Four Randos and a Robot

"You can buy what you want.  You don't have anyone to answer to."  She said.  I was telling her I needed a pair of black booties because the cute brown shoes she commented on were the only pair of cute shoes I owned.  You don't need black.  Brown goes with everything.  She said.  I disagreed with her.  And her response is the topic of my now blog.

"You can buy what you want.  You don't have anyone to answer to."

I paused to let this sink in.  And it sunk.  Into the space where you need an oxygen tank to swim.  It's somewhere in the abyss of darkness where odd things live because no human has ever entered its habitat.  But I'm venturing there.

I have no one to answer to.

The enormity of this off-the-cuff comment is still being processed in my brain.  And this blank page on my blog is the lucky winner for part of the processing.  You're welcome.

I often thought when I was married that perhaps I wasn't cut out for marriage.  I really like my own space.  I like my own money.  I don't like picking up after someone else ... that is an adult.  It's not my favorite to go to bed with a spotless house and wake up to find it destroyed the next morning by a man who is hurrying to get to work.  I don't like having to share my closet space.  Or my drawer space.  Or my cabinet space.  Or shelves in the shower.  (I put my boys' shower things away when they're not with me.  But this is more because I tire of hurting every time I see something of theirs.)

I'm a pretty selfish person.

These things are probably not unique to me, though.  I would suspect that a majority of people feel this way.

What makes me suspect that I'm cut out to be single is that I thrive more when I'm alone.  I have not mastered the art of caring for someone while simultaneously taking care of myself.  I have to work on boundaries incessantly.  I lose myself when I have a partner.

I don't love this about myself.  I know it's happening, but I haven't yet fully grasped the skills of prevention.

My parents suggested meeting one of my dates yesterday.  "Um....no.  It is far too soon and I'm tired of introducing you to random men."  They have met four since my divorce. Some on accident. But still.  Four relationships that I lost myself in.  Temporarily.  Four failures.

I'm not far enough along in the divorce process.

I'm too good for him.

I want more than he does.

We just aren't a good fit.

All of which were probably halfway true.  But my guess is that the girl they were initially attracted to disappeared at some point and was replaced with a robot that was obeying orders from someone else not even remotely related to me.  And none of them knew me well enough to know this, or had the tolerance to dig.

I came home last night to a house that was just as I had left it.  It was tidy and smelled good.  My bed was made.  My things put away.  Everything was in its place.  I got myself a glass of water and just sat in the quiet and enjoyed my space.  I found my nighttime products exactly where I had put them.  My book was still in the same place next to my bed.  My Plexus products hadn't moved.  My bed was just as neat.  I adjusted the thermostat to whatever I wanted and went to bed with my very loud box fan next to my head after reading for an hour in the quiet.

And I have never slept so good.

I woke up at 6 a.m. enthusiastic about my day to myself.  I made my Plexus, took my Accelerator and Vitalbiome, made a glass of water, put the tea kettle on for my French Pressed coffee, opened the blinds, put the Pandora channel on Hillsong United, and sat down to write.  Still in my pjs.  With no one demanding anything from me.

I have no one to answer to.  So today I'm carrying my unattached self to the mall to buy some black booties.

Successful Party Girl?

Successful: having attained wealth, position, honors or the like

I had someone recently ask me if I was a party girl.  He asked this in response to my statement that I was unfit to teach Sunday School.  I chuckled as I hit the Send button.  It was a logical assumption on his part.  But incorrect nonetheless.

I enjoy being outside at my favorite bars with my good friends.  This atmosphere has been overall a place of joy and comfort to me.  I'm with my best friends.  Sharing a beverage of choice.  Relaxed, laughter flowing, the sun shining, good music playing (mostly), and worries left somewhere outside.  Banned because they aren't yet drinking age.  Worries are definitely teenagers who have no business inside a bar.  At least not at the bars I frequent.

I suppose to someone that isn't accustomed to the typical bar life, the image of drunkenness and tears and abuse and anger comes to mind.  Strangers connecting in dysfunctional and destructive ways.  Negativity overshadowing the possibility of anything positive.  And I'm sure this is the case at times.  But I've experienced that at the gym, church, the grocery store, sitting in traffic, at a kid's birthday party, at a school board meeting, at a staff meeting.  These attributes aren't expressly specific to a bar.

The underlying question that he wanted to ask was "are you successful?"  or "do you have your shit together?" because of course the ability to be fit to teach Sunday School is a mark of success.

And the answer would have been...

"It depends on your definition of successful."

To most people, success is determined by the house we live in, the cars we drive, the amount of money we are paid for our worth, the title we are given.  It is summed up in an unspoken word when we walk into a fancy restaurant.  Do we look important?  Is our hair neatly styled?  Do our clothes fit well? Are we in shape?  Is our jewelry appropriately paired? Are our shoes modern?  Are they good quality?  Do we have our nails done?  Lipstick on?  The newest iPhone?  Do we carry ourselves like we know our worth?  Is our bag a name brand?  Do we know anyone in the place?  Do they know us?  Can we afford to be in a place like this?

And if we're a parent, the list of criteria extends to our children.

This isn't the definition to only most people....I would almost say that it is a universal definition.  Whether we like to admit it or not.  If we have somehow escaped this paradigm, we are one of the lucky chosen.

I have been a boss for most of my life.  I have typically been in some position of management.  Whether that place be a classroom, business, restaurant, home; I have taken positions that required me to manage other people.  Because that to me, meant that I was successful to some degree.

When I left the business world to pursue cleaning houses, it was a bit of a shock to my high-heel wearing, perfume smelling self.  Instead, I donned tennis shoes and yoga pants and didn't shower before I went to work.

And I had never been happier.

I remember my dad saying to me that I could make this thing HUGE!  I could buy vans and hire teams of people and have a huge operation.  And we had a great time dreaming.  It excited me.  So being drunk with the idea of success, I kept taking on more clients.  More than I could handle alone.  Which made me hire my first employee.  And another.  And another.  And acquire insurance.  And a bookkeeper. And scheduling software.  And a marketing director.   And a receptionist.  And a manager.  And an office.  And multiple desks.  And a telephone system.  And multiple cell phones.  And networking meetings.  And TV commercials. And payroll.  And taxes.  And fancy restaurants.  And expensive drinks.  And vendors.  And bills.  And business accounts.  And financial statements.

And with all of this came my high heels.  And perfume.

And somewhere along the way my happiness found somewhere else to live because he was abandoned in my tennis shoes in my closet and collected dust.  Along with my yoga pants. (Ok, well maybe not those...they are my most favoritest piece of clothing. Til death do us part.)

By most definitions, I was successful.

But happiness alluded me.

The life I had built slowly eroded.  My marriage started falling part.  My anxieties soared to an all-time high.  My consumption of alcohol increased.  My visits to the doctor were more frequent.

I spent a good three years searching for what I once had.

I found it in a small apartment without a husband, in my dusty tennis shoes and of course my faithful yoga pants.  I love those damn things.

I combated the damaging feeling that I was a failure.  I wept about it in therapy.  I wrote about it in my journals.  It invaded every thought I had...I. Had. Failed.

