Spring

When I'm stuck with a day that's grey and lonely

I just stick up my chin and grin and say, oh

The sun will come out tomorrow

So you gotta hang on

'til tomorrow, come what may!

Annie.

Tomorrow’s forecast calls for high sixties and abundant sunshine. Today, the first day of spring, is grey and cold. Spring reminds us tomorrows are available every second of every day. She proves forgiveness and resurrection and new beginnings, can and will, live right along side the remainders of a long and dark winter. Our task is to look for the new life forcing its way out of the mud. It is up to us to learn to forgive and begin again. We must do this for others and, most importantly, for ourselves. Spring is a state of mind and she is always there, waiting to sprout her beautiful and hope filled buds.

Sleep is Not Easy for Me

Sleep used to be a given. I neither struggled to fall asleep, nor did I struggle to stay asleep. Sleep was like eating and seamlessly mingled together with the other, natural, pieces of my day. And then the fevers grew higher and hotter and when they finally broke I was left in a pool of sweat. The vomiting became so frequent, I feared choking in my sleep. The illness, the trauma, the anxiety, and the depression fought sleep and won in the end. This, previously, natural rhythm of my life just stopped. I failed to sleep for three solid years. I, valiantly, attempted to fall asleep, desperately trying to form good habits. I turned out the lights at the same time every night. I used breathing techniques and mediation tapes, drank teas, and swallowed melatonin. Nothing worked. Sleep was gone and I couldn’t get it back. 

Those years, without any sleep, were so rough they left lasting scars. One of the scars is the extreme anxiety that comes when I toss and turn for any amount of time. I replay those former days filled with agitation and a relentless need and want to just fall asleep. I barely functioned, certainly didn’t heal, and was teetering on the edge of survival. I was in a bucket without a bottom and one day I just couldn’t tread water any longer. Finally, with red, swollen, blood-shot eyes, and a body so frail and weak it could shatter into pieces with a single fall, I asked my doctor for help. 

I think sleep deprivation is one of the hardest struggles to admit. Sleep seems so simple. I am tired, so I sleep. And when this so-called easy, last moment of the day doesn’t come, it feels like a big, fat failure. And on top of the failure, it is painful and affects the entire body and mind. The shame that accompanies it is almost too unbearable to admit. The usual components and causes of sleep deprivation are depression and anxiety. Words that carry so much weight and are so stigmatized, we run from them at all costs. Some choose to believe these ailments don’t exist. Some choose to believe they are conditions of our mind and our own making. And some choose to believe they are modern, first world problems. The trouble with each of these theories is they further exacerbate the stigma and alienation and shame of sleep deprivation and depression. 

I speak from experience. These feelings are not a choice. For three years, I yelled, negotiated, and bargained with my head, urging it to just get it together and sleep. Positive thoughts were lost on my tired brain and heart and the more desperate and tired I became, the less I functioned. 

Judgement is cruel. It makes us feel like we are doing something wrong and contributing negatively to our own lives. When in reality, most of us, are doing the best we can. I don’t deny there are a number of factors that are instrumental when it comes to the complex world of depression, anxiety, and sleep disorders. Just as there are a slew of different causes, there are also a slew of different treatments. Judging how we treat these painful feelings is what makes it so hard to walk into the doctor’s office and ask for help.

When I finally gained the courage and found the brave vulnerability to share my feelings and express I knew I didn’t feel quite right, I was met with compassion and understanding. I assure you, very few doctors judge such courage. In fact, they applaud it. And if one doctor does judge this brave act of admission as a personal failure or downfall, then move on to the next doctor. A doctor’s job is to do no harm and to only help and heal. Right away, my doctor prescribed me a sleeping pill that is used to treat deep physiological depression. It was a tough pill to swallow. As it made its way down my throat, I knew I was admitting a weakness, but, at the same time, I knew taking this pill and asking for help wasn’t weak, it was very, very brave. 

Last night, I didn’t sleep the entire night. I still carry a bit of trauma from these years of sleepless nights. I suffered the consequences of lying wide awake even though I was desperate for sleep, all day today. I was grouchy and irritable and tired. I still get a little bit scared that I still suffer from these deeply depressed wounds and can be a bit hard on myself. But, then I remember, my awareness and my admission are two effective tools to help heal these wounds. I try to breathe and remember, I found the bottom of the bucket and am no longer treading water. Sometimes, I fall a little bit too deep into the bucket’s swirling waters, but I know, now, how to climb out. I know it’s okay to ask for help. I know I am not weak. I know I am just dealing with feelings that can crush and end lives. And instead of allowing these feelings to hide behind a curtain, I choose to reveal them and pull away that curtain. 

