My Soul Responsibility

"Put your ear down close to your soul and listen hard." ~ Anne Sexton

As I have thought about this quote for the past week or so, I am again reminded that I so often get caught up in my own monotonous busyness or plain old survival that I drown out the beating of my own heart. When I take the time to spend a little quality time with myself, I hear whispers from deep within me and the soul numbing grind is far less deafening. The breathiness of my inner voice nudges me and reminds me that what I love matters (despite how small or under cultivated). I must learn to listen to the cues. Every moment I feel joy or deeply and vitally alive, I must stand still and pay attention to it.  My soul is knocking and asking, " Hello in there... is anyone home? I'm in this- are you?"

My soul is the real me. The part of me that hushes my insecurities and breathes life back into my lazy attempt at living. My soul doesn't care what anybody else thinks. Its quiet hush reasons, "You don't have to be smart, perfect, thin, or impressive, Julie. You can just be." My soul reminds me that less is really more and well... more is just more. I have come to realize I need to eliminate in order to hear myself think and more importantly feel myself feel. Sometimes this realization seems selfish; I digress. When will choosing self ever feel completely natural? I must constantly shout above the monologue that plays over and over in my head telling me that it's never my turn and there's nobility in constantly giving it all away. Thirty thousand mornings, give or take a few, is all we're given. At near fifty, I have about eleven thousand left. I'd like to start reserving just a few.

I've talked a lot about finding my purpose and passion in my blog. I'm starting to realize it's kind of like searching all over the house for my car keys, only to discover that they were right there in
my hands all the time. Everything I need, everything I possess...it's all in there. It's taken more than half a lifetime, but I know this is TRUTH. My Acupuncturist, Jeffrey is one of the happiest people I have ever met. His welcome is always an exuberant, "Greetings Julia..." His voice, his spirit, the authentically peaceful aesthetic of his office, the location (just a stone's throw from Sunset Beach where he surfs daily), and the pure joy he radiates while placing tiny needles in my body, all tells me he has a honest passion for his work: his calling and for life. He is doing what he is supposed to be doing, where he is supposed to be doing it! It makes me ache for something to emerge from within me, declaring, "Here I am! This is it... this is your thing ... now go follow it!" It should be simpler than it is. I have talents and plenty of passion. It's the tuning in part and being brave enough to move where my soul is directing me...therein lies the problem and the answer.

In a commencement speech at Stanford, Steve Jobs told students that for thirty years, he looked in the mirror every morning and asked himself, "If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today?" And whenever the answer had been "no" for too many days in a row, he knew he needed to change something. This disturbed me when I read it (a clue that an anesthetized nerve had been struck). "Am I breathing just a little and calling it a life?", I thought. YES... "If today were my last day, would I want to be doing what I am doing?" Decidedly, NO... And whose responsibility was it to change that? I realized in that moment there was nowhere left to hide. If there are things I still want to do, explore, feel...it's all on me.

 So... I am paying attention this week. Paying attention to the pain in my neck and hips, as I begin to uncover where all that hurting is coming from and try not to push through it. I am paying attention to how my heart beats just a little faster when I sit down to write, or as I contemplate how to refinish those dining room chairs I love. Paying attention when I allow myself to be in touch with the creativity that whooshes from somewhere in my brain and soul simultaneously and noting that I am transformed for just a moment. The payoff: My soul whispers to me a little secret, "It's all about inhabiting your moments." So I took an extra half hour this morning to get out of bed, making time to pray and contemplate. Later, I spent an hour and a half in my car (without the radio or a CD) driving to a much needed appointment, followed by a quiet outdoor lunch for one in Sunset Beach. Rejuvenated and redirected, I am glad I took the time today to get down low and really listen to what my soul keeps trying to tell me. What I heard all came in the form of questions:

What can I eliminate that is dragging me down?
What can I add to my life that will increase joy and vitality?
Am I inhabiting all my days (moments)?
Do I know where I am on my journey?

Maybe if I am quiet enough and still enough (for long enough) I will be able to hear the answers...

In My Hands

 When I was young, I used to fantasize about what it would be like to belong to a different family, live in different circumstances. I'd daydream about a mother who bubbled with joy and an exuberance for living and a father who was a patriarchal rock of steadiness and security. There were many days I longed for Ward and June or Mr. & Mrs. Brady to jump on in and rescue me from my reality. Although I loved my mother and father very much, I spent most of my life trying to distinguish myself from my parents, repudiating patterns from them that I didn't want to replicate, desperately hoping to do it all differently when given my shot at adulthood. It has taken me almost a half a century to make peace with the fact, that while I am my own unique self, I am also the child of my parents, my mother's daughter in many respects, (my father's too) for good and bad; I'm more like them than I ever imagined. As I now walk alone without them in this life, I smile when I see one or both of my parents in my reflection, or hear them in my voice.

It wasn't until my perimenopausal years, that I began to fully empathize with my mother's depression, fears, and her need to cocoon herself in the safety of her own home. In my brazen teen years, I sternly( but silently) thought her weak and selfish. In my twenties, I decided she didn't try quite hard enough to push herself out and through the door that seemed unlocked to me, but a prison to her. During my thirties, I secretly detached myself, knowing I would never understand her and could die trying. At forty, I worked hard at reconnecting, convinced she was a product of her environment growing up. Sure of my own capacity to mother, I wanted to scoop her up, love her the way she needed to be loved, furious with those who robbed her of the carefree childhood she deserved. I wasn't convinced I had much of a childhood either, but next to hers, it was The Wonder Years. Still, I tried to move past this legacy and create my own to pass down to my little posterity. Retrospectively, I wasted far too much time in a push-pull of the heart, trying to embrace, but desperately wanting to escape my own inheritance.

It was a big, fat paradox for me. Here I was, my own unique person, on earth with a divine purpose to become all I was created to be and given agency to choose. At the same time, I was to a large degree, an inevitable result of my parent's DNA: their physical and emotional legacy; the result of a tryst between my mother's egg and my father's slow, but tenacious little sperm. Sure, I believe I came with an inherent personality and characteristics unique to me, but I was also formed from all the training and experiences I had from my parents as a child. All of that, paired with my reaction to and perception of those experiences, made me who I am- for better or for worse. Thankfully, sometime in my childhood I was innately gifted a deep knowing-ness: a personal confirmation of sorts, that my parents did the best they could with what they had. They were pretty much in the same boat- inheritors too, given what they were from their parents. I understood I was and still am in a very real sense, a product of those who came before me. This compassionate realization separated my bitterness from the sweet, like vinegar and oil. On most days, my love for two wonderful parents floated to the top, but I'd be lying if I said my bottle was never shaken, blending the two, making it hard to distinquish the very sweet from the bitter.