Despite the evidence of my happiness, failure seemed to permeate my thoughts about myself.  One of my dear friends told me I needed to change the title of my blog because there was so much more to me than failed marriages.  My parents agreed.  It was this revelation that made me question my definition of success.

So today, my definition of successful is something like this:

Successful:  having attained joy, perseverance, integrity, contentment, genuine relationships, mind/body/emotional health, or the like.

And the answer to the aforementioned man who asked if I was a party girl would have been.

Why yes, yes I am.

Sweaty Triumph

I looked a mess.  I was sweaty.  I'm sure I smelled.  My clothes didn't hide much.  But despite my appearance and smell, I was perhaps the most triumphant feeling person in the weight room.

I have been terrified of that room for as long as I've been going to a gym.  There are mirrors everywhere, fit people, good looking people, fitness savvy people.  If I did go, I would sneak in quietly and leave as quietly and hope no one had seen me on the machines or by the dumbbells.  It has been a place of extreme discomfort.  It holds all of my insecurities in one place.  The mats haunt me with their slick blue facade and their dingy surfaces.  The overhead lights zoom in on every flaw on my imperfect body.  Other people's sweat taunts me with their high profitability potential.  I. Hate. That. Place.

But for the first time, I worked out without my amazing friend and partner who has been my security blanket, and I didn't feel in the slightest uncomfortable.

I carried a book around like a dork.  I was in typical gym clothes that were faded from multiple washes.  I was doing squats and walking with that weird jump rope thing that makes you walk like you are about to birth a baby.   My hair was matted to my head.  My muscles timidly peeked out from under my layers of fat.  My mascara had abandoned my eyelashes.  And yet, I beamed with confidence.

I can only attribute this sudden reversal of esteem to what is usually a temporary burst of tenacity.   During these stints, I feel content with who I am.  Comfortable in my people clothes.  I feel satisfied with being a single momma.  Happy with my choice of career.  Enthusiastically progressing in my business and spirituality.  Contented with how I look.  At ease with my personality.

When I was younger these moments of good self esteem were few and far between.  I have found that lately, however,  they take up the majority of my existence.  And the terrorized, insecure Rebekah is the temporary person.

I wish I hadn't wasted my youth on insecurity.  But perhaps the sweaty, gym induced triumph now wouldn't be so sweet.

Goodbye Amateur

Goodbye: farewell (a conventional expression used at parting)
synonyms: parting; so long; leave-taking

I'm not great at goodbyes.  I've moved many times during my life so you would think I would be better at it.  But nope.

Maybe it's because I'm a Baptist in New Orleans.  Baptist church goers that  I've met over the years were only here for a short time for whatever reason.  I didn't expect to make this my home, either.  But it got under my skin and into my soul so here I am....21 years later.  After Katrina, this phenomenon of people exiting the city became an even greater concern.  I said goodbye to many friends as a result of that storm.  It destroyed more than just our city.  I started asking people immediately if they were from here when I met someone I bonded with.  If they weren't from here, I did not invest in them because  it was likely they wouldn't be here long term.  It was a matter of keeping my heart from being in a state of continual breaking.  I'm sure I've missed out on some great friendships because of this.  But survival demanded it.

My tender hearted Graham unfortunately got this trait from his momma.  He would cry and cry when he was younger if he had to leave or if someone was leaving him.  If he did have to say goodbye, it was a long affair of kisses and high fives and booms until he was completely satisfied with the way the goodbye was administered.  I think God needed to teach me patience because he put a damper on any kind of hurry I was in.  Poor little guy still struggles with goodbyes but has toned it down.  At least externally.  I'm sure his little heart feels the same way, but as with most things, aging has taught him to internalize his feelings.  And going back and forth between his parents I'm sure is exceptionally difficult.  I hate this.

Romantic entanglements are not great for someone who has a hard time with exits.  Nor is it great for someone who is not great at deciphering between a good fit and one who is not.  Because I find people curious, I usually let the relationship linger longer than it should have because I'm just not done getting to know them.  I end up focusing on them instead of what I need/deserve/want.  This conundrum of curiosity and goodbye procrastination is not awesome for my tender heart.

I loathe finishing a movie or book when I love the character.

I'm a goodbye amateur when I should be an aficionado.

My Grandpa's Legacy

We were all singing the familiar song that I've been singing my whole life.  My cousins...many of which I have never met...young and old all singing "Come and Dine."  My aunts and uncles beaming with peace to have their family together.

I will never forget years ago when my Grandpa said to the whole family as tears fell that it was his desire for us all to love Jesus.  Above anything, that was his wish for us.  This strong, very masculine man, the patriarch of a very large family, weeping.  It was almost too much for me.

My family has flaws like anyone else.  But at the very center of everything is Jesus.  My grandparents loved Jesus.  And that permeated through every fiber in our family.  We were a family of Jesus people who just loved.  And loved well.

I have thought many times that it is almost unfair to come from such an amazing family.  It doesn't quite prepare you for the world.  It's deceitful in its presentation of what people are like.  When you come from a family where malice, deceit, betrayal, just pure ugliness doesn't have much room, it's difficult to comprehend that many others have these as a resounding trait.

I was naive.

I remember the first time I met these traits.  In myself.  I hid in my parents' bedroom, ashamed that such traits were inside of me.  But I was up close and familiar with the Man who remedies that.  And I chose to hide in my parents' room.  They love Jesus. I didn't recognize it at the time, but their room was a safe haven where I could sort out the ugliness.   After all, they were the ones who introduced me to the Man who remedies ugliness.

Perhaps that is the difference.  It's not that these attributes don't reside within my family.  It's just that we know what to do with them when they poke their ugly heads....leave it at the feet of Jesus.

My Grandpa left us a beautiful legacy...and now he gets to dine with the Master.

I miss him.

Muscle Shame

There is a room at the gym that I am terrified of.  It is full of mirrors, questionable machines and very fit people.  I make myself go in there because it terrifies me.  I feel awkward and foolish the entire time, and most likely have a face the color of my Plexus drink.  But still I go.

My gawkiness reached its all time high when I attempted to do a pull up.  I consider myself to be strong.  I do push-ups/sit-ups/lunges etc... often.  But this was a new skill.  A new set of muscles.  And something which proved to be a challenge.  A kind soul was showing me how to do it the amateur way....by just jumping up and grabbing the bar.  She underestimated my ability grossly.  There was no world in which I would be able to pull myself up even a little bit.  I finally compensated with a machine that would hold my knees while I did my inverted pull ups.

I was thoroughly ashamed of my muscles.  Or lack thereof.

My sweet friends assured me that it would take me a while to reach my goal and tat one point they weren't able to achieve it either.

Instead of retreating to the mats where I could safely perform my other exercises, I pressed on.  To my surprise, I became determined to overcome.  Not ashamed of my lack of skill.  (Though my muscles were in a time out for their shameful behavior.)

It was as if looking like a fool motivated me to succeed.

This is a completely new and different arena for me.

Who am I and what have I done with Rebekah?