Today, as hard as it was, showed me I am not longer afraid. I may not sleep one night and that can feel scary and worrisome, but I also know, I know how to ask, I know how to treat the lack of sleep, I know I will be okay, and, most importantly, I know all will be well. Days like today, remind me of how terrified I was of my own darkness and inadequacies. But in the end, I didn’t need to feel shame, nor did I need to feel inadequate. I tread the water, I found the bottom of the bucket, and I climbed out. It isn’t easy work, but its brave work and we all have a little bit of brave living behind the curtain.

The Hill and The Singing Hens

A few of my practice entries...

The Hill

There are only a few really difficult hills at the river where I walk Belle. One of these hills, the most treacherous, is avoidable. Most days, instead of choosing the alternate path, I accept its challenge. I like to live through and tackle the hard stuff and this hill is no exception. During this kind of hill climb, I feel each push of my chair, the burn rushing through my arms, and the jaws of defeat clenching tighter and tighter. And just as my shoulders feel disconnected from my body, I turn my wheels one last time, using any power I have left, and I am over the top and, once again, on flat land. The toughness eases over time, but that last push is always the hardest. 

I don’t really think about much as I push up this hill, other than keep going, almost there, and I wish Belle would stop pulling to the side to sniff. But, today was a bit different. I think the cold air helped drive my pace up the hill and as I pushed my last push, looked back in disbelief that I was finished with my climb so soon, I had a visual memory of a warm day last spring.

My friend, Austin, was with me on this day when a t-shirt was enough and sunglasses were mandatory. The first big hill we climbed, Austin was behind me and I checked to make sure he wasn’t pushing me with a bossy, “Hey, don’t push me.” And he responded, “I am not touching you!”

We finished the rest of the walk and towards the end we came to the hill. The really big hill. As we were about two thirds of the way up, Austin said, “This hill is tough. I really want to push you now.”  And before I could utter the beginning of no, don’t, he continued, “But I get it. I wouldn’t want anyone to push me either.”

Austin is tall and extremely athletic. I am not so tall and not very athletic. Austin is able-bodied and I use a wheelchair. On the outside, we are not the same, at all. But on the inside, the thing he taught me that day, without any hesitation on his part, is that on the inside we are all the same. Exactly the same. Our determination, our grit, our independence, our perseverance to get to the top of our own hills, it’s all the same. Our hills come in different forms, one might be a harder climb for some than for others, but the will to get to the top is the same. 

My pace may be slower and I may dread this hill and desperately want to give up mid-climb, but I am determined to get to the top. I hope I remember this story more often because it teaches me, though I may look different or have different abilities, I am the same as everyone else. I’m just trying to get to the top of my hill. 

This memory today was a moment of joy and gratitude, all mixed up in one. Sometimes the hardest climbs are the most rewarding. I go beyond my limitations and the real me, the one that lives inside this body, takes control and tells this body, yes you can make it to the top and you will make it to the top. 

The Singing Hens

It’s Friday night and with the anticipated end of the snow on the horizon, I chose House of Cards and a cozy night of rest. I want to be ready to meet spring with much enthusiasm. As I settled in for the evening, I sent a text message to the hens and asked a quick question about Instagram. The hens are my go-to social media gurus. Bridget, the youngest, responded to my question. Accompanying her response, was a short note . She shared she listened to the Dixie Chicks this week and it brought back a flood of memories for her. And then her message initiated a flood of tears from me. Earlier this week, Shania Twain was on The Chew. And just as Shania was introduced the tear ducts opened, the corners of my mouth turned upwards, and the happiest of tears poured out of my eyes, like a baptism of happy. 

You see, years ago, so many years that I still walked and Bridget still sat in a booster seat. The hens and I used to just drive around with the sunroof open, blaring Dixie Chicks and Shania Twain, and singing the lyrics of their songs like we were the back up singers to their bands. We drove through drive-thrus and ordered Vanilla Diet Cokes, pressed pause, collected our Diet Cokes, pressed play, and drove away, singing. I can’t even remember if we had a destination other than a drive-thru to get a drink. 

A lot of the work I do with mindfulness and awareness and stillness suggests the past is like the wake left behind a boat. The wake stays behind and the boat moves forward. But, every once in a while, there is a bit of the past I want to scoop out of the water and pull onto the boat. This kind of memory isn’t just the past, it is a chapter that contributes to the story that is my life. 

