It's cold outside. Winter cold that makes my bum freeze within three minutes of starting my run and about forty-five minutes to thaw once I walk back through the door. That's why I'm sitting in the sunshine that's streaming through the windows and have my back to the fire.
I love winter--the snow, the ice skating, the sledding, the down coats and the invigorating chill that makes you feel somehow super duper alive (perhaps because if you stay out too long, you won't be . . .). But I really truly HATE being cold. I'm to bundled up one when everyone else is in sweaters. I think it's from my Connecticut winter childhood where once you got a chill in that damp cold, it was nearly impossible to shake. Who knows, but during these winter mornings after long runs in the dark, I find myself sitting for nearly an hour after the kids go to school in front of the fire, soaking in the radiant heat like a lizard. I think to myself, honestly, nothing is quite as perfect as this.
And that's where I am in my life--simple things make me happy, nearly blissfully happy.
When the house is sufficiently settled and I can finally climb into bed, I giggled and leap into bed with a feeling of utter joy. I snuggle under the covers and think, Oh, yes! Thank you day for ending! And I'm asleep within moments.
When everyone gets off to school without tears or yelling, I find myself beaming and thinking I just may have pulled the best coup in the history of morning departures (yes, they are that rare--this morning was NOT one of those coup mornings).
When Henry actually does his homework without me asking him twenty times, I feel like I'm the best mother that ever walked the earth.
If I can exercise and not feel like crying or barfing, I know I can do anything.
I find this joy in what I would have considered "tiny" things before, extends to every area of my life. I see this most clearly in my marriage. We've almost been married for 19 years. The first 15 went pretty much without a hitch. I thought everyone woke up every morning totally secure that love would carry you through the day when nothing else could. Marriage was, if not easy, totally doable and a source of a lot of satisfaction and comfort. But nothing worthwhile, I've learned, goes without some serious trying. I always read about things like this, trial by fire and all that, and thought, I'm totally strong enough . . . we are strong enough to make it through anything. Love conquers everything, right? I'm telling you, I think it does, but teenagers, stressful jobs, not enough time together, not enough sleep, food, or time to just breath for a few minutes takes a toll on everyone. It goes through the fire and either burns up or is made a heck of a lot stronger. So we've been going through making it strong. I like to think we are forging a better marriage. But to do that, you've got to get in that furnace and be willing to do a little cooking.
I've learned, that until you feel the burn of the fire, you have no idea what a trial is. It burns. You think your going to turn to ash and crumble away on the wind. Sometimes you want to burn up and crumble away. Some days you would do anything make the ache end. You want more desperately than you've wanted anything to run as fast and as far as you can. You are blind and alone and confused. There isn't, like in the books, a clear path you know if you stick on, everything will come out in the end. You just have to keep taking steps in what you think is the right direction and pray like you never have before that you don't fall off an abyss.
But somewhere in there, in the fire, in the fear, it happens.
You change.
You realize that though the fire may still be raging around you, it no longer burns you quite so much. You have survived and you will continue to survive . . . in fact you might just thrive. There is power in that knowledge--at it's source is where you, me, everyone finds the real like of peace.
I look around me now, with my eyes opened. I see so much heroism in people around me. They continue to get up and go on when they face ten times, no probably a hundred times what I face on my worst day. They are the heroes. They used to seem broken and odd and pathetic to me before. How, I wonder, could I be so blind to their heartache? How did I walk by so many times, to many, and not reach out my hand and hug them and tell them they were beautiful and strong and my hero?
I'm ashamed of myself. It's something I have to live with. It's a weight that I'll carry with me. But it's the kind of weight I want to bear. I remember this scene from Amazing Grace where the main character meets the author of the song "Amazing Grace." He's washing the floors of a cathedral. He's dressed in rags, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the stones. I can't remember what the conversation was, but I remember hims saying that he could never make up for the wrongs he'd done. He was happy to do this service for the rest of his life if it helped someone. I feel like him. I feel myself on my hands and knees trying so hard to scrub away the mistakes of my thoughtlessness. I don't find it hard. I don't find it a burden. I find it healing. It makes me lighter.
And happier than I've ever been in my life. And I think our marriage, while not perfect, is so much better. Healthier. More vibrant and alive and real. It's hard, super hard, but I'm pretty sure that's what makes it so good.
I think it was my sister Jayne that said, When life is hardest, the joy is the sweetest. She, obviously, has walked through that furnace and is coming through just like the rest of us.