I have now reached a place in my life where challenging myself is more important than the need to look like I have it together.  I am OK with making a seeming fool of myself if the result is more strength.

I have even reached a point where I am not terrified of people looking at my GB aka Ghetto Booty at the gym.  I have searched for clothes to hide this physical trait, but to no avail.  It has always been an uncomfortable part of my body and I was rid of it only when I was grossly underweight.  So, I am even embracing that gawkiness.  We are good friends now.  Me and GB.

I wish sometimes that I could go back to the afraid, insecure Rebekah who avoided feeling foolish.  But my hunch is, my young self would not appreciate just how massive this growth is because being without it means you don't understand what it means to carry it.

So in all my glorious mess, I embrace gym clothes and the horrid pull up bar.  And very soon I will be able to say that I conquered the crap out of that, too.

Goodbye Therapy!

I am officially released from therapy.  I have sat across from this woman for 3.5 years and struggled.  She took me from a scared, traumatized momma who ran from her kids to a proud, strong momma who doesn't want to let her boys go.  After Graham's accident, I was an intense mess of a person.  I made poor decisions.  I didn't want to be alone with my kids.  I self-medicated and sought temporary relief in sketchy things.  I had nightmares.  I had flashbacks.  I jumped at the slightest noise.  I cried just as easily.  It was a hard time, but because I had a woman who specialized in trauma therapy cheering me on, I had hope.

The changes were subtle.  And mostly invisible to others.  I gained knowledge on how to calm my brain down when I was triggered.  I practiced relaxing in the middle of stressful situations.  I picked exercises that permitted me to strengthen my body without stressing my mind.  I journal almost daily, and the woman who wrote entries 3.5 years ago is a shadow of who I am now.

What is cool and supremely scary about life is that changes happen subtly.  They come with small decisions that you make throughout your day.  In five second intervals.  You decide to forgo the second cup of coffee and drink water instead.  You turn the TV off to read a book.  You pick music to work out to that is more intelligent and less chaotic.  You light a candle.  Put bubbles in your bath.  Take deep breaths when you're upset.  Wade through painful emotions without pouring a glass of wine.  Cook brussel sprouts instead of pizza.  You finish the laundry before your kids get home.  You actually pay attention in church and put your mental to-do list on hold.

1,277 days in 3.5 years.
1,277,000 small decisions.

I didn't get it right all the time.  But I got it right enough times to help me overcome my demons.

And yes, I go to bed fighting them and will wake up again tomorrow looking the same ones in the face.

But this time, I'll know what it is I'm staring at.

Awkward

I found myself floundering for words...I wasn't making sense... I was contradicting what I had just said.

This doesn't happen to me often.  By most standards, I'm a decent communicator.

But this conversation was painful.  And with someone I hadn't known for long.

The primary thought running through my mind was... He just doesn't know me.

The worst part of dating is taking your time to get to know someone.  After being hurt so many times, it takes an act of congress to get you to lower your guard enough to let someone in.  All sorts of walls are built in order to maintain sanity so you can parent well, provide well, function without seeming like too much of a mess.  After all, you have parent-teacher conferences to attend, dentist appointments to make, homework to help with, clothes to wash, new pants to buy because your kids insist on growing, activities to make, haircuts to give, birthday parties to attend, discipline to carry out, chunks of time to give up so you can volunteer at their schools.  All this while running a company, managing people, connecting with clients and prospects, planning marketing strategies, paying bills, balancing budgets, hiring and firing, working out so you don't get fat, remembering to take your car in so you don't ruin the engine, grocery shopping, returning items so you don't allow clutter to overtake your small living room, reading to keep your mind sharp, and writing so you can release all the craziness in your brain.

It's amazing I am erect.

Getting to know someone with all these balls in the air is lengthy and uncomfortable.  And very close to impossible when it's difficult enough to be erect.

And it leads to a multitude of fumbling conversations.

At what point do you stop investing in someone when you know you don't have all their cards on the table?  At what point do you reveal your cards?  Fear of wasting your time is looming there somewhere amidst the millions of balls.  Fear of being rejected when they really just don't know you.  Fear of rejecting them when you don't know them either.

Just writing this makes me want to go back to bed.

But I press on.  Having awkward and annoying conversations.  Listening calmly when I want to run away.  Being patient when this is not a trait I maintain easily.

I have two little boys counting on me to make good decisions.  They are worthy of me enduring awkward conversations.

What if I gave up?

I'm not there yet...where I want to be.  It's looming and is possible, but it's not yet here.

But that doesn't make me unsuccessful.

I read this post by a Jewel Ambassador in Plexus and it blew me away...she listed all the reasons she had to quit and why she didn't give up.  She is currently making about $240K a year with Plexus. Granted, I'm making 13% of that but I'm not done either....

And all her reasons were relatable cuz this homegirl has been there.

So WHAT IF ....
--I had listened to a well intentioned man who told me God hates divorce and stayed in a miserable marriage feeling small and afraid for the rest of my life?

--I had given up when my friend told me she couldn't be my friend anymore because I had too much drama?

--I had believed my husband when he told me it was my fault our son almost died?

--I had stopped growing when someone told me I had too many red flags and too much baggage?

--I believed it when I was told that I was crazy and incompetent?

--I shut down my business because an employee told me it was worthless?

--I stopped working out because the man I was dating told me my muscles were gross?

--I gave up because four of my employees quit and started their own cleaning business?

--I threw in the towel after two divorces and again dated a man who did not see my value?

--I was not desperate enough to try Plexus and never took the products in the first place?

--I allowed the lies that I had slept with everyone and was kicked out of two bars to identify me?

--I believed the man I was dating when he told me I was inappropriate and shared too much?

--I had given up on God when my friend told me I was a typical, judgmental Christian?

--I gave up because my sister and brother succeeded in marriage and surpassed me?

--I stopped posting about Plexus because it annoyed some people?

--I believed it when a client/friend told me my company was mis-managed?

If any of these things had happened, I would not be where I am today...Paying my own way...Able to pick my boys up and drop them off from school and sing loudly to Justin Bieber on our way home..Able to stay home with them when they are sick...Able to shed the many reasons I have to give up and still wake early and tackle the day. 

I am still changing, growing, hoping.  I still love.  I still laugh.  I still choose to be happy when there are plenty of reasons to cry.

I press on.  Knowing that regardless of the negativity, and possible truth behind the negativity, my life counts.  I have a job to do.

And I'm not there yet.  I can taste it.  Touch it.  Feel it.  But it's not yet in my hands.

I am a glorious mess, but the trying is pretty dang fun.

Messy Syllabus

I read a story once about a man who was happily married and very successful.  He had people flocking to him with adoration.  His wife wisely saw through the superficial sentiment and reminded him that they would be gone if he lost his wealth and fame.

That day came and he was alone.  His wife died.  His dynasty crumbled and left him with no one.

My said dynasty has crumbled on me a few times.  I had invested my time in people who weren't invested in me, thus leaving me with a handful of genuine friends.  These friends sat with me when my son was fighting for his life.  They helped me move out of the many homes I lived in.  They called when they knew I was having a hard time.  They showed up when I was at my worst and had nothing whatsoever to offer them.  And they loved me.  Ugly or not.  Broke or not.  Sane or not.  Single or not.  Lively or not.  They showed up.

