Feet First!

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I’m not sure exactly when it clicked for me. The past 6 months, I’ve been doing a lot of soul searching. Not just the sitting in silence, pondering life part. I mean the making lists and digging REALLY deep into who I am and who I want to be. Maybe it was turning 44—a mid-life crisis sort of thing. Maybe it was having my dream job and still feeling unhappy and unsatisfied. Whatever started this ball rolling, I am glad it did. I have never felt more empowered, motivated, and aligned as I do right now, in this moment.

This uneasiness I was feeling, this sense of having  no purpose, no path—it literally brought me to my knees. And I’m being completely honest here. I spent much of April and May of this year in bed. In tears. In complete and utter hoplessness. If I had the job I always wanted, the love of my life by my side, two magnificent boys ensconced at top-notch colleges, my elderly parents still alive and living with me, all the material things I wanted, why the hell was I in complete and utter despair? What the hell was wrong with me?

Yes, I’ve lived with depression my entire life. I know its in’s and out’s. I know its lies and destruction. I know how it seeps into your blood and into your soul. I know how that bitch sneaks into your bed at night and steals every ounce of happiness you had, with no reason, no rhyme, no warning. This was beyond that. This was a completely new thing. This was me floating helpless with no idea where I was going. I was no longer just depressed; I was lost. I, the real me, was gone.

I’ve been changing my eating habits and fitness habits since the first of the year. I’ve blown up over the last 18 years. I mean, BLOWN UP. I was about 100 pounds overweight. And I think here is where the moment of clarity came to me. It was on a treadmill, when I thought I couldn’t go any further. I was about to push the “stop” button on my treadmill, when I looked at my time. I was on there for 40 minutes. At a high speed and incline. When I first started in February, I could barely do 10 minutes with no incline and at a low speed.

Wait a second? Did I really do that?  Did I really come this far in a few months?  And I did this on my own. Yes, with support, but ultimately I was in control. It was when I realized how strong I could be physically that I realized how strong I am emotionally and mentally. I have been through so much shit in my life—I mean seriously. And here I am. Still. No matter what life has thrown at me, I’ve gotten through. And there it was, the truth I needed. Everything I needed was inside ME. I didn’t need to look to a job, to my love, to my nice car—-what I needed to thrive was me.

Now, I feel free. Is everything perfect and happy? No. Is my depression suddenly gone? No. But, now I know that the power lies inside me to overcome anything life throws at me. I am scared to death. I’m flying without a lifeline. I’m starting my own business to coach others to find themselves, to harness their power, and to do so with writing. I’m so excited I can hardly contain myself.

I’m jumping in feet first! And I’ve never felt so fearless in my life.

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Fluidity

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I went to the water to find peace–

somewhere in the waves,

where the sun fades and the noise becomes hollow.

 

I went to the water to find resilience–

like the aqua liquidity bending and shaping

to whatever it encounters.

 

I went to the water to find a sense of permanence–

like the lasting effect of years upon years of continuous movement,

that leaves its mark on all it touches.

 

I went to the water to find something, anything–

grasping for something concrete to hold onto

or finally letting go forever.

 

I went to the water to find comfort—

but in between the droplets, I found myself.

 

Time Machine

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My Mother’s Day wish this year is simple: a time machine. Just for a few hours. No, I wouldn’t take it back to buy Microsoft stock or witness some historical event. I would go back to an ordinary day….just a typical Wednesday, maybe 2001. I would go back to our humble house on our less than great street. The one I never really liked, but at a young age, was lucky to have. It would be a sunny, nice spring day. I would go back to the morning. When my boys, then 7 and 4, would still be asleep.

I would creep into their rooms, and sit down and watch them sleep. I would take in everything about that moment–each hair on their head, the sound of their sleeping breath, the smell of the room. After lingering a bit, I would wake them up and we’d go downstairs for breakfast. And they could have whatever they wanted—-ice cream? Sure!! Chocolate chip pancakes with extra chips? You got it!!

After breakfast, we would move head back upstairs to our “learning room” to get started on the school day. Lego on the floor?? Again??!!! As the plastic missile makes its way into my foot, I would smile and enjoy the searing pain shooting up my toes. As the school day begins, I remember how difficult it was homeschooling two boys. But, this day, I wouldn’t yell when Holden didn’t want to do his English lesson, because he wanted to read about space and rocket ships. I wouldn’t get frustrated at Harrison when all he wanted to do was look at the photos in his animal books. I would grab all the books and sit with them.

I would do every single thing they wanted all day—-no matter how silly it seemed at the moment, no matter what I had planned for the day. I would hold the hugs just a little bit longer. I would kiss just a little bit more. I would cuddle up on the sofa just a little bit longer as we watched silly cartoons, which I used to think were a waste of time. The extra cookie that they wanted after dinner—I’d give them 2.

As I look back now, fifteen years later as my boys are now a senior and sophomore in college, I realize how much time I spent on things that weren’t important. I complained about things that didn’t matter. I didn’t spend time taking in those mundane moments that become the best memories. I look at them now with their own lives and their independence and I long for them to need me just a bit. I long for days of Sponge-Bob on the TV and Lego all over the floor. Days of rough and tumble boys laughing a bit too loud and being a bit too silly.