It's not something you can tell anyone. I wish I could. I look at my children and I know that each of them will have go through this and I don't like it. I wish I could stop them from suffering, but I know that like me, they will have help. I had so many tools and angels of mercy helping me on my way through. I still do. I know, I'm not through yet. I just pray that I can be there for them. I hope I can be a guide, if they let me, when they find themselves in the crucible of life.
Maybe, I wonder, if this is what growing up means--to look the demons of life in the face and know that they won't defeat you--at least you go on the strong hope that they won't. I know, that sounds really melodramatic, but I'm telling you, that's how it feels. Moses, it's scary and hard.
Phoebe and Celia were telling me about their nightmares and how for some reason, you just can't run in those dreams. Your legs are frozen and you can't move. We all laughed because that's the worst part of the dreams.
Phoebe said, I wake up and then fall right back asleep into the same dream, but somehow it's not really the same dream. It's less scary.
I asked her if that was because she could alter the dream the second time around?
She said, I think I do.
I told her that's what I do, I remake the dream so that I can have something to smash the monster with or I have a net to catch the falling child, or really long arms that snatch the child away from the speeding train (yep, a mother's nightmare).
I think that's what all this hard stuff has taught me, that I have a lot more power than I thought/think. I can control a surprising amount of stuff in my own life. It's made me a much better wife, friend, daughter, sister, and most of all mother.
I can ask for things and not feel guilty about it. I deserve it.
I need to listen and hear what is being said--even if it's painful.
I can expect to be respected and listened to.
Everyone's feelings and opinions matter.
I can see the ugliest parts of people and still love them.
I can see the ugliest part of me and still think I'm not so bad.
There is always hope (it sometimes takes super human effort . . . but hey, I've learned I'm super human).
I can forgive.
I can be forgiven.
I can laugh through my tears.
Tears are beautiful. It means you still feel.
I can start new every day.
We need to let everyone have a new start.
I'm so grateful, as stupid and idiotic as it sounds, that I was thrown into that fire. That I was given the chance to wake up and look around me. REALLY look around me and see how much need there is in this huge world for love. For kind words. For hugs. For, "I'm here for you." For laughter in the middle of crying. For hope. For letting things slide. Most of all for gratitude.
I'm so thankful of things I always assumed would always be mine. Nothing is ever really yours, it's all a gift and sometimes, well, sometimes those gifts are not what you thought you wanted . . . but turn out to be there very thing you'd love.
I love winter--the snow, the ice skating, the sledding, the down coats and the invigorating chill that makes you feel somehow super duper alive (perhaps because if you stay out too long, you won't be . . .). But I really truly HATE being cold. I'm to bundled up one when everyone else is in sweaters. I think it's from my Connecticut winter childhood where once you got a chill in that damp cold, it was nearly impossible to shake. Who knows, but during these winter mornings after long runs in the dark, I find myself sitting for nearly an hour after the kids go to school in front of the fire, soaking in the radiant heat like a lizard. I think to myself, honestly, nothing is quite as perfect as this.
And that's where I am in my life--simple things make me happy, nearly blissfully happy.
When the house is sufficiently settled and I can finally climb into bed, I giggled and leap into bed with a feeling of utter joy. I snuggle under the covers and think, Oh, yes! Thank you day for ending! And I'm asleep within moments.
When everyone gets off to school without tears or yelling, I find myself beaming and thinking I just may have pulled the best coup in the history of morning departures (yes, they are that rare--this morning was NOT one of those coup mornings).
When Henry actually does his homework without me asking him twenty times, I feel like I'm the best mother that ever walked the earth.
If I can exercise and not feel like crying or barfing, I know I can do anything.
I find this joy in what I would have considered "tiny" things before, extends to every area of my life. I see this most clearly in my marriage. We've almost been married for 19 years. The first 15 went pretty much without a hitch. I thought everyone woke up every morning totally secure that love would carry you through the day when nothing else could. Marriage was, if not easy, totally doable and a source of a lot of satisfaction and comfort. But nothing worthwhile, I've learned, goes without some serious trying. I always read about things like this, trial by fire and all that, and thought, I'm totally strong enough . . . we are strong enough to make it through anything. Love conquers everything, right? I'm telling you, I think it does, but teenagers, stressful jobs, not enough time together, not enough sleep, food, or time to just breath for a few minutes takes a toll on everyone. It goes through the fire and either burns up or is made a heck of a lot stronger. So we've been going through making it strong. I like to think we are forging a better marriage. But to do that, you've got to get in that furnace and be willing to do a little cooking.