I will never forget looking around the waiting room at the PICU and seeing the faces of the ones who showed up.  They didn't speak.  They didn't hug me constantly.  They just showed up and sat beside me.  And let me cry.  Or yell.  Or whatever it was that I was feeling in that particular moment.  They loved me when I couldn't love myself.

Now that I'm older and have a full life with two kids and two businesses and multiple other jobs, my time is extremely precious.  I have to be thoughtful about how I spend it and with whom.  Do they make me a better person?  Do they encourage me to follow what's right?  Do they assist me in conquering my fears and unreasonable expectations?  Are they themselves moving towards something greater?

Do they love me when I'm unloveable?

This is a tall order for anyone.  And unfortunately as Christians we feel it's our duty to be this to everyone.  I was so glad when my Sunday School class didn't show up to help me move.  It restored my faith just a bit in the genuineness of the people in church.  They didn't know me and if they had showed, it would have been out of legalistic duty and nothing more.  It wouldn't have been a true act of kindness.

I think this is perhaps the core of free will.  God gave us the ability to choose Him or not.  We get to choose whether we love Him and how we love Him.  We get to choose what that looks like for us. In turn, when we force ourselves to follow a script, the free will becomes simply a rote task that reeks of insincerity.  And never quite makes that treacherous trek to our hearts because it is surrounded by sterile checklists and agendas.

But when we do act freely simply because we love, the choir in heaven must break into song.

Sincerity and pain have joined together in a song that no one can develop into a syllabus.

And when your dynasty falls, perhaps you'll find just who is willing to get messy with you.

Not YET!

In a study, students were taught that every time they tried "something new and difficult that pushed them out of their comfort zone the neurons in their brain can form new, stronger connections and over time they can get smarter.

In that study, students who weren't taught this growth mindset continued to show declining grades.  Those who were taught the study showed a sharp rebound in their grades."

Carol Dwecker said this in her Ted Talk The Power of Not Yet.

If we change "I've failed" to "I haven't accomplished it YET" perhaps our brains would get to the NOT YET faster...or perhaps if we didn't and just accepted failure as the outcome, we would never achieve the NOT YET.

I was walking with my boys while they rode their bikes and watched Brady continuously struggle to get going.  He recently learned how to ride his bike, and the take-off in the beginning proves to be the most challenging part.  I had listened to this Ted Talk today, so I just told him that it was difficult right now, but he would get it.  He just hadn't mastered it YET.  In the past, he would give up and cry and we would end up cutting our walk short.  This time, he got on his bike and pushed through the difficulty with the cutest look of determination on his face.

I breathed a sigh of relief that I hadn't FAILED in the past with my parenting, I just hadn't achieved greatness YET.  But in that moment, I felt like I had arrived.  I gave myself a little pat on the back and ran next to my two boys who were beaming with confidence.

Being divorced twice screams FAILURE.  Very loudly.  It perpetuates in my brain like a record that continuously skips.  I have FAILED at having a steady relationship.   I have FAILED at finding my life partner.  I have FAILED my kids.  I have FAILED my parents.  I have FAILED myself.

But if I translate that into NOT YET this is what it looks like:

Being divorced twice means I haven't found the right one YET.
I haven't achieved a steady relationship YET.
I haven't found my life partner YET.
I haven't YET achieved awesome parenting.
I haven''t YET achieved making my parents proud.
I haven't YET arrived.

I may not fully accomplish these things, but the challenge that I can makes me want to put on a headband to catch the sweat that will fall from my determined face.  And if I don't arrive, I'll die trying.

With my brain at full speed.

About Time

My son saw the book I was reading... "How to Avoid Falling in Love with a Jerk"....

Perhaps this is why people have switched to tablets/iPads to read.

He looked curiously at me and again asked if Daddy was a jerk.  This was the second time we have had this conversation.  He saw the book months ago and asked the same thing.  My response was the same...his dad and I were both jerks in our marriage because we just didn't know how to get along.  And it was better for everyone if we weren't together anymore.  But I assured him that just because something is true doesn't mean it's easy.

I have had to learn the hard way most of my lessons.  I am very stubborn and strong willed.  I like to talk things to death, simply out of curiosity.  I always make the decision that I want to make regardless of the feedback I get.

Sometimes these words not heeded led to pain.

But with my intense pain also came my intense joy.

(Not that I shouldn't have listened to wise advice....but you know. whatever.)

It's impossible to have one without the other.  The yin and the yang.  Good and Evil.  Dark and Light.  One cannot exist without the other.  I had the happiest moments of my life when I was married.  The pain didn't remove those.  Nor did they lessen them.

One of my favorite movies "About Time" captures this concept.  The lead character is given the gift of being able to go back in time to any point in his life and redo.  Of course he does it often in the beginning for silly reasons...to avoid looking like an idiot, to kiss the girl he ignored, to stop an argument, to pass a test he failed.  But what ends up happening is he misses out on LIFE.

We were created to taste, touch, hear, see, smell. (I may or may not have had to look up what the five senses were just then).  We wouldn't know what smells pleasant if we didn't smell something gross.

The character then goes back just to slow down and LIVE each day fully.  He listened to someone's pain instead of spewing advice.  He paid attention to the girl who served him coffee and received a smile.  He saw the beauty of a building he had run through in a hurry previously.

Living fully requires acceptance that we will sometimes be late.  We will often look like fools.  I mean, often.  We will stand out when we want to fit in.  We will have to be social when we want to be introverted.

If living fully means I get to fully experience life, then bring on the clown suit.  I'd rather look like a fool than miss out.

happy boys

I met with the boys' teachers and was thrilled to hear that they are doing well at school.  Graham is behind academically and will most likely have to repeat PK4 but he is loved by everyone.  Brady is a super bright kid who is also loved and is respectful to his teachers and peers.  Both teachers said they were very happy kids and I should be proud.

This was music to my ears.  Relief dripped through me and my shoulders relaxed a little.  I was expecting to hear the opposite.

Dragging them through a divorce can be summed up in one word...PAINFUL.  They miss their dad when they are with me.  They miss me when they are with their dad.  They have two rooms.  Two sets of clothes.  Two sets of parents.  They have people in their life that I won't ever meet or know.  They don't deserve the pain.  They are worth more than this.

I worry about their hearts.  I worry about their relationships with other people.  I worry.  Constantly.

As with Graham's accident, I will be prone to blame everything negative in their lives on the divorce.

E.G...

Graham is behind because his brain is damaged from the accident.  

Brady is addicted to his iPad because he is avoiding his harsh reality of a broken home.

Graham has speech issues because of the accident.

Brady sucks his thumb because he feels unsafe since the divorce.

Graham has temper tantrums because his parents aren't together.

And the list goes on.  But the truth is, I don't know.  No one does.  And this is terrifying.

In church yesterday, we were singing a song that escapes me right now but my prevalent thought throughout was that I had to cling to Jesus if I wanted to keep my sanity and raise my boys.  I have to trust Him.  I have to believe that whatever happens, He has them in the palm of His hand.

