A Thanksgiving Meal for the Books

Dear Readers,

For years I've been stiffing Lucas on attending his school's annual Thanksgiving meal.  Usually with good reason (ie meetings, doctor's appointments, napping, etc.), but this year having run out of excuses and unable to handle his giant puppy dog eyes fraught with the disappointment of having the worst mom ever, I sent in my $3.25 along with my RSVP last week.  With much excitement and anticipation, the day finally arrived!

The flyer said this would be a fancy affair, so Lucas selected his finest polyester clip on tie for the occasion.  I wore a classic black dress, professional high heel shoes, and a jacket reminiscent of my doppelganger, Jackie O.  Frankly, it seems to me that everyone else at the lunch missed the memo.  There were a few dresses here and there, but most kids looked like they rolled out of bed and were simply rushed to school by hurried parents, can you imagine?  Regardless of the poorly attired masses, Lucas and I stood smugly in line, trays in hand. 

The lunch offerings for today were, as you can see, the classic Thanksgiving choices:

The menu was somewhat deceiving.  For one thing, the "veggie bag" only contained carrots, where I feel that the name alludes to a variety of veggies.  Also, there was no fruit that I can see, unless they were counting the weak looking sliced radishes on the "salad" bar as fruit.  Before any of you ask, "Harvest Cake" appeared to be a brown colored spongy food item with a thin layer of white on top.

Lucas has very discerning tastes when it comes to his food.  I know this, because he always likes what I make and often refers to me as the best cooker he knows.  For that reason, I was a bit surprised that he went for the green beans over the veg bag, but I guess we all have our quirks.  Here is he, anxiously awaiting his place at the kitchen window to pick up the rest of his grub:

Finally, after waiting for what seemed like minutes, it was our turn to get our meal.  "Corn dogs or Turkey?" Asked the polite smiling woman in a hairnet.  "Turkey please," said Lucas.  "But no gravy please.  That is gravy right?  Sorry, I wasn't sure."  Also opting for the turkey (with gravy), we both received a healthy plop of mashed potato product, a whole wheat roll, the highly anticipated Harvest Cake, and in Lucas' case, a slop of applesauce.  Obviously we both selected chocolate milk to drink (does anyone drink white milk on purpose?).  Here is my lunch tray, in all it's Thanksgiving glory:

The food aside, what really nailed down the holiday spirit of the occasion were the decorations:

At this point, I would like to just add a side note as a parent, as I feel like this might be a common occurrence.  I have carried a hefty pile of guilt over the years for my lack of presence in Lucas' school life.  I'm not/never will be the president of the PTA, I absolutely do not volunteer for classroom duties, I have a record of attending zero field trips, and to be honest it's a wonder that I remember to send treats for Lucas' birthday.  There are a couple reasons for my lack of interests: other parents, and other children.  There aren't many that I'm fond of.  And I'm certain there are many that aren't fond of me.  I swear a lot.  I let Lucas play violent video games.  I've already discussed sex and periods and the finer aspects of existentialism with my son.  I even let him drink caffeinated soda from time to time.  I find that because of these reasons (plus a gazillion others), there are only a handful of parents that I have common ground with.  So all of that nonsense aside, me entering Lucas' school is me entering unknown territory.  As mentioned earlier though, those puppy dog eyes kill me, so I said yes.  Knowing how excited he was to have me join him, I was very much looking forward to the lunch!  So I was very surprised at how much he ignored me once I was there.  Apparently he wasn't expecting his worlds colliding to be such a weird thing.  So rather than talk (thank goodness for his buddy Mason, keeping up the table's conversation for us!), he just shoveled his food in, Harvest Cake first.

A few quick spoonfuls of grub later, and he was ready to go out to recess and forget that this awkward encounter had ever happened.  I was still "eating" (is there a word for pushing food items around on a tray?) when he said, "So, uh, you gonna stick around here for a while?  Or maybe you should get back to work?" Which I took as a cue that our lunch date had come to an end.  We handed our trays to the kitchen helper, who took one look at my messy swirl of uneaten food and said, "What, you on a diet or something?" and that was that.  I did manage to get one last shot of my date though, much to his dismay ("No one else's parents are taking pictures!"):

Handsome, isn't he?

All joking aside, Roosevelt is an awesome school, and I love that they put this fancy day together.  I am sorry that I chose the turkey over the corndogs though, and so for my own Thanksgiving meal will be preparing those instead.  With a healthy plop of potatoes and veggie bag on the side.