Because some of my childhood was difficult, even painful at times, it would have been easy to disassociate from my parents, or to blame them for what I believed went wrong in my life.  I tried instead to use the lessons they taught me (both positive and negative) and move beyond my legacy. As I have looked back, I know that this must have at times looked and felt like superiority to my parents. In many instances, I was too judgemental, too outspoken in my resolve to do it differently. My mother and I had a very real conversation about this just a couple of months before she died. One afternoon she sent me an email thanking me for being the daughter I was. She had been given five months to live months earlier and her time was drawing to an end. She told me that she loved me very much and that I had helped her so much in her life. As I read her email, I thought of our relationship. How hard it had been at times to relate to my mother. How difficult it was for the child in me to not suffocate beneath her depression; I shamefully had held anger in my heart towards her. I tearfully typed back, " You were a good mother. I am sorry for the times I wasn't always kind. I judged you. At times I was embarrassed of our life, our circumstances. I was never ashamed of you. I know you and dad did the very best you could. I regret not having had the maturity and goodness to understand everything much earlier in my life.  I love you, Mom. I always have and I always will..."

The following was my dear  mother's reply:


Dear Julie,

You show yourself no mercy. Please believe that I have only love and admiration for you...and mega pride. Those earlier years were so difficult. I don't even like to think of them. Children can only react. I do the same as you...wish to go back and make it better. I think we should just know that all things we experience, good and bad, make us what we finally become. No mother on earth could be more pleased than I with the person you have become- who you are. That person was always there, but had so many hardships to deal with. There is absolutely nothing wrong with wanting to make your life better, Julie. I think it would have killed me if any one of you followed the pattern that was presented earlier to you. 

I think of times when I might have been more patient; if only I had more "room" in my mind to have done a better job. Please don't ever think you weren't a good daughter. If anything, you gave me reasons to be proud. Yes, My Violet, five more years would be so great... only to enjoy one another longer. I am trying not to think of how many months I have left, but rather enjoy each moment I have with each of you.

I love you to no end~
Mom


Dawna Markova (the author of the poem that inspired my Wide Open Wednesdays) has a wonderful practice that makes this all of this so very real. "Look in the palm of your hand. Thich Nhat Hanh would say that if you look deeply enough, you'll never be lonely. Each cell of your hand is made from genetic material passed on to you from your mother or father. Whether you adored or despised them, they are in the palm of your hand." Most of the last moments I had with my mother, I held her hand. When she could, she held mine. I held my father's too, for weeks and weeks, as I watched him slip away from me. Because my hands are a smaller version of my mother's, I connect deeply to her whenever I look down at them. Whenever I put her ring on my finger, or hold my own daughter's hand, I am brought back to her. I love my hands because I loved hers. This connection to her gives me a sense of belonging and a wholeness that I can't explain. My hands remind me that I am never really alone, belonging to something so much bigger and better than just me. At near fifty, I no longer wish to be part of the Cleavers or The Brady Bunch. I am content to fully inhabit both my circumstances and my genes- grateful for both and for the parents that live on through me, in my heart and in my hands.

Midlife Makeover!

Welcome to my NEW Blog! I am so excited I can hardly stand it. I have spent a long time thinking about exactly what I wanted my page to look and feel like, knowing I needed it to be interesting and have a real sense of me; who I am becoming in middle age. I also wanted my blog to be an inspiring place to go and hangout on the page for a little while, for myself and you- the reader. With the help of Meredith Locklear from Creative Design + Branding, I believe I have been able to achieve just that! She did an amazing job listening to my ideas (Chagall inspired... what can I say?) and vision for my logo/banner. I then found Kim at seven thirty three and she put it all together for me (although, we're still making some changes and will be adding a few things in the near future) in an organized, aesthetically pleasing format. Might I also say, she was incredibly patient with this overly perfectionist blogger. I would highly recommend both ladies!

Along with a visual makeover, my little blog will be expanding in content. As I am discovering my authentic passions, I would be remiss to neglect all the pieces of me that make me - well... me! As I have asked myself, "How can I incorporate passion and creativity into my everyday life?", I have identified areas of my life that make my heart beat faster. When I am passionately engaged, I am totally present, enlivened; focused. When I write and create with my hands; with my heart, I lose sight of my surroundings, forget myself, my struggles, my day-to-day humdrum, and connect with something larger than myself, something magical, something sacred. It's these types of activities and thoughts that I wish to share with you on my blog: topics of interest like- Family, Home, Health & Beauty, My Favorite Things, My Projects, and of course... my Wide Open Wednesdays!

This week I finished a mosaic birdhouse, toured some fun model homes, made a yummy new pasta salad recipe, browsed Chico's and bought a cool new maxi dress. Look for photos and thoughts on my adventures later this week. None of these little activities took endless time, money, or perfect conditions. I am learning to tune into the small things that make my heart sing, if only for a few minutes, if that's all I have. Authentic passion can be anything from playing the violin, taking salsa lessons, going flea marketing, or volunteering to read to a child. Discover your passions. Do it today! Do it for just twenty minutes and watch your heart start beating! If you're going to create a life you love, you have to make passion your middle name. Authentic passion is slowly becoming a regular part of my everyday living. I am excited to share...

* What does passion mean to you?
* Ask yourself, How can I incorporate passion and creativity into my everyday life?

Keep Walking

March 25th marked the two year anniversary of my father's death. As I contemplated what I wanted to write about this week, it seemed only natural to share a letter that I wrote for the first writing class I joined just six months after my father's passing in September 2010. Our class assignment was to write a letter that could be sent as a message in a bottle. Wearing my grief and innermost feelings on my sleeve has always felt inherently unnatural for me, but it was as if a force greater than myself was at work pushing my pain through my pen, exposing my grief, vulnerability; squeezing pieces of my very soul out onto the white pages I passed out to a dozen or so perfect strangers each Tuesday night. It was an amazingly cathartic first step towards healing- reaffirming to me that as we allow ourselves to surrender completely to the moments, we are strengthened, reshaped, and refined in ways that are impossible to comprehend while in the process. Our growth is limited and often arrested when we clench tightly instead to our own perceived powers, abilities, and limitations. Today, I marvel at my experience; my capacity to trust in myself, those thirteen fellow writers and a teacher who read, listened, and even wept with me as I openly grieved the passing of my beloved father. Two years later, I miss him everyday as I Keep Walking and writing...


Dearest Beachcomber,

If you find this letter, know that it was written as a token of gratitude for the sea more than anything else. I wonder what beach you're standing on? What burdens you might carry with you today; whether your favorite beach is as comforting a place for you as my little beach has been for me...or if what I have to say will resonate with you in anyway? Who have you loved and lost? Did you have someone beside you to lean on for repose when you thought your heart would surely break... or did you stand alone? I wonder if you will think I am just a crazy middle aged woman who still believes if you write a letter and seal it up in a bottle, someone will actually find and read it? Perhaps what I write won't interest you in the least. I just know I must release this and keep walking...