And He is a far better parent than I will ever be.

red face and sweaty palms

I could feel my face getting hot.  The warmth spread up behind my eyes and tears were threatening to fall.  My therapist had hit a nerve and knew it.  Per usual, she asks me to process what I feeling.  Per usual, the feeling under what she had said was that I felt rejected.

Rejection doesn't sit well with me.  It causes my insides to twist and my color to change.  It makes talking difficult sometimes.  It changes the pace my heart is beating and turns my hands clammy.  It is not at all my friend.  Not even a little bit.

Unfortunately, rejection is something that will never stop occurring.  Especially as a business owner.  Especially as a single person.  It will continue to come.  It will continue to cause a color change.  It will continue to threaten tears.  It is one of the few guarantees in life.

Struggling to speak, I dive into the why behind my tears.  I came into therapy happy and light and left heavy.   I have to face it in order to grow.  It's why I go.  Otherwise, my face would be continually hot.

Rejection has a purpose.  It has given me thicker skin.  It has helped me to weed out the important from the unimportant.  It has forced me to nurture my own soul.  It has catapulted me, sometimes screaming, out of bad situations.  I'm healthier because I have been rejected. 

Despite the benefits, I'm not really a fan of having a red face.

The difficulty is remaining yourself despite rejection's frequent visits.  And as a person who likes others to be happy, I find this an arduous task.  It is tempting to to change my game in order to avoid rejection.  I have done it frequently in my past.  I have abandoned my tasks as a mother in order for a relationship to survive.  I have let my friends dictate decisions that should have been mine alone.  I have made poor decisions in business in order to avoid it.  Rejection looms in the background, ready to pounce.  Taunting me with its red face and broken voice.  I change who I am in order to keep it at bay.  But this has not served me well.  Instead of having the desired effect, it results in even more tears and red faces.  If I would just persist in being true to myself, I would not find my life so challenging.  Or rejection so ominous.

But it wasn't me!

I remember saying that one day she would apologize to me for her behavior.  I was convinced that it was she who was the erroneous party and I was blameless in the situation.

Then I found myself years later dialing her number and apologizing.
(OK, a small aka LARGE part of me expected her to return the sentiment.)

That perhaps is one of the most humbling phone calls I have had to endure.

back in the days of my youth...when I THOUGHT I knew it all

At the time, I thought I was doing everything right.  And I probably was doing my best at that time.  But my best was not what was best for the situation.  It fell a tad .... or a lot... bit short.

And I find myself now faced with that same situation...but I'm playing the opposing role.  I am not the stepmom anymore.  I'm THE mom.  And my past behavior now haunts me because I know now what this position feels like.

How I wish I could pretend like I behaved correctly and respond with pomp and confidence.  But I know I didn't.  I'd like to just say "but it wasn't me!" or some other version of how right I am.  But I got nothin. Just look at me in this pic from Amsterdam (or Switzerland...no idea which).  I look like I have it all together.  All the secrets of the world and how to behave are just under that blonde braid.  Turns out this isn't true.  Never was.  I hate being wrong.

I suppose that God created us with this big ol' hole of wrongness.  Otherwise we wouldn't need Him.

I need Jesus but I hate being wrong.

Ordinary momma to extraordinary boys

I drop my boys off to school in the mornings and am greeted by preteens calling for Graham.  I see their excitement when we pull up.  They are genuinely excited to see this little four year old boy.   He  gives high fives and hugs as he struts past them into his classroom.  He acts like the mayor of the school.

My older son Brady walks behind, keeping a close eye on the interactions.  He is aware of Graham's popularity.  He smiles shyly and heads to his classroom, greeted only mildly by others.

My heart hurts as I watch this.  God and I shared some tears.

Graham is our miracle story.  He was not expected to live after falling into the bucket and drowning.  He was prayed over by thousands of people across the world, thanks to social media.  His story touched many lives.  Not only does he have the story of a super hero, but he has the personality also.  He is extremely charismatic and outgoing.  People are drawn to him.  His smile lights up an entire room.  He is curious and funny.  He gives affection freely.  He is easy to love.

Brady is more cautious with his affection.  He is pensive and insightful.  His humor is not so easy to pick up on.  He doesn't immediately trust people and takes more time to get to know.  He is largely identified as being Graham's brother.

Brady and I have had multiple conversations about his own significance and worth in the seeming shadow of his younger brother.  Because he is overlooked much of the time, even by those who don't know about Graham's story, he has had to navigate his self-esteem in a way that Graham does not.  Often times, people do not even know his name.  This is tough on a little boy.  This is tough on his momma.

I have also had to navigate how I parent them.  They each require different things from me.  They need different types of affection and encouragement.  They respond very differently to the same situation.  Seeing how different they are greeted by others has made me search for ways to equally boost their view of themselves, and focus on their internal well being.

We are a society of external focus...extroverts are given a lot of attention. The internal self is not as publicly praised. 

I am wild about both of my boys equally.  Seeing them grow and change, getting to experience in their lives and their development will probably be the most significant thing I do in my lifetime.  I love them in a way I won't ever be able to love anyone.

I sat behind Graham in church yesterday.  He sits in the front right next to his Papa.  I felt so full of love for this little boy.  I began reflecting on his short life and his great impact.  My dad spoke about the submission that Jesus had for his parents...though they were ordinary and He was extraordinary, He submitted to them.

My mind made the leap to my own kids and how extraordinary they are.

And how very ordinary I am.

Yet God in His vast wildness that I will never comprehend deemed me worthy to be their mother.

Graham .. my super, charismatic son.  And Brady .. my amazing, insightful son.

So totally opposite.  Yet so equally extraordinary.

one tired scientist

I'm not a huge fan of dating at 40 with two little boys.  It has got to be one of the most awkward things I have experienced thus far in my life.  It's not the same as when you were single, when things less appealing were tolerated and not deal breakers.  Every flaw is highlighted and examined until you as the scientist go cross-eyed with all the detail under the microscope.

Can they accept that I am an independent woman who has demands that won't involve them?  Will they love my boys?  Will I love his kids?  Do they take care of themselves?  Are they emotionally healthy and mature?  Can they deal with my difficult relationship with my ex?  Can I deal with theirs?  Will they love me when I'm needy? Broke? Emotionally abandoned?  Do they offer stimulating conversation?  Am I attracted to them?  Do they make me feel safe?  Can they provide stability?  Do I like their friends?  Their family?  Do we have enough in common?  Is he educated?  Does he love God?  Will he be a good role model?  How does he behave under stress?  Does he have time for me?  Do my friends like him?

After so many broken relationships is he willing to give himself to someone again?  Am I?

This is just the short list.

Even though there is great caution in the experiment, the results are tenuous and fragile.  One false move and the whole thing is contaminated.  And you must begin.  Again.  And again.  And again.

And maybe.  Just maybe you can't conduct the experiment without contamination.  And you have to just abandon the whole thing because there will never be a successful outcome.

I ain't doin' it.

The microscope is full of organisms.  And this scientist is exhausted.