Sincerely,
h.

And That is the Breast of the Story

Dear Readers,

First off, let's just get this out of the way: if you're offended by things like breasts and hilarity, this blog post is not for you.  Stop reading now, Google "baby animals" and enjoy the images.  Otherwise, allow me to welcome you to the story of my morning.

Several years and at least three lifetimes ago when I was a young and dainty 16 years old, I was inducted into a study with the Huntsman Cancer Institute because my family carries the BRCA1 among many other renown gene mutations (ie the "Jackass Gene", "Relief Society Arm Gene", and the "Braegger Bug Eye Gene").  For those of you unfamiliar with BRCA1, it's the high risk breast cancer gene.   You may recall Angeline Jolie having a mastectomy not long ago because she too has the mutation (we have so many things in common!).  Anyhow, out of the three Badger girls, I won the gene lottery and inherited the mutation.  What this means for me is that I go through a lot of extra studies and tests that normal girls my age don't have to go through, which leads me to today's blog.

A couple months ago I had my first mammogram.  It wasn't nearly as exciting as I thought it would be, though it was fairly quick and painless.  The worst part was sitting in a small waiting room with three ladies who were at least 30 years older than me, and in the uncomfortable silence I blurted out, "What are the chances we'd all wear the same blouse?" referring to the hideous open-front hospital shirts we were wearing.  Instead of a laugh or two, I got chided by one of the blue-haired ninnies who said, "I don't think now is the time for jokes!"  Personally, I don't think there is a better time for jokes.  Anyhow, after the mammogram and a very lengthy four hour long consultation with the St. Luke's High Risk Breast Cancer Clinic (which I must say is comprised with a lovely group of people.  Seriously, they are the best!), the breast oncologist suggested that I get an MRI done as well.  "Sure!" I said.  "Whatever you think!  Plus, I have a couple thousand bucks just sitting around that I'd love to spend!" And the appointment was made.

They called me last week to brief me on the MRI, and told me that I couldn't have anything to drink within two hours of my appointment (which was set for 8:45am).  I woke up extra early this morning so I could follow their rules, but still have a cup of coffee.  I mention this, because had I not done that this story may have ended in murder.  But thankfully, I went into my appointment fully caffeinated.  Wearing a dress with footless tights, the sweet lady checking me in says, "You'll probably be more comfy in your tights than scrub pants, so why don't you just keep them on?  Just put on the scrub top and that should be fine!" I want to point out that I'm wearing tights: sheer, black tights.  Not leggings.  Not Spanx.  Just one-step-away-from-nylons tights.  And though tasteful, my undergarments are also sheer.  Also, being a Badger girl and what not, I was born "ranch-ready", meaning most people don't want to see me gallivanting about in tight anything.  So I step into the MRI room in my tights and a scrub shirt that barely covers my ass, and low and behold instead of the nice lady I had been working with, there stand two young and handsome male MRI techs!

Luckily, these young men were just as surprised to see me as I was them.  Apparently not a lot of women under the age of 50 come into their unit for breast exams.  Already, I'm mortified because it has occurred to me that they will be able to see right through my tights to my not appropriate at all for the occasion underpants, not to mention that I'll be completely exposed from the waste up.  "Hi.  Oh shit.  Hi," I said (sorry Mom!).  Fumbling his way through putting my IV in ("This is usually really easy for me!" He said), the youngster tells me to kneel on the MRI table, lift my shirt, and lower myself into the cutouts meant for my chestal region.  So I do as I'm told, and as awkwardly as possible fall into the holes where I feel a lot like a dairy cow must while preparing to be milked.  My butt exposed, the guy says, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if you have a blanket." To which I quickly replied, "Maybe you'll be more comfortable if I have a blanket," and then added, "I'm sorry.  I think I'm hilarious when I'm nervous.  I should just say this is easily the most awkward situation I've ever been in, and I've been in a few."  He laughed as he adjusted my womanhood into the holes, "Don't worry.  This is awkward for me too, ha ha ha."