There are smiles on our faces and then there are the smiles only the heart can birth. Driving around with these girls, sunroof open, and loudly singing is a part of my past I don’t ever want to leave behind. I think its perfectly okay to collect the good stuff and carry it along the ride. It’s what gets us through the hard stuff. And when I feel stuck and confined, I pull out this chapter and remember the days when we didn’t have to be anywhere but with each other, singing our song. 

Life moves along and there are always more memories to create and live and breathe. But, I’m taking this moment with me and not letting it go for anything. A moment in time like this teaches me the power of letting go, feeling the sunshine on my face, and the importance of, simply, spending time  with the people I love. 

I had no idea these singing, dimple faced girls would lift me up so highly when I needed it most, so many years later. They are the most beautiful adults now and I can’t help but think of the loving and brilliant mark they left on my past, leave on my present, and will leave on my future. 

So, my message is this...take from your past what is good and warm and feeds you. Take it and water it and let it grow. 

The hill. It takes practice.

Forty Days

I've been quiet lately. I initiated a life change and decided to practice this change before fully diving into this new way of life. I thought with enough practice I would suddenly feel ready to begin my new life change. Well, this isn’t how it works. I know, from experience, I must begin before I am ready. Just begin. So here it is the beginning. Day one.

The past year I decided to take a fun break. Not step away from life or ritual, but allow for more fun. I finally was well after years of illness and I decided to just let go for a bit and fill my calendar with dinners and walks with friends and my mom, Saturday afternoon chats with my dad before football games, and many other activities that popped up that I grew so accustomed to declining for so long. The fun felt good. It was nice to learn to balance fun on my life scale. But, a few months ago, I started to get an itch. An itch to sit still, again. 

I’m not one to paint a rosy picture over ugliness that life can be sometimes, instead I look at the ugly straight on and work to transcend it. And one of the good things about this wheelchair, among all of the bad and hard, is that I am forced to sit still, quite a bit. And forced to still before I am ever ready. This sitting down and sitting still quiets my mind and teaches me to drown out the noise. Without this stillness, I feel lost and out of control. 

Before my injury, I was what I call a doer. I always used the catch phrase, I’m so busy. My life is so busy. Busy can be a bit of an obsession and a way I thought I should live. Busy can sometimes be mistaken for living. But it isn’t. It’s just moving from one thing to the next without really thinking or feeling or sitting still long enough to gain insight from the momentum. I started to feel this busy feeling creep up over the last year and I didn’t like it. And while I appreciate and love to incorporate a bit of fun, I also learned the importance of the quiet and the stillness. I feel like I always knew the importance of the stillness, but, once again, I learned the same lesson all over again. 

In this effort to start again, I challenged myself to forty days of a list of new rituals. I added and changed meditations. I renewed my meditation space. I organized my nutrition goals and rearranged my day so it is filled with more silence. And finally, I decided to notice little moments of inspiration and gratitude and joy. And not just notice them, really take them in and think about them and, once again, make inspiration and gratitude and joy a practice. I never really let up my practice completely, but I definitely skipped it a few days and felt the dryness and emptiness that came with the missed practice. I think the best use of this practice of finding the light is when it is found in the darkest of situations. So, I don’t want to paint that rosy picture. I just want to find the moon after I stare into the darkness for a while. Because perfection isn’t the goal. Peace is the goal. Peace when the waves are rough and peace when the waters are calm. This kind of peace only comes with practice and sitting still. 

So, I start today, yet again, with a renewed forty days of practice. This isn’t a significant day, just the day I decided to begin before I am ready. I hope this will encourage you to take a bit of time to be still and silent. Even just five minutes. When I feel lost and out of practice and out of sorts, I start with five minutes of quiet. I set the timer on my phone and I sit quietly until it alarms. This simple few minutes jolts me back to where I belong. Just five minutes.

Leondard Cohen had become the poet laureate of those on the road, refusing to stick to any form of settling down, a “gypsy boy” who wouldn’t sit still within any of the expectations we brought to him. But, like many a wanderer, he seemed always to know that it’s only when you stop moving that you can be moved in some far deeper way (“Now I know why many men have stopped and wept,” he writes in an early poem, “Halfway between the loves they leave and seek, / And wondered if travel leads them anywhere”). 

