A Prayer for Today

"The wound is the place where the light enters you." - Rumi

Dear God,

                Today is a hard day.  No matter how hard I try to stay busy, I am distracted by the date on the calendar.  I am haunted by memories of a phone call I never wanted to receive.  I am flooded with guilt over my broken vows, unfulfilled promises and a love taken for granted.  I can’t help but travel down the many paths of what-if’s and should’ve beens, and God, they hurt.  Every year, on the day he took his life, I feel suffocated by the powerlessness of not being able to change this one moment in time that changed so much.

                So my prayer to you is this.  Help me change THIS moment.  Help me change ME.

  Help me to be a better friend.  To be a better listener, even when my friends are not speaking out loud.  Help me to be there for them when they are hurting or lonely or sad without them even having to ask.  Help me to be an active listener and proactive in showing my love. 

Help me to be less judgmental.  Help me remember that the junkie was just like me before she took that first hit.  The homeless person on the street could easily be me one day.  The woman in prison would be me if I had gotten caught.  The kid at school we used to make fun of may be my kid now.  We are all someone’s brother or sister or mother or father or child.  We all belong to you, we all belong to each other.  Help me feel responsible to show love and compassion and not point fingers.

Help me to remember that my words matter.  That gossip can kill, that a kind word can save and that the next thing I say to someone may very well be the LAST thing said between us.  Please remind me to use my "I love you’s", my "I’m sorry’s", my "thank you’s", my "I forgive you’s" and my "just thinking of you’s" every day.

And God, if you should see it fit to ever send another love my way, help me to love fully and fearlessly; to commit myself daily, and to build a home centered more on acceptance and less on expectation.

Help me to use the painful truths of his death in a way that may prevent someone else from ever knowing how this feels.  Help make the broken pieces of my heart into something beautiful to honor him and honor you.

 

This is my prayer.

Passed Down

One of my favorite memories of my Grandaddy is sitting next to him in church. As time would approach for the offering collection, he would reach in the inside pocket of his suit coat, pull out his wallet and remove the bills. One for him, one passed down the pew for me. Without a word, I learned the joy of giving, of sharing with others.

Grandaddy often acted without saying much. He did not offer his opinion or advice unless asked, so every time I got an unexpected, "I'm proud of you," it meant the world. I never once heard him complain, even in his last days.  Those days, he struggled for the strength to speak at all, but always asked, "how is my good friend," referring to my daughter, his firstborn great-grandchild.

In a few days, his good friend will be baptized. In the same church I where was baptized, in the same sanctuary where I grew up sitting beside my Grandaddy, the same room where we told him good-bye, in the same place where I still feel most connected to his sweet spirit. I wish he was alive to sit beside me, but I think he will be there. If he is, he will be proud. I will think of him, not only during her baptism, but also during the offering, as I always do, and I will offer my gratitude for knowing a love that was not just for his lifetime or mine-- a love that outlasts-- a love that has been passed down.

"R" You Serious?

     Last night I was on the phone with a guy I met a few weeks ago.  We had just made plans to get together this weekend. I did not have great expectations for this one, but after the last heartbreak, I was ready to just enjoy a movie and curl up with some popcorn and enjoy some good company. But then he opened his mouth.

     When I would say something silly or crazy, he would say, "you’re retarded." When he would tell me about a setback at work, "it was retarded." When a coworker or family member messed up, "they’re just retarded." Finally, I said, "You know, I really hate the R-word." Usually when I tell someone the word offends me, they will refrain from using it, at least in my presence, if not totally. Some even understand the insensitivity and apologize. Oh no, not this guy– he tries to justify the verbiage by saying, "Let me tell you a story..." so I listen. He continues to explain about a time when he was at WalMart and a "retard" bagged his groceries and put a 2-liter on top of his bread. (Apparently, this act of deliberate hate ruined his life, but in my opinion, if this is the worst you have to complain about, be thankful!) So I try to tell him, hey, give the kid some credit, he was out working, trying, you can go back and get more bread. He said, "Why are you so sensitive, do you have someone with handicaps in your family?"

I never considered my daughter to be handicapped. And I would sure never call her a "retard".

 I said, "I guess I do."
"Ha ha, do they pass out stickers?"
"No, she is eleven– and she is an amazing person," the claws were coming out...
"I never said they aren’t good people. I am sensitive to retarded people..."
"Yeah, obviously!" I interrupted.
"I am, I mean, I am very thankful..."
"What, not to be like them?"

     How sad that this man, who cannot send one single text without misspelling a word would so harshly judge people based on their intellect. So sad that a man with so much anger and hate would unknowingly group into his stereotype my child who loves so freely and wants so badly to be accepted. How ironic that he is "thankful not to be like them", while I strive every day to be more like her.