Privileged?

I posted a video that I thought was amazing and didn't think anything about the race aspect of it....apparently there is a whole movement about "white privilege" and blah, blah, blah.  I don't even want to waste internet air on that but it made me think about what being privileged means...

I've lived a tumultuous life of my own making.  I had incredible parents and an incredible support group of friends and family.  I was educated.  I was given many, many opportunities to succeed and be at the front of the line.  And it was nothing that I earned....only what was given to me.  But because of the many wrong turns I made, I found myself at the back of the line.  Divorced and struggling to make ends meet.   Instead of working harder, I fell further behind.  I got in line behind those who didn't have the opportunities I had because I felt sorry for myself.  Or was just too scared to move.  Whatever the reason, I certainly lost my "privileged" status.

It dawned on me this weekend when I was surrounded by so many successful women that I was losing this race.  By choice.  I didn't have a partner in life who could aid me in life.  I didn't share my bills with anyone else.  I wasn't living in a two income household anymore.  It's just me and my two boys.  And I never want to have to ask my kids to take care of me.

But this is where I am.  I will have to work harder to get back to where I was in all my privileged glory.  I don't have the same "privileges" as other women my age.  But I can either let that paralyze me, or I can let it fuel me to bigger and better things.

I will be in a house with a pool someday.  And I won't have to wonder if I can pay my bills either.  One day.

My knuckles may be gripping so tightly to the thread that holds me together that they are white, but I'm in the same boat as many of my fellow black, brown, yellow, white women in this.  So if "White privilege" means "white knuckling it" then yes, yes I am.

Yawning and tapes

I have this annoying habit of yawning.  It's not that I'm tired.  I'm just overwhelmed. Anxious. Bored.?  Who knows.  But it's definitely not an admirable trait.  So I used the 5 second rule before I yawned to see if that would nip it in the sprouting bud that was beginning to get full of irritating habits.  And I succeeded.  My yawns are now simply because I'm tired...yay for me.

This accomplishment is small in the great scheme of things important.  But it just confirms that our brains are an intense mosaic of complexities.  I posted all sorts of positive reinforcements in my office.  I put them where I would have to stare at them daily.  Most of them were about my goals with my work.  And they were accomplished.

So now my notes to myself are:


"You are kind."

"You are smart."

"You are successful."

"You are worth it."

I play the most horrible tapes in my head about myself.

When I screw up the tape is...
"Yup, Rebekah, way to confirm that you suck.  No one is surprised by this."

When I fail...
"Of course you failed!!  You are not good enough for this."

When I feel someone doesn't care about me ...
"Why would they care about you????  You aren't anything special!"

As I type this Pandora chose to play, "Jesus Paid it All."

I hear the savior say, thy strength indeed is small

Child of weakness, watch and pray, find in me thine all in all

'Cause Jesus paid it all

All to him I owe

Sin had left a crimson stain, he washed it white as snow

Lord, now indeed I find thy power and thine alone

Can change the leper's spots and melt the heart of stone

'Cause Jesus paid it all

All to him I owe...

It's washed away, all my sin

And all my shame

And when before the throne I stand in him complete

"Jesus died my soul to save" my lips shall still repeat

Jesus paid it all

All to him I owe...

(I just watched an ad so I could hit the replay button.  Man, advertisers are genius.)

So there you have it.  His tape to me says....

"You are worth it."

"You are successful."

"You are smart."

"You are kind."

Maybe like the yawning I can kick the annoying habit of telling my brain ugly things and instead speak truth. Because He says I am worth it...He chose me when no one else would.  That makes me pretty damn special. 

thin air and little faces

Sometimes the air is too thin.  I take multiple deep breaths only to find my air supply wanting.  It trickles into my lungs like coins being tossed into a fountain.  Spreading out its minimal treasure with disappointed illumination.

Perhaps air isn't enough.

Sometimes it takes an army of resources to fill my lungs with enough life to sustain me.  It takes time.  A compassionate embrace.  Words that softly empower me.  And tears.

Tears and air and kindness.

But I'm afraid my boys are the only remedy to my loss of air.  The tears, air and kindness are just bandaids where there should be stitches.  I feel like I am having to create purpose where there is none.  I miss their little faces.

Not being the one who hears about their days, who kisses their scrapes and cuts, who fixes them dinner/lunch/snacks, who does their laundry and puts them to bed every night is insanely difficult to swallow.

Sometimes life is made in the difficult...Character is developed when there are trials...Purpose is found in desperation.  Right???

The air is too thin for me to think clearly.

feast or ice cream?

I tell my boys often that they should be reserving their emotional energy on things that are actually deserving of their tears/anger/sadness/frustration aka emotional energy.  This is not an easy lesson to teach to a 7 and 4 yr. old.  Especially since their 40 yr. old momma doesn't quite get it.
(homegirl just typed a 5 instead of a 4...give me a moment to collect myself....

.............................................OK, I'm back.  And I am 40 NOT 50!)

My boys are prone to get angry when their iPads aren't connecting or when they are losing a game.  They throw fits when they can't have one more scoop of ice cream or when their finger hurts.  They totally lose it when their brother takes something away from them.  That, perhaps, is the only thing that warrants a large amount of emotion.  I get upset when somebody takes something that is mine, too.

On the other hand, there isn't much in life that doesn't matter.

So it becomes a task of deciphering the emotionally warranted things vs. the things that just need to be paid attention to.  This is a life long journey...this task of keeping your emotions in check.

I was broken up with via text once.  It was a long enough relationship to warrant a face to face conversation.  I tried my best to be brave and dismiss it/him as insignificant.  But I had spent my precious time and energy on this relationship.  It certainly deserved more than a dismissive text.  I wrangled with myself on this one...trying to talk myself into reflecting his emotional dismissiveness.  I wanted also to have meager and cool feelings.   But that would in turn erase the precious months I spent investing in the relationship.  It would nullify memories and relationships I formed because of him.  He had seeped into every part of my life during those 9 months...intentional or not.  If I had agreed with his diminutive attitude, I was essentially saying that I can cut out 9 months of my life simply because someone else had decided to bow out with disregard.

I believe that the emotionally mature are able to stand by their emotions regardless of how they are received.  If our emotions are treated with indifference, it doesn't make them any less palatable to us.  Or it shouldn't, rather.

So in an attempt to grow up, I spend time alone with gratitude for the time to dig.  I journal to make sense of how I feel.  I accept things that don't matter to others but matter a great deal to me as important.  And I am continuously filing things away into the "emotionally deserving" or "let it go" file.

Life is made up of moments...great and small.  And most of the time we are too busy throwing a fit over one scoop of ice cream to realize we have been robbed of a feast.

Love despite my bad breath

"spirit lead me where my trust is without borders...let me walk upon the water...wherever you will call me..."

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1m_sWJQm2fs

I have a tough decision to make.  Like the kind of decision that won't let you sleep and gets you out of bed at 4 in the morning.  It's irritating and needs to be satisfied.  Choices are fickle things.  You make them because at the time it seems rational and reasonable.  And then later on you discover that choice isn't the best one anymore...so you then have to make yet another one to alleviate the nagging feeling that perhaps you got it wrong the first time.