My year has been as unprecedentedly cold and gloomy as the weather here in Carlsbad. I too have been socked in. How glad I am that the sea and her marine layer didn't mock me with warmth and light. It made it easier for me to come lay my burdens at her feet. I walked miles each week, marveling at her ability to mirror me on any given day. On those occasional, beautiful Southern California days we had this past summer, I intuitively came to her anyway, knowing she always gave to me exactly what I needed. I lapped up her warm, delicious offerings like a hungry, orphaned child.

As I met with the sea at her shoreline, I mourned the loss of my father: my person, my whole life through. I questioned with her out loud the notion that God never gives to us anything we cannot handle. She let me ask all the questions, knowing that when I was ready to receive the answers, they would come to me. Many times when simply walking beside her was not enough, I would throw off my gauzy cover up, stepping into her, as if to say, " I need a hug today." Within her, all my thoughts and feelings (moving as freely as her liquid currents) poured out to her in perfect trust. I would then lay back into her releasing what seemed like buckets of salty tears and choking, childlike sobs into her buoyant, maternal creche; somehow I was preserved for just a moment. She felt kindred to me. Her ebb and flow not much different than my own soul's stillness and searching, or my heart's break and continuum, reaffirming that with every breath there is a rise and fall in each of us. I heard her whisper to me, as if entrusting me with a great confidence, "This is the rhythm of ALL living."

As I walked each day, I stopped to gather pieces of her to take home with me: smooth stones, diminutive driftwood, small shells and cloudy shards of glass. I took this precious time to gather me as well: lost pieces of self, either forgotten or shelved. How could my father's death, the worst thing that has ever happened to me, hold the possibility of bringing out the best in me and help me find my way? My suffering forced me to go deeper, contemplating who I was and what I wanted to do with my life before I die. Six months spent in thoughtful introspection, brought with it the realization that I had made life too small for myself. I was living a boxed life and had only a few small air holes poked at the top in which to breathe. My profound loss and desperation forced me to begin to loosen my tight grip on life, allowing me to both reach and surrender: a parting gift from my free spirited father.

And so along with this letter in a bottle, I share with you, my beach combing friend, my love and gratitude for these: my personal gifts from the sea. I hope and pray that you might find all that you are searching for today, as you too keep walking...

Julia

Fly Away Home

My daughter Megan headed back to NYU on Sunday morning. I spent the entire day in my flannel pajamas and moped for as long as I could stand it, knowing it never really does me any good. I watched a depressing movie (thinking it would be cathartic) only to realize it made my heavy-heartedness, well...heavier. I then stripped her bed with the same bravery I exact when ripping a band aid off of a wound that has not yet healed, but I must clean and inspect for improvement. Clutching her well-worn, white sheets to my chest, I took in a deep breath of her and with great reluctance let her out again. Am I any better at this after seven months of saying goodbye for long periods of time and then hello again for what seems like ten minutes? No, not really... I am just faking it for now. I tell myself that she is at nineteen a young woman of the universe. She was never really mine. I had temporary responsibility to care for her until she was old enough to leave home; boy did she. New York may as well be China on most days- she is so far from my reach. I don't know how mother birds do it? They are so brave; so trusting. We humans are tempted to clip our children's wings with our own fears, insecurities, and opinions. In doing so we hinder their ability to grow from dependency to freedom. This is selfish on our part. I must practice letting go of my daughter on a daily basis, grateful she is fiercely independent; a remarkably capable girl who I raised to FLY. I mustn't encumber her with responsibility for my well-being and the emptiness that now occupies my maternal heart. The big question is still, "What do I do now?"

I am proud that we weren't helicopter parents so typical of our generation. We began practicing a more passive kind of parenting Megan's last two years at home, allowing her some earned freedoms, and a bit of adult autonomy during her senior year. Megan never disappointed us. This only solidified in our hearts and minds she was indeed ready to leave. I was the one who wasn't ready. I prepped her with self defense classes, later curfews, and championed her prayerful consideration of colleges and ultimate choice of attending NYU. Unfortunately, I didn't think about my personal readiness while embarking upon this intensely emotional and constantly evolving maternal process. Sure, I did some preparatory grieving during her senior year mourning all the lasts. However, I was unprepared in anticipating the real sense of loss I would feel without the intense, daily engagement I once had with my girl. My life changed dramatically in just a year. I think I miss most the quintessential mother/daughter things: manicures and pedicures, breakfasts and lunches at our favorite little cafes, our conversations about everything and nothing, sitting on her bed watching her get ready for dates, (while interjecting the need for her to apply a little lip gloss or voting for a favorite accessory) watching her rehearse at the ballet studio, and snuggling with her on the couch watching a girl movie. Weaning myself from these types of interactions never occurred to me. If it did, I am not at all sure I would have been willing to have sacrificed even one of them for my ultimate well being in the end anyway.

Even the loss of the most elemental experiences are still difficult for me: church on Sunday, cooking dinner, shopping, driving on the Pacific Coast Highway, watching Glee and Project Runway, Pilate's class- because none of it is the same without her. To be truthful, some of it I have had to just avoid for now. I instead began replacing these things with different kinds of activities to help with the adjustment. I wish I could tell you it's easy and working fine for me. The truth is I'm still trying to find my equilibrium. I know I must look to my own happiness and not look back too much. It's hard. A lot of what I have tried feels like empty filler, but I continue to persevere managing life's changing chapters in my own life, while celebrating hers. I am so happy to hear she got an A on the paper, the interview went well, her roommate cleaned their room, and she wants to stay in New York during the summer and get an internship (What...? My mother's heart screams). Realizing she won't want to keep calling and talking to a weepy mess who hasn't got a life outside of hers is motivation enough to go get myself a life and appear happy while trying. I never want her to feel responsible for my happiness and I hope she'll return the favor. I have lived that kind of love; it's an impostor. I owe it to myself and to Megan to thrive. I had a mother who didn't and I know from experience it's burdensome.