     I tried to explain that when the word "retard" or "retarded" is used to describe people with intellectual, cognitive or physical disabilities and then used in place of any word with a derogatory connotation– stupid, awkward, weird, different– they are in essence assumed to be interchangeable. And that is not okay with me. Not about my daughter, and for sure, not around my daughter. It’s not "just a word", it’s my child. And I am her mother. And one of my jobs as her mother is to try to make this world a little better for her, to try to protect her from its evils, to try to help her understand this world and, more importantly, try to help the world understand her. It involves countless hours of research, reading, networking, applying, getting denied, appealing, crying, begging, venting, going to meetings, cutting through red tape, jumping through hoops and having to learn almost an entirely different language in order to have a meaningful conversation in the special education realm. I have fought for her, and I will fight this word, too, because she is worth it.

     The word "retard" in music means to slow down. Slowing down is not such a bad thing. Sometimes when you slow down, you can see the more important things in life. Recently we watched the UK vs. FL Men’s Basketball game when Nerlens Noel blew out his knee and UK lost miserably. The next day, my daughter said, "I think the Cats did a great job last night." I couldn’t wait to hear this logic! "When their friend got hurt, they all stopped and helped him and made sure he was okay." When the game stops, and things slow down, important things happen– and she took notice. I didn’t.

     When one of her friends was being bullied on the playground, my daughter– all fifty whopping pounds of her at the time– stood up for her friend. Then the bully told my daughter she was stupid. She came home with tears in her eyes because it doesn’t take a genius to know that "stupid" is a hurtful word. I asked her if she hit the bully, but she had not. I asked her if she called the bully a name in response, but she had not. I asked her what she said and my child looks up at me with her lip still quivering and says to me, "I told her, ‘I forgive you.’" She may not have the answers in Math, but somehow, the kid comes up with better answers than I do in life. She may not have the best reading comprehension, but when it comes to matters of the heart, she gets it. And that is way more than I can say for that guy.

     People shouldn’t be so quick to call names. Respect, yes. Retard, no. Intellectually disabled? I guess that depends on if you slow down to take a closer look– she may not be the fastest learner, but she has been my greatest teacher. And sometimes, she is the smartest person I know.

http://www.r-word.org/r-word-pledge.aspx  take the pledge to spread the word to end the word. 

Open Letter to the Hip Hop Teacher

Dear Hip Hop Teacher Who Keeps Changing Her Name (what is that about anyway?):

I love your Wednesday night hip-hop class, really, I do. But seriously, it is Thursday afternoon now and it feels more like I had a hip replacement. Your choreography is fluid, there are not too many steps in the combinations, although it did take me a few weeks to understand that when you yelled out "Combo 1" it did not mean that I was getting a Big Mac and large fries.

However, women my age do not need to be encouraged to "drop it low" unless you are going to offer to pick it up. Lady, my stuff seems to be dropping low all on it’s own these days, so how about I drop it medium and let the rest just hang? Because last night I tried to drop it low. And now, I really hurt.

Nevertheless, your class is a lot of fun– I enjoy watching you get all crazy-eyed looking at yourself in the mirror, wishing you were on the main stage. I like most of your song selections. Most of them. But, listen... I do not need to hear about what a "big, fine lady" I "is" when I "back that thang up" while you have me poppin’ and lockin’ it all over the YMCA. Totally not a confidence booster. Just sayin’.


Maybe it is my fault I feel like this. I know you gym folks like to tell people to "listen to your body". But let’s be serious a minute– if I listened to my body, I would be 600 pounds, living off of deep fried foods on sticks and taking mass DNA tests on Maury Povich, who probably had to pry the roof off my house and lift me out with a crane to get me on his show. My body says EAT it.  My body says OOOH yeah, girl, he is hot!  My body NEVER says to "drop it low."

So maybe next week, you can stick to the "yeah, shake it!" –I think mine is still shaking, by the way. Maybe you can do without the dropping lows and the songs about big women? Maybe you can skip the splits at the end? If not, next time I blog about you, I'm namin' names.
Yours truly,
Big fine lady on the back row

Fire and Rain

"Just yesterday morning, they let me know you were gone..."

-James Taylor

     I heard the song Fire and Rain on the radio this morning and in an instant my heart knew the time of year.  Tomorrow would be my ex-husband's birthday.  We married my first semester of college.  He had been married once before and already had two children, who were toddlers at the time.  I will omit the details of the rise and fall of our relationship, but basically, we were just too young.  Close to five years after we said, "I do," we signed "I don't," but for the most part remained friendly and we both moved on.

    One late August afternoon, five years after our divorce, I got a telephone call letting me know that he had taken his life earlier that day.  I called his sister to see if it was true.  When all I heard were tears, I knew it was.  She managed to utter, "he's gone, girl.  He's gone."