Finally, the adjusting is done, and I'm laying exposed and uncomfortable in a position that would never be appealing to anyone ever, and he sticks a set of headphones on me and asks me what radio station I prefer.  "Radio Boise please, 89.9," I reply, at least relieved that I can listen to Antler Crafts while I'm stuck in a tube.  "Sure thing!  This should take about 40 minutes.  It's really important that you don't move at all.  Take small breaths.  Don't cough.  Any movement could really mess this up, and we'll have to start all over.  Here we go!"  He pushes me back into the machine, and starts piping music into my ears.  It takes me two seconds to realize there's been a terrible mistake.  Instead of 89.9, he set the radio dial to 89.5, the Christian Rock station, and here I am strapped face down to a board, udders swinging, unable to move for 40 hellish minutes listening to the awful, horrible sounds of "HOLY HOLY HOLY" ringing through my head.  "I'm in Hell," I thought. "I'm a terrible person because I call people retarded and I laugh at jokes that I shouldn't laugh at and I really don't like dogs that much and I really hate some kids out there and I am now in Hell because I'm THE WORST."

Finally, 40 long minutes later, the hot guy comes in, pulls me out of the tube and removed the blasted headphones from my head.  I'm dizzy from laying face down and he has to catch me as I stumble off of the MRI table (still exposed, mind you) helps me get dressed and practically pushes me out of the MRI room.  I'm so thankful, so relieved to not be in this Christian Rock nightmare any more that it's only as I'm zipping up my dress that I realize that I still have the IV port in my arm.  "Shit," I said again.  It was my hope to never see these guys again.  But instead, I stumble back into the MRI room and just hold out my arm without a word.  "Oh, sorry about that," says the guy, quickly removing it, never making eye contact.  As I walk out the room and towards the exit, I passed the gal who had checked me in, "See, that wasn't so bad, was it?" She cheerfully said.  I looked at her and looked away and kept walking without saying anything.

And that is the breast of the story.

Sincerely,
h.

 

Share With You

Dear Readers,

Most Saturdays, my friends Heidi and Catie and I meet around a small table outside of the Record Exchange and participate in what we like to call "Writing Group".  It is, indeed, exactly as it sounds. We bring our notebooks and we buy our $1.00 cups of coffee and come up with topics and time our writing.  Both Heidi and Catie are legitimate, talented writers.  I just love to write, and feel honored that I get to sit at their table.  After we finish a piece
, we take turns sharing what we've written.  Only able to speak for myself, I find this practice to be both humbling and therapeutic, but more encouraging than anything.  The writings from these sessions typically aren't "show pieces", rather rough drafts that may or may not grow up into bigger works.  I've spurred some of my own writings into blogs on this very site.

Today, however, I would like to share with you something that I wrote at our last group.  The topic, as given by Catie, was themed "Share With You".  The idea came from a poem she read aloud to us, and it was a cleverly written list of things the writer would like to share with a child; in turn, we carried that theme into our own writings.  It's an interesting thing to consider.  Children are so much smarter than adults.  They sop up their environments and like a biscuit.  We adults do not give them nearly enough credit.  We lie to them, thinking it's for their own good.  We mock them, talk down to them, trick them. And they learn this from us!  For shame, adults, for shame.  Anyhow (sorry for the rant), I have read and re-read my own few paragraphs on the subject and thought, "That's not half bad."  So I read and re-read my few paragraphs to Shay and he said, "That's actually good." (Always surprised at the good, that one).  So I'm going to now share my few paragraphs with you, though it's nowhere near a show piece.  However, I think the subject is thought provoking, and I would be remiss if I didn't encourage you to consider what you would share with a child in your own life.

Here goes nothing:

The Dalai Llama spoke to me once (granted it was through a television screen, but I'm absolutely sure that he was talking to me), and said that the transference of compassion is a natural occurrence at birth, a gift given only by the mother directly to the new-born human.  A gift predetermined by biology.  A gift the father, the doctor or midwife, the millions of other souls out there cannot possibly give.  Only Mom.  So when I gave birth to my baby, as young, as stupid as I was, my heart was overflowing with love and compassion and that darling baby boy (even with a hole in his heart!) accepted every ounce of that gift.  Easily the most important thing to teach him.  And all I had to do was birth him.

Now that the foundation is set, and his life in in progress, and he can rinse his dishes and unlock the front door and ride a bike and tie his shoes, my focus is teach him humanity, which can be counterintuitive to compassion.  Say no.  Set boundaries.  Let your heart be broke, but not too broke.  Listen to records that make you want to scratch the feeling from your feelings.  Defy me.  Prove me wrong.  Stand your ground.  Be tender.  Be honest - always, horribly honest.  Make mistakes, oh that's a big one.  Even bigger?  Recover from mistakes.