I am looking at the box of worn pointe shoes Megan sorted through while she was home on spring break; the bags of her clothing and cast away items I must take to Good Will this week. As we prepare to down-size to a smaller place, we asked her to go through closets, drawers, shelves, and dance bags to decide what she wanted to keep or not. Seeing the trash bags: carelessly discarded yesterdays tear at me. I WANT TO RIP OPEN the white plastic and hold on to every item because what I really want is to hold on to my little girl. Her room is still intact. Depending on the day it's either heartbreaking or comforting to sit on her bed looking around her teen room. The bold art posters, the eclectic bulletin board with concert stubs, notes from friends, photos, and school memorabilia are all pieces of the girl she once was and the woman she is becoming. As I sift through the throw away pile, I pick up a pair of satiny, blush pink pointe shoes that represent so much: my daughter's pink and white dreams, her passions, dedication, discipline; her gifts. I mentally pat myself on the back, knowing that I am responsible in part for dreams realized because I loved and nurtured the spirit she came with, parenting both the child and the gifts until she was capable of doing it for herself. That day has arrived. I just never expected it to be so bittersweet.

We're given approximately eighteen years to love our children as children, care for their basic and sometimes extravagant needs, raise them in a hopefully happy, supportive environment, encourage their desires, help foster their gifts and talents, and shape their character. I know if we can't let go of our grown children it limits the lives of all concerned. Adult children lose confidence in their own powers when parents exercise too much of their own (power) over their grown children. I've done my job. I can really say that with conviction and pride. Knowing this, I believe in my daughter and in her ability to govern her own life. I am here for support and gentle guidance. My new job: to maintain my personal happiness and enjoy my life, marriage, and new found freedom to come and go as I please, perhaps join my husband on business trip or two, and explore new possibilities for myself. It's not all bad. Just before Megan came home this month, I had a few weeks that I actually began settling in and started enjoying my new life for the first time since we left her in NY. I had a little setback this week and needed to remind myself once again that it took time to settle into parenting and it will take perhaps even more time to adjust to not having to parent a child on a daily basis. As I have spent three days wondering how I can make this better for myself, I realized I need to look forward to my daughter's visits, not live for them. Well intended comments from older parents such as, "Once they leave for college they never really come back" or "You're not letting them go- you're letting them grow" begin to slowly penetrate my consciousness.

 I know I must recover a truer sense of autonomy. I examine ongoing ways I must nurture and accept myself as more than a mother. I will continue to explore avenues to strengthen my spiritual and creative base, and therefore my own power. I am comforted by the assurance from having two older sons that I will never cease being Megan's mother. For now, I just miss my baby bird and hope she always flies west for the winter. Spring and summer would be a nice bonus, but I am realistic. New York in the fall is already on my calendar, but today I commit to living in the moment; to finding and creating my own joy on a daily basis, realizing this empty nest thing is a journey...

The Good Wife

I am hostessing a bridal shower for my niece on Saturday. As I clean, plan, create, and envision the perfect peacock themed party for my darling niece, I'm feeling overly nostalgic as I contemplate her wedding. She is the first girl in our family to get married in a very long time. My daughter, my two nieces, and our beautiful bride to be have been dreaming up their weddings since they were little girls. It's a beautiful thing to see my sister's daughters and my own be included as bridesmaids. It seems like these four little girls should still be having Barbie weddings on their bedroom floors. It's hard to believe this new generation of Fillweber women are in the pursuit of love and lifelong commitments and not Beanie Baby acquisitions. Preparing to get married is an act of hope, optimism; an affirmation of life. I'm happy to take part in some small way. It's almost impossible not to reflect on my own marriage in the process. Marrying my husband was the best decision I have ever made. Instinctively, I knew almost immediately Pat was a good man and he would make an amazing husband. I haven't always been the best wife... just an ordinary woman still in pursuit of becoming a better one.

Marriage: I have found strength and God in the pursuit of this lifelong commitment. It continues to refine me. I have thought a lot this week about the Good Wife described in the book of Proverbs 31:10-31. Living up to the virtues so eloquently described in these verses is intimidating... even now. I don't think they're meant to be. Instead, I think it's a charge to rise and live up to our inherently divine nature as women. It's really quite beautiful. Again, I am weepy.  I should have contemplated these verses more over the years and made them my creed. I am thinking about having it typed and framed in a modern way and giving it to all of the girls before they get married. It reads as follows:

Who can find a virtuous woman?
For her grace is far above rubies.

The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her,
So that he shall have no need of spoil.

She will do him good and not evil
All the days of her life.

She seeketh wool and flax,
And worketh willingly with her hands.

She is like the merchants' ships;
She bringeth her food from afar.

She riseth also while it is yet night,
And giveth meat to her household, and a portion to her maidens.

She considereth  a field, and buyeth it:
With the fruit of her hands she planteth a vineyard.

She girdeth her loins with strength,
And strengtheneth her arms.

She perceiveth that her merchandise is good:
Her candle goeth not out by night.

She layeth her hands to the spindle,
And her hands hold the distaff.

She stretcheth out her hand to the poor;
Yea, she reacheth forth her hands to the needy.

She is not afraid of the snow for her household:
For all her household are clothed with scarlet.

She maketh herself coverings of tapestry;
Her clothing is silk and purple.

Her husband is known in the gates,
When he sitteth among elders of the land.

She maketh fine linen, and selleth it;
And delivereth girdles unto the merchant.

Strength and honor are her clothing.
And she shall rejoice in time to come.

She openeth her mouth with wisdom;
And in her tongue is the law of kindness.

She looked well to the ways of her household,
And eateth not the bread of idleness.

Her children arise up, and call her blessed;
Her husband also, and he praiseth her:

"Many daughters have done virtuously,
 But thou excellest them all."

Favor is deceitful, and beauty is vain:
But a woman that feareth the Lord,
She shall be praised.

Give her of the fruit of her hands;
And let her own works praise her in the gates.


(Sigh...) I didn't always "do him good" all the days...he entrusted his heart to me and there were times I stomped all over it. Giving someone your whole heart is no small thing. Megan and I will have a conversation about this. These are the kinds of things I wish my mother had talked to me about. A marriage is fragile and precious. You must guard and protect it. I want to scream this from the roof top to my young gender! They need to know this!

 I think back to Pat's brother in law's funeral many years ago. I sat next to my husband and watched him fight to keep it together as best he could, for as long as I could. He loved his brother in law and it pained him to watch his poor sister and their four children during the funeral mass. His face was contorted in attempted control. I grabbed his cheeks, kissed his forehead and pulled him into my chest. He sobbed for a very long time. I also remember my husband having to tell me he didn't get the job. He was sure he would- we both were. I could see the devastation in his eyes after six long months. I was very "afraid of the snow for my household", but I told him I knew he would get another job, a better job. I've had my share of virtuous, good wifely moments, but there were so many other days (less obvious maybe) that I turned away in my busyness. Shamefully, there were those times that I hurt and I knew he was hurting too, but my pain somehow trumped his. I think I don't even want to get into my "tongue" breaking "the law of kindness." I am a criminal. At almost fifty, I know we don't get "do overs", but I know I could be so much better at this if we did.