    Another five years have come and gone since his death.  I decided after five years of marriage, five years of divorce, and five years since he passed, this was the year I needed to start letting go-- of the anger, sorrow, and mostly, of the guilt.  For five years, I had prayed he found his rest, and I came to the realization that I deserve the same peace. And somewhere in my process of letting go, this is what came out--

I remember the day I married you,
Waiting outside the double doors, knowing my life was about to change.
I remember the day I married you, walking down the aisle, faceless smiles of loved ones, offering
     best wishes and tight hugs.
I remember thinking that one lifetime with you could never be enough.
I remember the day I married you, it was like I was floating on air and my feet never hit the floor.
The music played,
"I will, I am, I can, I have, I do..."
I vowed to love you forever, promised to be there for your kids, to always love them as my own.
I was scared and you held my hand. We kissed a little too long.
We were just a couple of kids.
I remember the day I married you.

I remember the day I buried you,
Waiting outside the double doors, knowing my life was about to change.
I remember the day I buried you, faceless loved ones, offering condolences and tight hugs.
I remember wondering how our lifetime could fit so tightly into such a small box.
I remember the day I buried you, I couldn’t even feel the tears on my cheeks. It was like each one fell right to the floor.
I remember wondering if you thought of me the day you chose to end your life,
     and whether I was a memory or a reason.
I remember wondering if I ever said the words "I am sorry," or "I forgive you."
I think I did, I think you knew. I wish I knew you knew.
I remember driving to the cemetery and the song on the radio blared,
"through your family I’ll fulfill your dreams..."
I will love you forever. I will love your kids as my own.
When they are scared, I will hold their hands.
I am sorry I could not save you. I am sorry I left you to fight your demons alone.
We were just a couple of kids.
I remember the day I buried you.

"I've seen fire and I've seen rain

I've seen sunny days that I thought would never end.

I've seen lonely times when I could not find a friend,

but I always thought that I'd see you again..."

Resolutions

Be the change you wish to see in the world

-Gandhi

     It's that time of year again, kids.  Time to welcome in a new year, time to evaluate our successes and failures of this year and resolve to make the next one better.  For several years I merely vowed to "do better".  That worked for awhile.  Now I think I will be more deliberate, more intentional, more specific, and then this time next year, we can see how I did... and I challenge you to do the same... in the comment section if you dare!

1. Let more go.  This was one of mine last year, I am not great at it, but when I did, man, it felt GOOD!
2. Write more down.  This was one last year, too.  Took me til October to get this blog started, but you know what they say-- good girls keep diaries, the rest of us don't have time :)
3. Get rid of stuff I don't use, don't need, don't want, don't like-- this is about 1/2 my house!  Seems like this will be therapeutic or cleansing or prioritizing or something.  Or maybe I will at least find some neat shit I forgot about!
4. Say fuck less.
5. Say fuck in front of my child less.  In fact, use a kinder tone more overall.
6. Lose  50 30 more pounds and buy a sparkly dress.  I really want a sparkly dress for New Years, but I do not want to look like a disco ball.  I just really like to sparkle.
7. Be more responsible with my money.  Yeah, there, I admit it.  I suck.  When it comes down to it, I would rather have new boots than pay the student loan people, because really, I feel like that was predatory lending and they NEVER should have given me that much money in the first place.  I was an 18 year old social work major for Christssake and now nobody even cares, Obama won't even tweet me back about it. It stresses me out and boots will make me feel better... but... that cycle HAS to break because, well, I am BROKE.
8. Find someone who loves me like this:

yeah, so maybe this one is not in my control,  See #1.  I am a work in progress!

So, what is on your list??

Whiskey Bent and Beach Bound

"I guess I went and broke their family traditions"

Happy Thanksgiving! I truly have so much to be thankful for. Though things have not always been easy, we have kept a roof above, had plenty of food, clothes
and friends. As my grandmother says, "may you always have enough."

Today after a gluttonous feast with my family, my daughter and I will begin our trek 17 hours South with my sister (who is actually my ex-husband's sister) to visit my step kids, their half- brother, my ex's first wife, her boyfriend and his daughter... Because we like to keep things traditional.

But, even though our "family tradition" sounds more in line with Hank Jr. than Norman Rockwell, I am so blessed to have my step-people, my in-laws, and all my CHOSEN family. I am thankful that my daughter and my step kids are growing up knowing that "love" and "family" are where you find it, and when you find it- hold on to it!

My chosen family and I have cared and fought like family. We have loved the same children, we have married and buried the same man, we have shared the same grief and guilt and sorrows. And we continue to share meals, drinks, and strength to carry each other through.

Tradition in my home does not come stuffed in a turkey, it is not a recipe, or a picture perfect table scene. My hope is that the traditions in my home will be to love one another and to make everyone welcome at our table.

Hope you and your family are as blessed!