of young children ( ooh the items necessary for survival!) and the fact that in my profession, lugging a bag and a laptop-along with my lunch-is part and parcel (ha!) of my daily existence.

But I am weary of the burden of carrying things with me all of the time. I want to feel light and move quickly- in spite of my age!

Since the trip, I have decided that the one thing that I did bring is one of the metaphors for how I have begun to live my life. I absolutely adore my tiny, tri-colored shoulder purse! It is just the right size for my small wallet (how many plastic cards does one really need anyway?), my reading glasses and cell phone. I have been using it for just 5 weeks and it has proven to be all that I need in my everyday travels.

So, this small item has really gotten thinking about how my life in the last five years has been made lighter as well. I am no longer married. Therefore, the person and his large amount of  accompanying accessories left the house.(Listen to Miranda Lambert’s song “Baggage Claim” if you want to catch my drift!) Truthfully, when this happened, I think that I not only exhaled for the first time in years but the house did as well.

I am sure that this major event caused a seismic shift in my outlook on life. I began to realize that there was space between things: thoughts, actions, relationships. Life was moving towards a easier path. Not challenge-free by any means, but one that opened up my heart and home to new people and experiences.

Even though money was very tight, I began to give things away. As a result, the house underwent a karmic shift. Among the few new things I got was a new bed (of course) and, in turn, I  gave the old one to my youngest son. Suddenly, it seemed that my small house became the place for all sorts of social interactions. My sons’ friends spent regular time here and they didn’t mind my company! We ate, talked, and watched movies together. My sons threw me birthday parties. My graduate school friends made this the place to work on our projects. We never laughed and swore so much during that process! And we all got  A+s to boot!

Love came back into my life in a way that I never expected.

So I guess you could say that my little purse is about letting go and letting in. Just as I have the three necessary things for my purse, so in turn I have what is necessary for my life: family, friends and love.

When the things in your life don’t allow you to move, think clearly, or to even breath, you have to unpack them!  Then you have to either give them away or throw them away. When this happens, newer, more positive experiences can occur if you let them in your heart.