I'm thinking this is what we need to wrap up and give to our daughters, nieces, granddaughters and the rest of them as shower gifts: Our experience (both good and bad), our commitment to God to be examples of the womanhood He created within us; giving voice to our virtue, our potential, our strength, and tenderness. Our birthright as women is a priceless gift. This being my opus, I want more time to practice and share it. I hope I'm gifted many more years because twenty were obviously not enough. I am seriously rethinking all of the fun and funky Anthropology kitchen stuff so nicely wrapped for Saturday. I want to have a dozen prints of Proverb's The Good Wife stashed- ready to wrap... anybody know of a good typographer?

Waiting On Spring

Betwixt and between winter and spring, I meet this time of year with apprehension; a sense of wanting to just be done with it all. February 18th marks the anniversary of my father's heart attack and March 26th, his death. Although I live in Southern California, the tale end of winter in 2010 was long and bitter for me. Each passing year gets a little easier; I'm grateful for that. Hard-frost nights still nip at me, but my days are gradually getting warmer. Winter's grip can be strong, but time always is on spring's side. I love that about spring and this year I again welcome her!

Bloom by bloom spring begins. Looking around I see glimpses of it already. I wish we had a more definitive change of seasons here. Of all the seasons, spring can be the most fickle. I love that no matter where you live, we can never predict when it will arrive, but there's no mistaking it when it does. One morning I will awake to find the sunlight has changed. Intense, but kindly, it will saturate my winter-weary heart, seeping through me, washing over my soul and home. The underlying chill will finally be lifted again and I will be warmed by the hope of brighter things to come. Spring is a season of possibility and promise. With the fresh air comes clarity and inspiration for me; an opportunity to figure out where I am meant to be shining.

As I await her, spring cleaning is the perfect opportunity for me to re imagine rooms in my home, to rehang pictures and create new arrangements; change pillow covers with something lighter and more colorful. I nest like the birds this time of year. For me, few activities match the satisfaction of a Saturday spent cleaning floors, washing windows, and banishing dust from neglected nooks and crannies. Soon it will be time to pull back the curtains, push open all of the windows and let sunlight and the fresh breeze sweep into every room. I look out onto my very small patio area ( I really have no yard) and hear the beds and planters calling for my attention. I buy fresh flowers every week now, inviting spring to dine with me at my table. I am looking for activity and distraction during this transitional time of year. I'm uncomfortable with some dates, my journal entries marking suffering and great loss that cause me at times to still wince in memory of...

 I made a beautiful egg topiary just days before my father's heart attack. I was just coming out of a fun girlfriend's weekend and had decorated a beautiful table scape in anticipation of Easter. As I would come home wearily from the hospital each night, it was the first thing I saw as I walked in through my back door. When I packed it up that April I was so angry...so sad. I couldn't bear to bring it out last year. It was still too painful for me. This year I am again looking forward to lilacs, pussy willow branches, lilies, baby chicks, (gentle springtime memories of my childhood and parents) and a renewed perspective on life after winter's long slog. I will breathe in spring and bravely dust off my egg topiary. Simple. Honest. Pure. The humble egg is nature's perfect package and symbol of the arrival of spring and Easter's renewal. I know my topiary will probably at times bring me back to that very difficult seven week period; my first orphaned Easter just days after we buried my father. I am prepared for that. However, this year I will choose to look upon it- rather than look away, as a reminder that In the depths of winter I finally learned that there was in me an invincible, but very late spring.

Lost and Found

You don't have to lose something or someone to ignite your passion to live. Although for me, losing my father and the stability of my husband's rock solid job was definitely the catalyst. Some of us are summoned back by numbness, fatigue, or sheer boredom. I have always had some sense of  "I'm not living up to my utmost potential." Even at some of my happiest moments, I somehow felt that something was missing; some part of me was lost or yet to be discovered. I was always looking to passionately dive into something or someone. Was there more to me than I allowed myself to become?

I believe that each of us has an essence, a unique quality of something or some things at our very core that makes us who we are as individuals and created by God to be. I have felt the weight of that in my own life. At times it has grounded me, although I may not have fully understood the something extra I'd been given. For the most part, it felt like I was lugging around a heavy suitcase with nothing in it and didn't know why. I know now that despite all of that, my core essence has been a guide in my life. It has moved me towards people, the expressive arts, kept me away from other things, and tenderly cradled my thoughts, my loves, and daily living. It's been my gift.

My biggest problem over the years has been my tendency to shrink. I thought being a housewife and mother somehow required of me to abandon all of the extra passion I'd been given. My creative, expressively artistic essence was just there for good measure. It came in handy for being room mom and throwing dinner parties, but much of me was shelved for a later date. Sadly, at forty something, I discovered all of these beautiful little jars lined up nicely on my pantry shelf filled with delicious creativity, artistic flair, and my own recipe for passion fruit spread that were never opened, tasted or enjoyed. "What a waste!", I thought. It would have been so easy to find at least some "mother friendly" ways to express all of that and all of me.

To explore that then would have meant allowing myself to live fully, passionately on purpose; giving myself permission to drop the preconceived ideas of what and who I needed to be as a wife and mother. I clenched tightly instead to the June Cleaver/Martha Stewart persona I interpreted as a young girl to be best used in developing the art of motherhood. Much of it was embraced and put in place by my childhood perceptions of what my own mother lacked in both effort and ability. I upheld this preconceived model in my heart and mind as the ideal. There were many secret selves I hopelessly abandoned and left for dead along the way. It was selfless. It was stupid. I realize now the mother I tried hard to improve upon (though I loved her and understood the root of her limitations) had her own essence and unlived dreams she tucked away somewhere. I now can see more of her in my reflection. So much of what I innately carry comes from her DNA: my creativity and heart of a lioness to name but a few. I wish she were still here. I'd ask her advice about navigating midlife and I'd share my own insights. That's what she and I did. Some days I was the mother and she the child. I am sure this was some kind of unspoken agreement between us when our eyes locked for the first time back in November of 1962. I used to think this frequent role reversal hurt me in some way. I know now that it shaped me.

Sometimes I really do think it's necessary to lose yourself in order to find yourself. At the very least, (in my case) to lose in order to truly appreciate all that I've been given. I struggle with "Is it too late?" I console myself with, "Perhaps now is just the right time." Mercifully, life brings us to a big lost and found box in middle age. I'm finding all sorts of belongings that still fit; aren't all that outdated. I'm reclaiming them as mine- all mine. Sure, there are a few things I must leave behind. I have begun to make peace with all of that. John Gardner reminds me, "Meaning is something you build into your life. You build it out of your own past, out of your affections and loyalties, out of the experience of humankind as it is passed on to you, out of your own talent and people you love, out of the values for which you are willing to sacrifice."