One small choice can turn a situation that was mildly manageable into wildly uncontrollable.

I'm not uber religious anymore.  I don't go to church like I used to.  I don't read my Bible habitually.  But there is a presence that stays with me always....the only thing that keeps me sane at times.  He never leaves me.  So when I'm in the midst of confusion, He is my peace.  He drowns out the other voices that contribute opinions.  He focuses my heart on what is most important.  He allows me to cut through the petty and stare at the nucleus of the problem.

And always, without fail, love is at the center of all goodness and hope and light.  Love, the kind of non-judgmental love that covers you even when you have a face mask on and you've gotten a little plump and you have bad breath from your mouth guard and maybe you need to seriously reconsider the color of your hair.  But this love isn't affected in the least by the minute and frivolous.  He is only concerned with the state of your heart.

So without borders...wherever He calls me...the decision will be made with the love that sees beyond my bad breath.

Bitter Cat Lady?

She says yes with tears in her eyes and they live happily ever after...

right?...

"they don't tell you that she drove the prince crazy with her compulsive need to clean the castle." One of my favorite lines in "The Mirror Has Two Faces."  Which should be mandatory watching material for anyone getting married.  Along with this book.  A jerk isn't just a dude.  Women also can be jerks.  I speak from experience.

Our society has molded us into little emotionally dysfunctional children.  We don't like taking our time.  We don't like being vulnerable.  We don't like being honest about our feelings.  We don't like to wait on good things.  We throw tantrums when people hurt our feelings.  We stomp around and throw things when our team loses.  We are emotionally immature.  But most of our decisions are based solely on our emotions.

What a complete cluster-----.

Our relationships have suffered enormously because of our ill-equipped ability to use our heads.  We marry just because we "love" someone (whatever that means).  We ignore red flags because they hold our hand during movies and are nice to our cat.  Nevermind that 70% of our time is spent in agony over the relationship.  Nothing about myself infuriates me more than this need to "feel good" at the cost of using my brain.

I am just pissed.  And perhaps a Bitter Cat Lady (sans the cat).

Recently I was told a friend was getting married after dating her beau for 2 months.  I had such a physical reaction I wasn't sure I would make it to the bathroom in time to hurl my breakfast.  After the illness passed, I just became really sad.

What is it in us that is able to ignore our brains?  Why are we so intent on belonging to someone that we completely neglect reason?  Why do we appear seemingly blind when we are "in love"?

It's because we have done it all backwards.  We haven't followed the basic rule of thumb for relationships because we weren't ever taught to follow it.  We jump into bed and then create intimate relationships out of chaos and idiocy.  We stifle the voice of reason (we'll call her Mathilda...that's just a good, solid, mature name) in order to get our temporary needs met.  Our voice of emotion (let's call her Helen after Helen of Troy who launched a thousand ships ... let's all take a moment to bask in this ridiculousness) wins.  Most of the time.  Damn Helen.

There are countless books written on the importance of controlling your emotions and using your head.  But none that come close to the brilliance of this book.  Here's a model that he uses to gauge relationships:

The healthiest relationships know more than they trust, trust more than they rely, rely more than they commit and commit more than they touch. 

I don't know about you, but I was basically doing it backwards.  Helen certainly had me fooled while Mathilda remained silent.

So please, for the love of all our children and our future, instill in yourself and your kids this principal of what HEALTHY relationships are supposed to look like.  I may be 40 with two failed marriages behind me, but I'm not too old to dance a jig once again...and this time Mathilda is my dance partner while Helen rides the bench.

Backwards Bicycle

My homework this week (assigned by my therapist) is to talk nicely to myself.  I apparently have an issue with slandering Rebekah.

When we work through issues, the resounding theme is apparently, "I'm a screw up. Get it together. You DO NOT have this."  This is quite opposite to what I tell those I love.  I can dish it out for everyone else, but I can't eat my own damn pie.

I find that when mistakes are made, there is a battle going on in my brain.  Do I fall prey to the harrowing effects of self-defamation or do I forgive myself and take it for what it is.  I typically choose self-defamation.  

It's interesting what your "self-talk" does to the state of your happiness.  Good things are slower to come.  Positivity has to fight its way through all sorts of obstacles to find you.  Success has climbed a mountain and is taking a break.  Peace has just totally given up.  

All because of four small words..."I'm a screw up."

An engineer taught himself how to ride a bike that was backwards.  (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MFzDaBzBlL0) The wheel went the opposite way when the handles were turned.  It was comical watching him & others attempt it over and over and over again.  He had the knowledge but knowledge is NOT understanding.  After 8 months, he was able to ride it.  It took his son TWO WEEKS because children have more neuroplasticity in their brains than adults.  And even when the engineer did learn to ride the bike, if he faltered at all from focusing, he would wreck because his brain took him back to what had been embedded for 30 years.

Our brains are old dogs who are wary of new tricks.

I have been slinging mud at myself for 40 years.  It may be time I learn to ride a backwards bicycle.

Atlas Shrugged

I wake up almost daily and do the same thing.  I mix my Plexus, take my Accelerator/Vitalbiome, turn the kettle on, open the blinds, then putter back to my room to make my bed.  While I drink my coffee I write in my journal or blog.  I function best when I'm in a routine.

There are days that I don't do this and I'm all discombobulated most of the day.  I find that these are the days that I allow to overwhelm me.   I want to stay in bed.  Turn my phone off.  Eat bad things.  Waste my time.  Productivity is not anywhere close on these days.

Life is a series of small decisions.  And those small decisions dictate our path.  When I was younger, I definitely did not understand this.  I made hasty decisions.  I did what I felt like doing in the moment.  I lived recklessly.  Not much carried significance.  I was just going with it.  My brain was in neutral.

An employee told me once that she couldn't believe how calm and methodical I was in the middle of a hairy situation.  I was in a heated meeting between employees and there were tears and loud volumes.  I gave the verdict of the disagreement and ended the meeting.  I was not at all upset by the exchange.  I just wanted the facts in order to make a good decision.  Who was I and what had I done with myself???

I believe that being a boss has helped me develop diplomacy.  I am able to make rational decisions in the middle of irrational behavior.  At work, at least.

In my personal life I have to try hard to slow down.  Trauma therapy has helped me in this area.  I now pay attention to how my BODY feels about something.  Your body tells on you.  It will increase its heart rate when you are upset.  It causes you to breathe more quickly when you feel endangered or ashamed.  Your stomach gets queasy.  It's alerting you to pay attention.  Learning to slow situations down and be curious around my responses has been an intriguing journey to finding out how I truly feel.  I use this tool often.

I realized when I was upset over something seemingly small that it was my heart telling me something.  It was something negligent that shouldn't have been mentioned much less poured over.  Yet pour over it I did.  Because my body responded harshly to the situation and I knew to listen.  After uncovering the reason behind my response, I was able to adjust my thinking and my behavior.  But it was only because I have learned to do this that the outcome was favorable.