I teach and I teach and I have no idea I'm doing it.  What a funny thing it is to discuss semantics and existentialism and death and love and space and time and everything - EVERYTHING - with a child.  Fresh eyes and unblemished heart and virgin ideals.  Who am I kidding?  Cliche and obvious, he is my teacher.  He is my sensei.  And we just kind of stumble and learn from this life together.

There you have it!  That was my piece.  While I still have one foot remaining on my soapbox, I'd like to remind you: don't talk to kids, converse with them.  Respect their ideas, their feelings, their incredibly fast growing brains.  They are smarter than you.  They learn how to yell from you.  They will resent you for lying to them (yes, even you.  Every lie you tell is just another reason to destroy their relationship with you when they get old enough to learn the truth).  Now that you know, you're accountable.  Sorry.

Special thanks to Heidi and Catie, I love you both.  You make me a better writer and a better person.

Sincerely,
h.

We're All People After All

Dear Readers,

Since my last post, I have tried and tried and tried again to write this particular blog, and failed at every attempt.  I think the reason why is because I still had more to learn on the subject.  I had the idea, the words jumbled in my head trying to make sense of each other, but they just wouldn't fall into place.  So I started talking about it instead, at length with several of my friends.  Gathering their experiences like berries, one after the other.  Each story confirmed my thesis, however.  And this blog is the result.

A few months ago, on Memorial Day in fact, I was sitting around the cherished yellow table in my parent's kitchen, chatting with my dad and Grandpa Jack about some family history my dad has been working on.  His research and writings focus on a man named John Chamberline Badger, Grandpa Jack's grandpa.  I've heard stories on this man at length, but never much about his wife, so I was asking questions about her.  Grandpa, who is well into his nineties, recalled being a young child and having his Grandma Isabella calling him "Little John".  He recounted some stories about her, but also about his childhood in general.  One of which that sticks out to me was about him and his brothers swimming in the canal on hot days, then laying in the cool dirt on the canal banks in the sun to dry off.  I loved this visual, and had a crystal clear picture of it in my head.  It occurred to me (possibly for the first time) that my grandpa was a child at some point.  He hadn't always been the older gentleman I've known for 30 some years.  He had lived through the depression, World War II, owned a business, helped build a community, married my grandma, raised 4 children, and retired all before I was born.  What?  How is that possible?  Grandparents are people.

A few weeks later, I was at that glorious place they call Banbury.  This is the first summer I can recall that I didn't go swimming once.  Rather I stayed around the campground, stuffing my face with as much food as possible, enjoying the conversations of my relatives.  It was a special year, as all of the Braegger siblings were there, something that hasn't happened in years.  Though I had heard several of the stories they have told before, hearing them as an adult was a completely different experience.  Compound that with being an adult fresh out of crisis, and it made me especially senstive to the topics at hand.  I have always (and probably always will) held my now deceased grandparents, Cal and Hazel, in the highest regard.  From my early memories they shine as examples of compassion and nurturing.  So it was surprising for me to hear stories of their struggles as a young couple raising a young family; the hardships put on their kids from moving around (even just from Rupert to Paul).  Once again, I found myself in the place I had just a few weeks earlier, of realizing that entire lives were lived before I was even born; that mistakes had been made, that grudges had been carried, that they hadn't always been the people that I knew.  Looking around the camp ground at my aunts and uncles, people that I love and adore and have cherished any amount of attention and love they have given me, and realizing that they are people to.  That they've been faced with decisions and choices and not always making the best ones, that they have struggled and suffered.  It made me feel better in a way, more adult and human, to know them and sit among them. Aunts and uncles are people.