 What I did for thirty years as a wife and mother is no small thing. Yes, I sacrificed a lot in mothering three incredible human beings. I loved a man and took care of him and our home. And, I reap the rewards of that daily. Could I have done things better or differently? Yes, I'm sure I could have snuck in more creative me time. Maybe I was just too preoccupied or too tired. What I know for sure: now feels just right to passionately pursue new things. Although this season in my life has brought a fair share of loss, it also brings with it an abundance of midlife offerings... just for me. As I have had to let go of children, I must redefine my roles. I am learning how to find and perfectly parent my passions again. My little blog is just the beginning!

* What is it too soon for in your own life?
* What is it too late for?
* What is it just the right time for?

Why Can't I Just Do Yoga?

As I packed up my yoga mat, towels, water, and gumption to go to yoga the other day, I thought back to a conversation I had last year with my daughter, Megan. She had taken time off from dancing pre-professionally to concentrate on her demanding senior schedule, while opting to get a part-time job instead. Although she still danced, it no longer was an everyday commitment. One Saturday morning I asked her if she wanted to go to the gym with me? Her answer, " No, I don't really want to go. I feel like the elliptical machine is bulking up my thighs." According to Megan, every form of exercise except gyro tonics, Pilate's and dance had the propensity to add muscle to her dancer's legs (which incidentally, are really pretty). I immediately felt annoyed because we had bought her a gym membership to help her stay in shape without all the dancing she had grown so accustomed to doing. My ever well intended response,"Well, don't you think you should go to the gym to exercise?" She looked at me with those doe-like eyes of hers (uniquely innocent for an eighteen year old) and asked, "Why can't I just dance?" I stammered..."Well, you only dance three times a week- if you're lucky now." She told me she realized that and stared backed at me with just a hint of annoyance and asked me again, "Why can't I just dance?"

I felt my cheeks heat up and mother's heart drop, only to realize yet again, this was a teaching moment and I was the one being guided by my daughter. "Why can't she just dance?", I asked myself. The answers that immediately surfaced: It's not real exercise ( immediately followed by, well.. actually it is). Because she needs to do something else besides dance (and why exactly is that?). After a few moments of this heady self banter, I realized how ridiculous I sounded to myself ( and probably to Megan). I'm seasoned enough to know that when I find myself in those types of parental predicaments- it's usually about me ( and my unresolved Hang -Ups). I knew almost immediately this was indeed the case, as my mind panned my teen age years. I was never an avid exerciser as a youth. I gained weight when I blossomed at fifteen and have had a sluggish metabolism ever since. I always had to really work if I wanted to keep my weight in check. I never found a form of exercise that I liked (never mind loved the way that my daughter had with dance). What would it be like to completely enjoy something and have it count as exercise? The things I loved in high school weren't terribly physical; (singing, acting, dating and writing) they didn't count. Back to Megan, I thought (This was definitely more about me and less about her- Crap!). "Yes, you can just dance", I said in contrition and headed out the door to "take it out on" the stair machine.

As I stepped and stepped that morning, (a mindless, repetitive act that usually lends itself to what I have come to know as my Alpha moments) I thought about why exercise needed to be this incredibly awful and arduous task in my life? Wasn't there anything I liked doing that was remotely linked to fitness? Of course there were a few things, (yoga and walking the beach: the standouts) but what I realized was that in my mind they somehow didn't really count. I downplayed them because they didn't seem quite hard enough. But, despite how ridiculously skewed my thinking was, I realized they did indeed count and I enjoyed them both! For my daughter, dancing was and is an appetite, a joy. She wanted out of all other forced forms of exercise to do it. I couldn't appreciate that. I decided then  I needed some of Megan's enthusiasm and less muddling through for my workouts. Because truth be known, I didn't do enough exercising because I didn't find it satisfying. I am a passionate type; when I love something, I want out of whatever I am doing to do it. I knew that day, that those stairs were not it and I had to find that perfect pairing of physical activity and pleasure for myself.

I began doing less gym, more walking in natural settings ( the ultimate is usually the beach) and yoga. I found that Bikram yoga accommodates best my need to do something I love and something challenging. At very forty something, habits and mindsets are deeply etched and I choose carefully how and what I spend energy on changing. It's enough that I've found something I love doing, have some natural facility for, (despite the extra weight I'm carrying) that I also deem challenging enough both physically and mentally. Oddly, I hunger for challenge in my forties the way I craved frozen pink lemonade out of the Minute Maid can as an expectant mother in my twenties. I still love walking the beach, but it somehow feels too decadent to count as a real workout. Walking (for me) is more of an emotional/spiritual mood enhancer with some physical benefits. Maybe in another ten to fifteen years I may need to change to a gentler yoga practice and lots of walking, but for now I'm content to have found my sweet spot.

I think Kabir summed it up nicely for me, "Be strong then, and enter into your own body; there you have a solid place for your feet." I long to be rooted in my own body and soul. I stretch, I bend; I reach, risking my own limitations and significance in the cradle of the heated yoga room. My pride melts away as quickly as my makeup in that triple digit heat with forty percent humidity. I enjoy what yogis call Presence or Being- that quality of awareness not dependent on my external circumstances, my body type, my personality, or my activities, but rather what simply is: the part of me that is present even when my body and mind have temporarily died from duty and drudgery; even the pleasures of my daily living. Savasana (Corpse Pose) is my temporary nirvana. My passions and purpose are reignited by coming to class and striking twenty six postures against the heat of the room. With the Savasanas my body, mind, and spirit are reintegrated, creating a sense of wholeness within me. I love yoga. Yes, I do!

 Can I just do yoga? Most days I tell myself I can. There are on occasion nights I am seduced back into the gym by my well meaning husband who runs ( training for half and full marathons) to stay in shape. I go. I don't love it, but it's nice to sometimes just be with him doing something good for us. I feel much differently about it than I do my yoga practice; I am honest about that now. My daughter, my teacher, and sometimes my window to myself, taught me something that morning. It was a mid-life moment to evaluate why I do what I do, having extended itself beyond my rigid thinking about exercise. Life shouldn't just be about showing up, hating every stitch, and plowing through anyway. Over time this kind of living numbs the senses and robs us of spirit. There is great happiness in doing what I love; I deny myself that right far too often. If I can do yoga, then I can write, sing, dance, play, be still and do nothing...the possibilities are endless. And Megan, My Love, (if you are reading this post) I hope you will forever question even well intended insanity and dance- always dance. I will just do yoga.

Full Circle

I am a Valentine's Day Maven. I am pretty sure I was born with a love for all things red, romantic and heart shaped. Guilty as charged, I confess to adoring the month of February and all that it promises lovers both young and old. To underscore just how overly maudlin I am about this month- I was married on a Friday night February 14th, 1992. I know... I know... "How incredibly cliche", you say! This month and all that it represents just makes me so darn happy and I am not a closet worshipper. But, in my quest for truth; asking all the questions out loud, and then being willing to share the answers won through this incredibly liberating process- I will tell you not everyday has been Valentine's Day" in my soon to be twenty year old marriage.