In the movie, "Split" (which incidentally I love) the psychiatrist tells her patient that she was erroneous in glossing over a small incident that happened to him.  She says that perhaps it carried more weight than she had realized and triggered a response in him that made the other personalities surface.

Granted, I don't have multiple personalities lurking beneath but I do have multiple reasons for my actions and emotions...which I suppose seem like multiple persons.  Had I not learned to listen to my body, I would be continuously living in a state of upset and confusion.  And making poor decisions as a result.

My routine may seem insignificant, but they carry the weight of my world.  If I let that slip, my world falls off my shoulders.

Solo cup

The last time I was settled and at peace I was 22 years old living as a nanny in New York.  And only then it was a partial attempt at peace and rest.  It wasn't my home or my family or my car or my city or my state or my kids.  But this was the last time I was settled.  Pretty shoddy attempt.

For the past 18 years I have been living in a state of discombobulation.  I lived with my parents before I married the first time in 2005.  I suppose that was a firmer attempt at being stable than being a nanny in a different part of the country.  But it was still shoddy.

I had three years of a tumultuous marriage.  Katrina hit in 2005 and for the next three years we moved multiple times, finally settling into a house that we renovated.  During the time of renovations, we were living in the upstairs Master suite (the only thing that was upstairs) and had our kitchen in an RV behind the house.  And along with all of this was our difficult marriage...we were two very different people under a tremendous amount of stress.  Even the best of marriages could not have made it through that without scars.  I prayed for three years that I would have the peace to stay or the peace to go.  One day I woke up and the door to leave was standing wide open.  I walked through and didn't look back.

I lived with my parents for a few short weeks, then with a friend, then on the seminary campus, then found a house to rent.  I met my second husband immediately.  I had a roommate and we moved into another house a year later.  I was married two years after I left my first husband.  I moved into another house with my second husband.  We bought a house and renovated it, moved in and had Brady shortly thereafter.  We stayed in that house until our marriage dissolved into a sad puddle that could not be soaked up with Bounty. The duration of our marriage was again a tumultuous time.  During all of this madness I was building a business.  I had two little boys, a step daughter and a husband that I did not get along with.  My brain was on overdrive.  

I have lived in 12 houses in the past 12 years, 17 in the past 17 years.  I am tired of moving.

When I moved in with my parents after leaving my second husband, I vowed to stay until my brain had calmed down again.  There was no better place for me to take a time out.  When I thought of my happy place, it was in my parents' living room in front of the fire.  I was finally in a position to heal.

And that was what I did.  I fought it for some time by being in yet another unhealthy relationship.  But God smacked me in the face and forced it on me.  He knew better than I what it would take for me to recover.  And that was the absence of a significant other.

I remember my brother telling me when I was considering moving in with this erroneous mate that I needed to establish stability for my boys without anyone else assisting in this.  At the time his words scared me and slightly infuriated me.  I remember thinking that he had no idea what that meant...to be a single mom and be solely responsible for your children.  Not just financially but in discipline, health, their spirituality, their emotional well being, their education. (side note: they are with their dad 50% of the time so this fear was only about when they were with me.) It was too much for me at the time to consider doing alone.  I desperately needed a partner.  Or so I thought.

Those words ended up aligning completely with what my picture of health would be.  (I hate it when my brother is right... just sayin'...love you Poops...)  It took my brother being honest and what I felt was slightly insensitive (at the time), and a man I was interested in telling me that I had too many red flags to date seriously to make me look at what I was terrified of facing.  That I had chosen to walk a path that required my full attention and stability.  And I ALONE had to fulfill this task.

I love my alone time.  I crave it.  I get grumpy when I don't have it.  But actually being alone...not so great.  I rely very heavily on the approval of others.  I need affirmation more than I should.  I can't make a decision about much without hashing it out with someone.  So why in the world would I choose this solo road?

Because being solo is mandatory to my healing.  God wants to arm me with the ability to make decisions without assistance.  He wants to be the one who makes sense of my chaos.  He wants to be the one to calm my tumultuous soul.  This is no one else's task but His and mine.  And whether I was aware of it or not, my decisions have brought me to this place where I am able and equipped to do this.

He is the one holding this Solo cup.  I'll drink to that.

S'mores and raw fish

Apparently a lack of passion also means a lack of energy.  Passionate people therefore are more productive and confident.  

Divorce knocked the passion out of me.  It's sneaky that way.  You wake up one day and realize that you have absolutely no idea what is happening and no idea where you are supposed to go.  You just know that you are in an empty house without a fire or wood to even start one, but mouths to feed.  Confused, devastated, hopeless you drag yourself from where you were to discover new territory.  You now have the task of creating a new homestead for you and your kids.  But as much as you try, you cannot get the damn fire started.  I wasn't a Girl Scout, so making fires is beyond my expertise.  (If I was stranded on an island homegirl would be freezing but fit because my diet would be limited to raw fish.)

After months of no success, you finally see the beginnings of a flame.  And with everything you have in you, you protect that thing to keep it from going out.

That thing is passion.  The passionate energy that it takes to pick yourself up after a devastation and carry on.  With or without help.  With or without wood. Passion is "any powerful or compelling emotion or feeling, as love or 

hate" on dictionary.com. 

I think it's curious that EMOTION and FEELING are what makes us productive...passionate.  Emotion is unreliable and testy...or so we've been told.  We are taught to either stifle emotion or learn to not have any.  The only really acceptable emotion is Joy, like in the "Inside Out" movie.  My favorite thing about that movie is that it took Sadness to reconcile the situation.  

Brady and I have had moments where we both just cried because divorce is just sad.  I told him that it was OK to be sad and that it probably wouldn't stop being sad.  But it was important for him to recognize that this isn't a great situation and to deny sadness would mean the situation would not be reconciled in his heart.  And so we cried and were sad together.  Sadness saved the day.  And it was Sadness that once again started the fire of our new home. 

The flood waters that devastated homes and businesses in Texas sent most Katrina survivors into that time when we were lost and without direction...passionless.  You can feel it in the way people are behaving...you can sense it in the grocery store.  The cashiers, the customers, probably even the produce is emanating the memories of the flood.  You can see it on the news when the local anchors and weathermen/women reported the news.  You can feel it even on social media...the sadness and overwhelming loss of control.  I can't even look at pictures of the flooding from Harvey.  If I did, I felt like the air had been sucked out of the room and I had forgotten how to breathe.  Strangers were joined by this one feeling.  Our city was bound together by Sadness once again. 

So if emotion is necessary to ignite the fire of Passion, it is therefore also a necessary component of energy.  It's what separates the successful from the unsuccessful.  Chew on that for a bit....EMOTION drives us to produce.

This is a common theme in business also.  We do not buy because of the product itself but because of the WHY behind it.  I love Plexus because it has changed the kind of mom I am and whether or not I can provide for my kids alone.  I love Jesus because I would be lost without Him.  I buy dry shampoo because it gives me more time to spend on what is important...not my dang hair.

Passion makes me want to buy some marshmallows, chocolate and graham crackers.  Passion is a big ol' smore.  Without it, my fire would never have gotten started (and I'd still be eating raw fish).