My mom and dad are great people, there is no doubt of that.  As it happens to most everyone, there have been a few ups and downs that have made us more aware of our fragility and humanity lately. It's days like these that you will find yourself vulnerable, which in my opinion is a blessing, because that's when you're at your most willing and able to acknowledge what's important and necessary and let go of the frivolities that can become so burdomsome.  I'm not sure about you, but to see my parents in such a spot tears my heart open and turns the tables a bit, making me want to step into the roll of protector and swap duties with them for a while.  I have friends who have done this; taken over the role of parent to their parent.  Making sure food is on the table, that their siblings are cared for.  Cleaning the house and burying dead pets.  I have friends who have cared for their parents when they've lost their sanity or their health or in some cases both.  I have friends who haven't spoken to their parents in years, who have walked away from a relationship that was never fostered to begin with.  I have friends who blame their parents for their own weaknesses, who resent them for their money and their success, who feel that they will only let them down.  I have friends who are best friends with their mom and dad, that can talk with them about everything from sex to politics, their beliefs and their fears, without a trace of shame or a hint of guilt and receive solid advice and unconditional love in return.  I have learned lessons of humility and graciousness from my own parents this year, and I am grateful for that.  I have learned also that there is so much about them that I don't know, that like my grandparents and aunts and uncles, they have lived entire lives before I was born.  Though I don't know what nor do I know if it's my business to, they have made mistakes, have had heartbreak, and have maybe even stood in some of the same crossroads I have, having to make the decisions to go forward or back, or take a new road completely.  I don't know why it's taken me so long, but I'm gladd to be at the age that I can see them this way, appreciate their humanity outside of their parenthood.  My parents are people.

In twenty years or so, I wonder what Lucas will realize about his own parents.  I wonder how he'll view us through those beautifully lashed eyes.  It's easy for me to say right now that we'll always be close; that he will come to us with all of his problems and triumphs; that Shay and I will stand behind all of his choices and decisions.  I wonder if he'll blame me for his tender heart when it gets broken for the first time or shake his fist at Shay for his overprotection.  I can't imagine it now, and I hope beyond hope that everything will go flawlessly and he will live out every ounce of his potential and at the end of it all he'll say, "Thanks Mom and Dad!".  But, it must be said, children are people.

I have to admit this overly wordy blog didn't turn out the way I had intended it to, but I think I got my point across none-the-less.  It's nice to be at a point to look around and see everyone as peers and fellow humans.  It's nice to learn and grow in my own humanity.  As it ends up, I am people too.

Sincerely,
h.

Adult Onset Puberty: Surviving "The Change"

Dear Readers,

When I was in 6th grade at Big Valley Elementary School, they split the boys and girls up and quarantined us in separate rooms to have "the talk" with us.  It was terrifying and confusing and exhilarating.  First of all, coming from a very mormon home, subject matter did not include anything relating to the human body or it's natural biological functions; rather we were told to wear dresses on Sunday and weren't allowed to sport sleeveless shirts (oh the allure of upper arms!) or shorty shorts.  Morality was closely related to clothing, but wait, what's morality?  Sorry, I'm getting sidetracked.  Back to my 11 year old self.  So there we were, all of the 6th grade girls, shoved into a classroom with female teachers, a few progressive moms, and Nurse Nancy the hyper-active school nurse that had a holiday themed sweater for everything from Arbor Day to Lincoln's Birthday.  After a brief and over stimulating introduction, Nurse Nancy started a video featuring a bunch of girls around my same age that just happened to all get their period on the same night at a slumber party, so the host mom explained the changes their bodies were going through by drawing lady parts with pancake batter.  I mean, who doesn't want an ovary-shaped pancake for breakfast?  Delish!  After the pancakes were eaten and all of their obvious questions were answered, all of the girls were STOKED to go through puberty.  Nurse Nancy pressed stop on the VCR, asked if there were any questions (which was mortifying for her to insinuate that one of us might have the audacity to ask a humiliating question), fed us a cinnamon roll and sent us back our classrooms, where we were awkwardly reunited with our male classmates and spent the rest of the day wondering just what the hell was going on.

It was a kind gesture, adults trying to tell us what we were about to experience, giving us fair warning that hormones would kick in and effectively take over our entire lives soon.  However, the mom in the video did not capture the absolute  hell that being a pre-pubescent teen really is in her pancake demonstration.  There was nothing about the basics of surviving junior high mentioned.  At no point in the video did any of the girls increase their bra size by 2 full cup sizes in a matter of weeks.  I don't recall that cramps were experienced, that acne prevailed, or that boys would act like complete idiots and say the worst things to you in an effort to conceal their own awkward emotions.  That video, and Nurse Nancy for that matter, was full of lies and deceit.