Pat and I have had some incredibly romantic and creative Valentine's Days. Because he knows just how important this day is to me, the man has worked hard trying to be thoughtful and innovative most years. I see now the anniversaries that didn't go well and take full responsibility for creating too much pressure for the poor guy. We have even had a couple of ( at least one for sure) horrible Valentine's Days. Shamefully, those are the years I sat silently waiting for him to fail with (invisible) arms crossed and lips pursed tightly. And for a girl who holds love and romance as the breadth of her existence, ( having looked forward to Valentine's Day her entire life)know that's hard for me to admit out loud. My love for romance, girlish pink and white dreamy fantasies have lived inside me for as long as I can remember. All of this combined with an intensely passionate, creative nature is both my gift and my curse. I've ruined a Valentine's Day or two for myself and most definitely for my sweet husband with expectations that were met with disappointment because what I received didn't quite measure up to what I had built up in my heart and head. As I near fifty, I am not willing to lose even one more Valentine's Day/Anniversary to this transient attack. What I've come to realize in my forties: It's not really about the day and what it did or didn't contain for me in romantic delight and detail, rather what has been missing or declining in our marriage in the months that lead up to this day of all days. February is my LOVE month and Valentine's Day will forever hold my heart and my wedding anniversary. So... I've learned to come prepared to meet her.

The truth of the matter is, the soul and strength of my marriage exists in the day to day. If it is depleted of life and energy, it is both my and Pat's responsibility to nourish and exercise it like we try to do with our own bodies. Much like our physiques, (when we don't) our marriage becomes tired and out of shape. Some of our very best anniversaries and Valentine's Days have been bred out of the work put in months before the big day. This past year has been a tough one with Pat's unemployment and our daughter leaving for college across the country (all on the heels of losing my father). I felt like I was hit from every direction in an eighteen month span. It was awful and it was wonderful because as I began to "unravel", so did our marriage to a degree. This catapulted us into an opportunity to review the neglected basics. Subsequently, we have relied a lot this year on what I call the 3 R's of a Mid-Life Marriage: Reflection, Repair and Renewal. As we master these three R's, we are better able to advance to a higher level of loving and learning. At this age we aren't beginners, but for us a refresher in the basics was critical; then we were ready to tackle an advanced course dedicated to empty nesting.

For the very first time in our married relationship, we are not defining ourselves or our marriage in terms of our responsibility to others ( in particular- our three children). Our "mom" and "dad" roles have been stripped away like outdated clothing, and without our timeworn identities, we again see one another "naked". Mid-life incandescent lightening is not always kind. In preparation for Valentine's Day we have worked at bringing in a little soft, candlelight back into our relationship and have practiced looking at each other again with new eyes. As we are now a week out, I am looking forward to our anniversary and Valentine's Day with a giddiness reminiscent to our first. After a solid year of working on myself; as I have shifted my focus back to us (and more specifically my husband) this year, I have decided to buy Pat a new wedding ring as an anniversary gift to commemorate the work we have done. Shh... It's a surprise.

This idea has been bubbling like champagne for some time, but went flat in dealing with some of the lows of recent years. With this year our twentieth, I'm in the mood to celebrate! Despite some inevitable life crises that have come our way, we have used these somewhat traumatic events as a positive turning point for our marriage. As I have thought about a wedding ring: an eternity band and seamless circle that never ends, it is impossible for me not to reflect upon my marriage vows. Those covenants I made before God and promises made to another human being: an imperfect partner (just like me). This year my own quiet reflection will be my best Valentine's gift. True to his simple and somewhat frugal nature, my husband picked out for himself a plain, braided yellow gold band in 1991. Over the past twenty years some of the gold has rubbed off; it has worn thin, making it uncomfortable because it is so flat. And it digs into what my husband calls, "his sausage fingers." Because he suffers from mild to moderate arthritis in his left hand, it causes his ring finger to sometimes swell. Occasionally I will spot his ring on the nightstand now and he has always worn his ring. I want him to have a comfortable ring. All I can think about is how suprised he is going to be!

 His relatively inexpensive and unassuming ring pales next to the extraordinary vintage ring he bought for me more than twenty years ago. He had my ring set anew with a bright (almost flawless) one carat diamond. I often say, " If I had a dollar for every time I received a compliment from both men and women about my ring- I'd be rich." It's a beautiful ring and every time I look at it, it's impossible not to remember that my husband cherishes me. If I could, I'd buy him a ring that matches mine in both beauty and value. But, money is tight ( Megan is at NYU and retirement is on the horizon).  And truthfully, I don't think Pat would want an extravagant ring. Like it or not, he's a simple guy  (like my dad) and his mantra: " I don't need much to be happy." Again, I am brought full circle... It's no accident the men that have loved me most in my life bear a resemblance to one another in this regard; yet another Valentine's gift to number and remember...

As I type at my desk looking up to Chagall's Lovers in the Red Sky, (while sipping tea from my special Valentine's cup my husband gave me last year) half listening to Tchaikovsky's Romeo and Juliet as I write, I can do nothing but smile and confess I am hopelessly in love with love! I was struck by Cupid's arrow as a little girl infecting me with a love for all things Valentine's Day and I will  never be cured!  But this year, as I look to next Tuesday with starry eyed anticipation, (probably more than my age should allow) I also anxiously anticipate giving again to My Valentine: My Handsome, My Foyboy, ( a.k.a. my husband). And this little circle of love means more than I ever imagined it would when I placed the original on his finger two decades ago. As I have looked at new rings, I decided rather than discard or bury his old band in a drawer or box somewhere. I plan to have it dipped in white gold and wear it on my right thumb as a reminder of all that has taken place between us... bringing us back really to where we began.

Putting the Pieces Together

As I thought,"What do I want to name my blog?" many titles came to mind; ideas surfaced, but I chose Mid-Life Mosaic with intention. I have been experimenting on and off for the past fifteen years with the art of mosaics. I love this art medium for it's ability to be spontaneous; it can be simply appealing in form, color, and texture; or it can be carefully planned and executed to evoke sentimental memories. As the artist, I can base my craft on instinctive feelings of design, proportion, color, symmetry, style, and balance rather than the formal constraints of traditional art theory. One of the greatest joys of mosaic for me is the lack of restrictions; its ability to loosen the artist within me and instantly engage me in the creative process.