I've learned, that until you feel the burn of the fire, you have no idea what a trial is. It burns. You think your going to turn to ash and crumble away on the wind. Sometimes you want to burn up and crumble away. Some days you would do anything make the ache end. You want more desperately than you've wanted anything to run as fast and as far as you can. You are blind and alone and confused. There isn't, like in the books, a clear path you know if you stick on, everything will come out in the end. You just have to keep taking steps in what you think is the right direction and pray like you never have before that you don't fall off an abyss.
But somewhere in there, in the fire, in the fear, it happens.
You change.
You realize that though the fire may still be raging around you, it no longer burns you quite so much. You have survived and you will continue to survive . . . in fact you might just thrive. There is power in that knowledge--at it's source is where you, me, everyone finds the real like of peace.
I look around me now, with my eyes opened. I see so much heroism in people around me. They continue to get up and go on when they face ten times, no probably a hundred times what I face on my worst day. They are the heroes. They used to seem broken and odd and pathetic to me before. How, I wonder, could I be so blind to their heartache? How did I walk by so many times, to many, and not reach out my hand and hug them and tell them they were beautiful and strong and my hero?
I'm ashamed of myself. It's something I have to live with. It's a weight that I'll carry with me. But it's the kind of weight I want to bear. I remember this scene from Amazing Grace where the main character meets the author of the song "Amazing Grace." He's washing the floors of a cathedral. He's dressed in rags, on his hands and knees, scrubbing the stones. I can't remember what the conversation was, but I remember hims saying that he could never make up for the wrongs he'd done. He was happy to do this service for the rest of his life if it helped someone. I feel like him. I feel myself on my hands and knees trying so hard to scrub away the mistakes of my thoughtlessness. I don't find it hard. I don't find it a burden. I find it healing. It makes me lighter.
And happier than I've ever been in my life. And I think our marriage, while not perfect, is so much better. Healthier. More vibrant and alive and real. It's hard, super hard, but I'm pretty sure that's what makes it so good.
I think it was my sister Jayne that said, When life is hardest, the joy is the sweetest. She, obviously, has walked through that furnace and is coming through just like the rest of us.
It's not something you can tell anyone. I wish I could. I look at my children and I know that each of them will have go through this and I don't like it. I wish I could stop them from suffering, but I know that like me, they will have help. I had so many tools and angels of mercy helping me on my way through. I still do. I know, I'm not through yet. I just pray that I can be there for them. I hope I can be a guide, if they let me, when they find themselves in the crucible of life.
Maybe, I wonder, if this is what growing up means--to look the demons of life in the face and know that they won't defeat you--at least you go on the strong hope that they won't. I know, that sounds really melodramatic, but I'm telling you, that's how it feels. Moses, it's scary and hard.
Phoebe and Celia were telling me about their nightmares and how for some reason, you just can't run in those dreams. Your legs are frozen and you can't move. We all laughed because that's the worst part of the dreams.
Phoebe said, I wake up and then fall right back asleep into the same dream, but somehow it's not really the same dream. It's less scary.
I asked her if that was because she could alter the dream the second time around?
She said, I think I do.
I told her that's what I do, I remake the dream so that I can have something to smash the monster with or I have a net to catch the falling child, or really long arms that snatch the child away from the speeding train (yep, a mother's nightmare).
I think that's what all this hard stuff has taught me, that I have a lot more power than I thought/think. I can control a surprising amount of stuff in my own life. It's made me a much better wife, friend, daughter, sister, and most of all mother.
I can ask for things and not feel guilty about it. I deserve it.
I need to listen and hear what is being said--even if it's painful.
I can expect to be respected and listened to.
Everyone's feelings and opinions matter.
I can see the ugliest parts of people and still love them.
I can see the ugliest part of me and still think I'm not so bad.
There is always hope (it sometimes takes super human effort . . . but hey, I've learned I'm super human).
I can forgive.
I can be forgiven.
I can laugh through my tears.
Tears are beautiful. It means you still feel.
I can start new every day.
We need to let everyone have a new start.
I'm so grateful, as stupid and idiotic as it sounds, that I was thrown into that fire. That I was given the chance to wake up and look around me. REALLY look around me and see how much need there is in this huge world for love. For kind words. For hugs. For, "I'm here for you." For laughter in the middle of crying. For hope. For letting things slide. Most of all for gratitude.
I'm so thankful of things I always assumed would always be mine. Nothing is ever really yours, it's all a gift and sometimes, well, sometimes those gifts are not what you thought you wanted . . . but turn out to be there very thing you'd love.
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