I guess I should be grateful after harboring such resentment for the lies told to me about going through "the change" as a child that no one showed me a video about going through adult puberty in my 30's.  Granted I'm not developing at the rapid rate I was at the age of 11, however the similarities are uncanny.  Hormone changes, body image issues, moods swings (which is a nice way of saying manic depression), identity crisis, and making irrational rebellious choices have all been a huge part of my development over the last couple years.  It ends up, it's not just me.  I know a lot of women, I mean A LOT of women, who have hit their early 30's and went through similar experiences.  I'm sure that men do to, but for some reason we still seem to be learning about these things in separate rooms.

As I was reflecting over the last several months and the leaps and bounds I've made in my personal progression as a functioning adult, it occurred to me just how similar the last few years have been to my days as a pre-teen.  At that age, you struggle because you feel like you're old enough to start making your own decisions, but your parents know that you don't have the experience to make all of those decisions and hold you back until you're ready.  In your early thirties you haven't quite yet established your career, but you've been around long enough that you know you should be reaping a few of the benefits that upper management is getting.  If you don't have kids but want them, all you can see are the people who have kids (or vice-versa; my sisters and I often look at people our age without kids and think enviously to ourselves, "they have it SO EASY."), which is akin to that pair of jeans that "...stupid so and so got but my mom is too cheap to spend $100 on pants and she's ruining my life!".  Searching for meaning in life.  Staying up late eating junk food watching junk tv.  Listening to the saddest music.  Filling journals with emotional vomit and horrible poetry.  The list of commonalties goes on and on.

I'm writing this as a message of hope though, to those women (and possibly men, but I'm pretty sure that women got the short end of this stick too) who are experiencing Adult Onset Puberty.  I made it through it!  After months of psycho-therapy, a near divorce, a few bottles of Jameson, and hours upon hours of crying on the shoulders of my friends, I can say that I have reached the calmest, most collected, sparkling honest, and rewarding time in my life.  I can't tell you the relief, the joy, the absolute refreshment of having done so.  It will happen for you too, I just know it!  Here are a few tips I picked up on this journey from Hell:

1.  Nurturing vs. Co-Dependency: there is a difference.  Learn it.
2.  The grass may be greener, but that's only because it's full of pesticides and other harmful chemicals so it's best to stay in your own yard to avoid making your life toxic.
3.  In the great scheme of things very few of your problems are really anything at all.
4.  Truth is painful and ugly and embarrassing but is always the best option.  I assure you, the pain is far less than that of the alternative.
5.  You are what you eat.  You reap what you sow.  The love you make is equal to the love you take.

Please, take my advice.  It will help, I guarantee it.  And it will save you a lot of money (psychiatrist's ain't cheap, my friends).  In case this blog just doesn't explain it well enough, come on over and I'll be happy to make some reality shaped pancakes for you.

Sincerely,
h.

Gimme Your Hands Cause You're Wonderful

Dear Readers,

Once, years and years ago in another lifetime, I worked at Moxie Java.  I had just finished a book on my shift, and after telling a regular customer of mine about the book, he asked if he could borrow it, and I let him.  You should know that I have a bad habit of writing in my books, one of the many reasons that I can't jump on the e-book train.  Poetry, journal entries, phone numbers, airline confirmation codes, the most important things all get written down in the book I'm reading at the time.  So, back to my story, I handed over my book to my customer, forgetting that I had written a poem on the back cover.  A couple weeks later, the customer approached the counter and when handing me my book, recited from memory my poem word for word.  I was shocked and embarrassed.  Not because the poem was very personal (because it was), but because he was intrigued by it and more than that he had mistaken me for a poet. 

Today, I sit at my desk where I should be working, and have "Rock and Roll Suicide" by David Bowie (a true poet) playing on repeat loud enough that I expect the new neighbors to complain at any moment.  Under the same impulse that I write in my books, I type away on my computer, putting my emotional dribble on the internet for everyone or none to read.  Although I appreciate those who take the time to read it, especially those who have no criticism to offer, I write my blog for myself.  It has always been an outlet for me, writing that is.  I have journals filled to the brim with my illegible hand writing, documenting even the most mundane days of my life starting at the age of 7.  It's important to me though, all of these words, every tattered notebook, even the 90 or so entries included in this blog's history.  A living history all my own, with all of it's ups and downs and circular thinking.