Folk Mosaic has a legion of names: broken tile mosaic, bits and pieces, memoryware, funky mosaic, fragment work; fantasy mosaic. Mosaic (much like my life thus far) is a "collection" of nostalgic fragments, collected tessarae (Greek word- meaning four sided or cubes) or irregular, broken and even shattered pieces- all carefully chosen for shape, color, size and beauty. These bits and pieces are then applied (affixed with adhesive); carefully spaced; lastly grouted- transforming any "sturdy" surface into an unified creation of beauty. As I have ( rather reluctantly) moved into middle age, I've come to realize mosaics can be a metaphor for life; with each- it's about how you put the pieces together.

When I think of my mosaic (life) as a puzzle, pieces or fragments should fit comfortably into the space left by surrounding tesserae, while mimicking their form. If something doesn't fit, you need to trim it. When I can't eliminate a piece or a role that is negative, I work to transform it and then I can view it less negatively. In making a mosaic I use my nippers and may have to re-cut existing tessarae to "work" within the design. It is sometimes a process of trial and error. Sometimes I cut away too much and have to start again with a new fragment of glass or tile. Because this is extra work, I am often guilty of forcing a piece that's too large to fit. This is a mistake. I am learning to avoid this practice as it compromises the overall aesthetic of my project and when it comes time to grout, it may potentially crack or not fill in completely. Learning to enjoy the process and not rush through to completion doesn't always come naturally; when I don't- I sometimes have to start over.

As I move into this new middle phase of my life, I am not asked to abandon those people and things I love. As life leads me forward towards fifty- to now an empty nest for the first time, my new roles as mother in law, grandmother, middle aged wife and peri-menopausal woman don't require me to close my heart to all that has gone before. My heart is a worthy vessel. It carries beautiful bits gained from my living, loving and losing. It carries room enough for other treasures to be gathered on my way towards old age ( yes, I am saying that out loud).  I have lost, discarded, and have misplaced people and things along the way- all pieces of me. I re-examine many, evaluating them for their beauty and what they add or don't to my life . I am wiser and more discerning now. This season affords me that; I deserve it.

 I am not finished. I'm still playing with things. I know I must start adhering because I don't have forever. I choose the things I love most as my focal points: God, family and my sometimes neglected marriage. Friendships and creative expression are added passionately and liberally once again, bringing back color and interest to my life; I am careful to evaluate for balance. I like the way it's looking. Sometimes I get overly excited; I haphazardly add new things far too quickly and consequently I'm unhappy. Have I ruined it?  I tell myself I haven't because I can still pry the pieces off. Do I really want to do that? I am not so sure. I sigh... It's a lot of work, but in the end, how it turns out really matters to me. I realize that I still have plenty of time before I need to grout. I take a breath and enjoy where I'm at in this artful process; say a little prayer, hoping it's going to turn out beautifully.

Wide Open Wednesday

Welcome to "Wide Open Wednesday"! Although I am sure my blog will blossom into a daily one, for now I have committed to Wednesdays. I started my blog with a poem that has been a catalyst for change in my life. I found it about two months after my father's death in March of 2010. I was in the middle of an abyss of grief that nearly swallowed me whole. My father was my "person" my whole life through. I woke up each morning after he died asking, "How does someone go on without their person?" I began to question everything and nearly everyone (including God), OUT LOUD. I marched myself into grief therapy, choosing to open up to a complete (but competent stranger) and began excavating many lost pieces of myself. Turning my tears to ink on a blank journal page was immensely cathartic and healing. This is an extension of that process, as I attempt to open just a bit wider...

I realize now looking back to March of 2010, I asked my dying father (who was connected to intrusive; alarming machines that kept him alive, but disconnected from me in a way that made my heart ache) many of the very same questions that I would begin asking myself over the eighteen months that followed his death. One afternoon I was gifted a priceless hour alone with my heavily sedated father. This was rare because family and hospital staff were typically always present. At first, I sat silently alongside his hospital bed wondering if my father was satisfied with his life which was drawing to an end? I pondered regrets he might have, things I knew he loved and longed to do; what he might want to tell us if he could? I wondered if he knew this was "it" and if his life had been enough? I continued in this vein until I could no longer hold in all of my questions. I began in a timid voice (which quickly became choking, childlike sobs) to ask my father the questions out loud. Although he wasn't able to answer me in the ways I had grown accustom to and found so very comforting over the forty seven years I had been his daughter, there was great relief in asking him anyway. I know he heard me because not only did I somehow hear and feel his answers, I saw them in the tears that trickled slowly down his sunken cheeks.

  My father gave me a parting gift that afternoon: a testimony of living on purpose and living what you love. This kind of living requires that we find what and who we love, (love them fiercely) giving it all we've got, and then we pass it on. My father did this very simply in his life. Despite how simple and unassuming he was, my father's life was a light. If our lives (or lights) were colors, Daddy was a blue flame (cool, true, calm) and I am red (passionate, fiery and sometimes angry). Both colors are beautiful in there own right, but distinctly different. It is my intention to pass that light to those who follow. I hope that those who come after me lives will be richer, fuller, wider and deeper because I was willing to live wide open, asking myself the questions out loud; risking to live what I truly love. My life is certainly deeper and steadier today because of my father's gentle, peaceful blue light. That light had the ability to pierce through the darkness of my mother's boundless depression I experienced growing up as a child and beyond.  His gentleness cast light on a divorce I didn't choose and feared. And most importantly, my father illuminated a belief in me- that I could do and become anything I wanted to.  I'd like to think he passed his light to me that afternoon and that my dramatic, passionate red flame melded with his cool, calming, blue flare - creating a rich purple torch to pass on to our posterity. I count this as my inheritance.

Some of the questions I have asked myself out loud after my father's death:

1. What is the unlived life that is calling me?
2. Who stands beside me supporting me?
3. Who will come after me, thanking me for who I've been and what I've done?
4. How do I make my life too small for myself?
5. Is this an act of faith or is it an act of fear?

And so I end where I began. Dawna Markova's poem has inspired me to live differently than I have ever lived before. So many of the questions I now ask myself out loud are unanswerable for the moment, but have inspired rousing conversations with myself. Not unlike that last conversation with my father, the answers don't always come to me in ways I expect; yet sometimes are exactly what I need, when I need it. As I no longer live in a clenched state of being, (trusting in this process) I am happier and more willing to ask the hard questions that allow my life to open me.

What questions do you ask yourself today?

~ Julia

"Wide Open"

I will not die an  unlived life.
I will not live in fear
of falling or catching fire.
I choose to inhabit my days,
to allow my living to open me,
to make me less afraid,
more accessible,
to loosen my heart
until it becomes a wing,
a torch, a promise.
I choose to risk my significance;
to live so that which came to me as seed
goes to the next as blossom
and that which came to me as blossom,
goes on as fruit.

- Dawna Markova