Time flies so fast. We are so busy looking to the next moment that we miss the beauty of the current moment. We miss the beauty in the madness that is the day of a mom. Those mundane moments are what I miss the most. Those days when nothing special happened, except it did……I was spending the day with my boys. The two halves of my heart. My eldest, who taught me how to love, and my youngest who taught me that that love was limitless.

They tell you a lot of things when you’re pregnant—what to eat, what you should or shouldn’t do when the baby is born, how to stay healthy. But, what they don’t tell you is how you lose your heart. How you lose part of yourself. These babies that grow inside you for 9 months, take a piece of you when they are born. And no matter how old they are, no matter how far away they roam, they carry that with them. A piece of you will forever live outside of your body, but you still feel it. Like a phantom limb, you ache for it.

Every Mother’s Day, as I celebrate my own mom, I also thank my boys. They made me a better person. They made me love deeper, they made me stronger, they made me who I am. As I marvel at their talents, at their compassion, at their humanity, I continue to miss those ordinary days. But, I’ve learned to hold onto each moment they are with me. Now, if I could only get that time machine…. just for a few hours.

 

Lloyd Dobler

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“I don’t want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don’t want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don’t want to do that.”—Lloyd Dobler

 

I’ve been thinking back to that college freshman I was 26 years ago. That girl knew exactly what she wanted to do with her life…..well, she thought she did. I was determined to be Clarice Starling from The Silence of the Lambs. I was going to be a pistol-packing, strong, daring FBI agent for the Behavioral Analysis Unit, or in today’s terms, the people from Criminal Minds. I had no doubt that one day I would be catching serial killers and interviewing them from Death Row. Even as a young child I had a macabre fascination with criminals and crime. I read true crime books in elementary school, did reports on serial killers, gave speeches against Capital Punishment, and did my Senior English Paper on Jack the Ripper. Yeah, I was that girl.

So, as I stepped into the halls of my college in New Jersey, I had no doubts or hesitations. I majored in Criminal Justice and Psychology and knew exactly what my career path was. I didn’t want a family, no husband or children, so no ties to hold me back as I worked my way up in the FBI. But, something happened that year. Fear took over. As I started delving deeper into the FBI requirements, I questioned my own physical and mental strength. Then, I went to visit a prison and spoke to the psychologist there, he laid it out on the line for me. “You’ll be one of the only women they will see during their sentences.” “There’s a high risk you will be assaulted.”  He went on and on and pulled no punches. Suddenly the life and career I wanted seemed so scary. (Yeah, I should have thought of that earlier, right?) I finished out that year. Then, I quit. I quit because of fear and self-doubt.

From there, I transferred to another school closer to home and declared Journalism as my major. English and writing was always my second choice, since I had been writing since I was a child and was always told I excelled at it. But, no…English was too safe. But when I decided against being the next FBI super agent, I fell back to what I knew. I fell back to the safe place of Journalism. I loved it. I had written for the paper freshman year and was on staff of the newspaper my sophomore year. Editing and writing were a safe place for me. And they were therapeutic. And I was good at it and no one was going to shoot me—well, some editors I wasn’t so sure of!

Every job I’ve had since graduating has involved some form of writing: Marketing, editing, managing a publishing company’s editorial division, being an executive assistant, advising two student newspapers, serving as Poet Laureate. Part of every job has been writing. But recently I’ve been doubting my career choices. Am I a writer? Am I a journalist? Am I crazy? Short answer: I’m having a mid-life crisis. Yes, instead of buying a fancy car of my dreams (which I did two years ago anyway), I’m doubting who I am and where I want to be.

Honestly, I have no idea what exactly I want to do. I had my dream job and I wasn’t happy. So, what exactly should I do with the rest of my life? What am I good at? What makes me happy? I hope you’ll stay tuned as I try to answer those questions. I’m not who I was at 18 or even who I was in my 20’s when I graduated college. I’ve grown. I’ve adapted. I’ve changed….a lot. So, I ask myself, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

Contradiction

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I sit in isolation-

(surrounded by the masses)-

desperately looking for companionship-

(exhausted by  the interaction).

 

 

An imitation of a person.

Passionate, yet apathetic.

Loving, yet spiteful.

 

Tedious days melt into dark nights

and I’m a remnant of who I once was.

 

 

 

 

Coyotes

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Re-sharing this one for National Poetry Month..

 

Coyotes

I believe they are called “coyotes”
those smugglers that go over the border to bring people into America.
I wonder if I could hire one?
someone to sneak across my borders.
searching for pieces of me left behind–
broken bits and jagged edge slivers—
hidden for years under miles of dust, debris, and baggage.
bringing them back to me to recreate myself
into some collage, some abstract mosaic of broken glass…
rearranging them into some Pollock-like masterpiece
that when you turn it in just such a way…
it bares resemblance to a human being.