I've been contemplating writing a heavy handed blog entry on the most recent events of my life (which my last entry eluded to), but have decided against it.  At this point it's not about the tsunami anymore, but the beauty of rebuilding after the water has calmed down.  I've made some big discoveries about myself.  For instance, I am a valued and beautiful person.  And what's more, I genuinely like myself.  How strange!  33 years of displeasure and self-loathing, only to find at my absolute lowest point in life that I've been so much harder on myself than any one person ever should be.  That's not to say that I should earn your respect, Dear Reader.  Because I am human, and have made some major mistakes.  I am not immune from hurting others.  I fail and flail and fall.  Ye without sin, please feel free to strike the first letter key in response; I have a feeling though that we're all in this slowly sinking boat together, bright orange life vests made of broken promises and unspoken apologies.  I'll do my best to rescue myself though, and pull you up along side me.

Now that it's springtime and the daffodils are in bloom, my hope is renewed and my excitement for warmth and comfort grows.  There's not a better place to be than Boise in the spring and summer.  A couple of my dearly missed friends have made their way home.  There is an energy in the air that lifts my spirits and my heart, reminding me moment by moment that life is happening and I'm privileged to be a part of it.  A poet I am not.  But an active participant in life I am learning to be.  My heart breaks over and over for those that I've lost or hurt along the way, helping me get to this point, but it's a grateful heart that's breaking because those lessons were necessary for me to reach this new place.  I'm so grateful.  I'm so sorry.

And to you, Dear Reader, thank you for reading and giving life to my words.  I hope that one or two of them help you out once in a while.

Sincerely,
h.

In Progress: A Journey of One Million Apologies

Dear Readers,

Early last week, my car was filthy from the winter weather.  I had a few minutes before I had to be at an appointment, so I swung into the Metro Carwash.  The last few weeks have been rough, to say the least.  Day after day after day of contemplation, regret, confusion, long conversations, remorse, and more regret.  So sitting in that carwash, with the soap sliding down my windows and windshield, the thought came to me that I had control over this one thing: the cleanliness of my car.  The moment that thought finished, the carwash broke down.  Completely.  My car covered in suds.  I started laughing, really hard.  Hard enough that when the young carwash employee knocked on my window to give me a free coupon, I'm sure he thought I was a lunatic.  If he hadn't thought that yet, he must have for sure after saying to me, "You'll have to drive straight ahead.  It's going to be really bumpy, but you can't stop.  Just keep moving."  Because that sent me into a laughing frenzy.  "I give," I said to no one and everyone all at the same time.

So.  It ends up, that I am capable of making bad choices.  Not just bad.  Disastrous choices.  With huge ripple effects that don't seem to ever stop.  Did you know I could do that?  Me neither.  None-the-less, with my high and mighty moral self put to rest, I have reached  new levels of humility and sorrow.  I have damaged my little sturdy family, I have destroyed some friendships with people that I care for very much, and I have (as someone once promised me I would) evolved into the most open and honest version of myself.  Although that would seemingly be a good thing, and I think in the big picture it is, the truth can be an exfoliant to the soul.  There is nothing soft and smooth about it's surface.  However when it's done scouring your heart, you're left with something that's shiny, as if it's new.  I was never much of a liar to begin with, I value truth and integrity greatly.  I was an expert, however, at not seeing what I did not want to see, and it just so happens that there are worlds of ignored truth out there, just waiting for me to shine light on it.  It's not pretty.  It's very scary and intimidating.  In the end, it will be good to have waded through all of the muck, and put it all behind me.  I can't wait until it's all behind me.

Finally, I have learned one more lesson through this mess I've made.  I have one hell of a support group.  Doors have been opened and I've been invited in.  I've had love come at me from all directions, and in massive amounts.  I had, at the onset of this disaster, prepared myself to be alone.  Prepared myself for hatred and criticism.  Prepared myself for the repercussions  that I surely and without a doubt deserve(d).  It's been so humbling, so very heart warming, to find that I am not alone and am instead a part of a most gracious, loving, and forgiving community.

I feel like a new person.  I feel like a full fledged adult. There are huge changes to come, a whole new life in a way.  I have some big decisions to make, and some even bigger apologies to give.  I don't know if there are enough "I'm sorry's" in the world for me to give.  I have so many to give.  And I can't ask for forgiveness.  Not for me anyway.  I'm moving forward though, and I'm excited for the future, excited for my new life.  There is so much good out there, so much love, and I want nothing more than to contribute to it, to give back some of what I've received.

Sincerely,
h.