-Pico Iyer, The Art of Stillness

ReelAbilities

Shared from Facebook and Instagram

Last evening, I attended an event celebrating sameness. Each of us, with different abilities, proved we are far more alike than different. When we let go of what divides us and focus on what unites us, we struggle to see any separateness at all. Our job, as humans, is to find the spark inside of our own selves and, fervently, work to ignite the same flame in another. Because when we all shine from our insides, together, we light up the whole world. A room full of people with different abilities doesn't glow because of difference, it glows because the light that shines from the heart and the soul can't be extinguished. We all dream. We all hope. We all conquer hard stuff. We all hurt. We all break. We all heal. And most importantly, we are all whole. Our outsides might come in all shapes and sizes and colors and abilities, but our insides come in one package. That package is whole and brilliant and full of love and wonder. Celebrate your light and use your dance to fan the flames of your neighbor's spark. We need our collective light to illuminate this, sometimes, dark and separate world. We need this light right now, not tomorrow. We need it right now. ‪#‎reelabilities‬@elizabethkmurphy @kurtyaeger

Kate's Room

Fear. I try to rid my life of this word, but the pesky emotion continues to resurface. No matter how many pages of, A Course in Miracles, I read or how many hours of Marianne Williamson lectures I hear, I can’t eliminate fear. I hear and read fear is not real. I read only love is real. And, while my heart knows this fact to be a true statement, my brain, my anxiety, and my chills who rapidly permeate my body during any uncomfortable moment, they tell me differently. And for the record, I do not mean the kind of fear that protects me from the dark alley way, but the fear that prevents me from new experiences or confines me and forces me to play it safe. 

Last Sunday, I faced this playing it safe fear. I am not sure how gracefully I accepted the challenge, but I silenced the don’t do it monsters. And, although I felt the tirelessly fluttering butterflies inside my stomach, I forged ahead, choosing hope over fear, one more time. 

It’s football season. Apparently, this means there are more than enough football games to be watched on any given day of the week. I am totally on board with the cute jerseys and delicious football snacks, but the whole watching the game part is kind of my weakness. Don’t get me wrong, I understand enough of the game, as one friend told me, and I can get as emotionally involved as I allow, but, all in all, this game’s complexity escapes me. I try. And when we all had season tickets to our city’s NFL team’s games, I really, really tried. I like to watch football, occasionally, and I, always, like to prepare the dips and sliders and spreads. Anyway, last Sunday, I drove to Kyle and Ashlea’s to watch football and eat food. 

The night before, as I was wrapped up in the food prep, Kyle, very delicately, requested we watch the game upstairs in the bonus room. And this means, I must be lifted out of my safety zone and carried up the large staircase located in the foyer that leads to the bonus room. Which, by the way, is the cutest black and white painted staircase you ever did see. Kyle’s request was genuine. Ashlea’s insistence that I am absolutely comfortable, was also genuine. And because the scrapes I hear on my driveway in the dead of winter are from Kyle’s shovel hitting the driveway's pavement and scooping up the snow and ice, I genuinely wanted to honor his request. Regardless, I knew whatever I chose, we, they would have made the best of it and there would never, ever be any hard feelings. In a word, they make me feel safe. Even with the fear that began to rumble, I knew I was safe, no matter what option I chose. 

I stayed busy preparing more food that four people could possibly eat. Cooking is my meditation and when I am nervous or afraid or joyful or grateful, I cook. It’s my go-to good feeling and escape. As I stirred the pan-fried onion dip and waited on the butter and hot sauce to mingle and marry together, finally creating the Buffalo Sauce, for the chicken sliders, I felt my long lost friend, fear, begin to adhere its ugly claws and puncture my happy space. Fear tried to overcome the inner confidence I felt for the two strong men tasked with carrying my half-broken body and wheelchair. Fear desperately tried to disrupt the genuine trust I feel for the the loyal friend and spotter, who on a side note, will dress down and educate any car valet because I am too slow or drunk girl knocking on the bar bathroom door that tries to hurry me. She will not only do this, but later say it just makes her want to cry because she knows how I must feel. I knew I was safe, but fear kept a tiny grip, reminding me of its presence every time I tried to escape. 

I enable this fear of being carried for a few reasons. I, at the ready, can easily recall horrible staircase carrying experiences. I combine these recollections with the knowing what is at stake awareness and these worries, easily and quickly, feed the fear. There is the dropping of my body and damaging it more than it all ready is fear. There is the guilt of the person who trips and falls while trying to carry me and ending up hurt himself fear And there is the whole, I am stuck up on a floor and I can’t get down without assistance fear. It’s just risky to carry an adult person, not matter what the strength level. Anyone can slip or trip and then all chaos begins. After I ran through the usual list of fears, I contemplated different strategies and landed on one that felt the safest and most reliable. One friend would head up the stairs first, with my chair, so the chair was waiting for my arrival, one would carry me, and Ashlea would follow behind, as the spotter. I was calm and cool about this plan, all would be well. Or, at least, that is what I told the fear. I’m not quite sure I believed in my own plan, until I, suddenly, let go of the safety net and just believed all would be well.