P.S.  I have gone on a sabbatical from Facebook.  If you feel so inclined, would you mind sharing a link to my blog on your page?  I sure would appreciate it.  xoxo

To My Heart, With Love

Dear Readers,

I have been accused all of my life of having a tender heart.  I say accused, because it hasn't always been observed in a kindly manner; it was just a nice way of calling me a cry baby.  People in my life have gone to great extent to not trigger the rush of tears that accompany something that touches my heart.  They have downplayed illness, "forgot" to tell me of the death of an old friend, forbidden me from watching emotional movies, and the list goes on.  It's understandable that for a long time, I too considered my extra sensitive nature to be a vice, not a virtue.  My heart was more of a stumbling block than a force for good.  Nothing but a trigger of embarrassment that my sister's would use against me in vulnerable times by reminding me that (spoiler alert!) Beth dies in "Little Women", because it was certain to make me cry on the spot.

Tender as it is, I find that I have little to no option to follow anything else in life besides my heart.  As I've grown older, I've recognized it's sensitivities to be intuition, compassion and empathy. Although I find these qualities to be important and necessary, they do not always lead me down the easiest path.  It's not rare for my heart and mind to battle; logic and being reasonable often lose to doing what feels right.  I sound like such a hippie saying that, but it's true none-the-less.  It's gotten me in trouble more than once.  I've even (though I hate to admit it) been wrong about what I thought was the right thing to do based on feeling.  More often than not though, I find myself in extraordinary situations that reaffirm my intuition and reward my heart beyond measure.  This past week I found myself in the midst of just such an experience.

I met my friend Caitlyn several years ago at a dinner party my friend Jenny was having.  I remember details about her clearly, though I don't remember much else from that night.  She approached me and introduced herself to me, although I don't know that she needed to because from the minute I laid eyes on her I felt I had known her for years.  Throughout the years of our friendship, we have shared a lot of good and bad times with each other, along with a select few other lovely ladies we are so lucky to know.  Even though we have the kind of friendship that is sturdy on it's own, not requiring daily nourishment or constant contact, we have floated and in and out as if we know exactly the right time to be there for each other.  As it happens, we had come together again early last spring when Caitlyn called me to tell me she was pregnant, and I thought that tender heart of mine my burst because of the thrill I felt for her.

For those of you who have never been pregnant, it is both an exhilarating and terrifying experience.  They are, without doubt, the best and worst of times.  Knowing what Caitlyn could be facing, I followed that tender little heart of mine straight into her life again, and what a blessing it has been.  Watching Caitlyn grow and prepare for her new role as a mother has been a beautiful and wonderful time.  It's not easy to do, you know, but she made the transition with a grace I've never seen before.  I was so excited for her when the labor she had so patiently waited for finally started on Monday.  She asked me to come to her apartment while she was in the early stages to hang out with her and her mom.  Upon arriving I sat on the floor next her and we talked and laughed and worked through her contractions when they appeared.  Juju, her sweet Great Dane, had hurt her back that day and couldn't get off her bed, so I sat and comforted her while we chatted.  Heidi, another dear friend of mine and Caitlyn's doula, came and we enjoyed this strange and exciting time together.  As things started to get moving though, the atmosphere changed and we prepared things for Caitlyn to make the move to the Boise Birthing Center.  My intentions were to go home and wait for the call, but I was asked to follow along.

I feel as though I would be overstepping my bounds to describe the rest of the night.  So I will skip to the next morning, when I got out of bed and processed the events from the night before.  I had slept very little, but I didn't care.  My heart was overflowing, and so were tears from my eyes.  I cried all morning.  It occurred to me that I had the extraordinary privilege to help one of my friends leave this life and to help another welcome a new life.  I am, indeed, very blessed to have done so.  Holding that sweet very new born baby is an experience that I will never, ever forget.  As my friend Brion put it, "You were there for your friend for the most important event of her life."

Which brings me back to my ridiculous heart.  I can't help it, my nature to nourish and smother.  There is nothing to be done about it.  I know I drive my friends and family crazy, that I often overstep my bounds with the intention of helping.  I care too damn much.  I owe a debt of gratitude to my tender heart though, because it has lead me into the depths of the richest experiences of my life.  What a humbling thing, to have such wonderful and amazing people invite me to share in their lives.  I very much look forward to continue on in my dear friendship with Caitlyn, and to holding and loving her new sweet baby girl.  Thank you, thank you, thank you for the rejuvenating and life changing experience of letting me be your friend.

Sincerely,
h.