We said goodnight to the kids, Kate and Jack and Will. Ashlea and Kyle headed upstairs for the bedtime routine and a few minutes later, Kate snuck down the backstairs, plopped in my lap, and despite brushing her teeth asked that we pass her some chips. She didn’t heed the grown-ups warning of the dangers of eating chips post-teeth brushing. In fact, she said she really didn’t care much at all.  We sat and ate chips with Kate until Kyle came down and said to Kate, “Why are you eating chips, you all ready brushed your teeth?”. She looked back at us and grinned. 

A few moments later Kyle came back down the stairs. He was followed by Ashlea who had Kate in tow. Ashlea entered the room and informed us that Kate would be staying up for a little bit longer because she was older. We all ate the hot pepper raspberry soaked salami, the onion dip, the queso dip, the guacamole, and the shredded chicken sliders with blue cheese or ranch dressing slaw. Ashlea shared her peppermint Oreo cake balls. And after all of the anticipation, here it was, time to make the trek up the long and winding stairs. As soon as this next event was announced and I felt my stomach tie in a knot, Kate jumped up and exclaimed, with as much enthusiasm as you can imagine, “I am going to go and get ready for Sarah!”.

Good God. I totally forgot. I can’t tell you how many times Kate asks me and whispers in my ear, her hope, that one day, I will see her bedroom. She wishes I walked, just so I could see her room. Her only sadness about my wheelchair is that I can’t see her room. I totally and absolutely forgot about her wish and her dream. I, too wrapped up in my own fear, completely neglected to realize that taking a break from my own comfort zone, stepping outside of this blasted fear, might make someone else’s dream, a six-year old girl’s, who is sweeter than sweet, dream come true. And as one friend carried me like Pollyanna, and another ran ahead with the chair, and another spotted us all from behind, and I saw Kate dash to her room, I knew venturing on, while still feeling the faint clutches of fear, was the right thing to do. I knew whatever vulnerability I felt in those few moments, having my life in another’s hands and the obvious what I can’t do illuminated for all to see, it was all okay. Because at the top, a little bit of hope and an ocean of joy waited with a smile that could heal the whole world. 

My friend gently placed my body in my chair and I said, as everyone headed into the bonus room, except Ashlea and me, I have to go see Kate’s room. Seeing her room was the only thing on my mind, fear took a back seat, took a ride on the caboose, and left the station. 

I entered her pink room and with her tiny Vanna White hands, she showed me her beautiful dollhouse, built by her Noni and Pop Pop; her brand new American Girl Doll bed; her bed, with the hot pink tufted headboard and the pink polka-dotted comforter and matching pillows; her pink and white Christmas tree, and even her doll that poops gems or something. Still not sure what that doll does, but whatever. Kate loves the doll. Kate shared her space, her room, her little piece of the world that was all hers. She shared it with me. A dream she carried for so long, to simply share a part of her little self I didn't have the ability to see. And then, the piece de resistance, she wrapped her tiny body, dressed in Christmas pajamas, in her hot-pink robe, tied the waste tie, and slid her feet into her hot pink slippers. Ashlea pointed at the robe to make sure I noticed and said, “Isn’t is great to be six?”. 

Yes, it’s pretty fantastic to be six. It’s pretty fantastic to be innocent enough to want your mom’s friend, the one who can’t walk, to simply visit your room for a night and have it make your whole world. And it’s even more fantastic to be that friend, who let go of her ridiculous fear, for five minutes, to make such a simple, but ever so important dream come true. Making this dream really didn’t take much from me. Just a tad bit of vulnerability, a smidgen of I am scared, but I am going to do it anyway, an arm around the strong neck of a trusted friend, the reassurance of another friend carrying my chair, and another friend, well sister, spotting the whole way up combined with a little bit of hope that we all make it to the top safely. 

This is it. This is the whole point to this life thing we all do, day in and day out. We aren’t here to be perfect or right or win every time. We are here to serve. We are here to let go of playing it safe and take the damn chance. Because, seriously, we may think we are overcoming a fear just for ourselves, but in the end, this simple act of looking fear in the face and saying, I raise you, you beast, and I am going to go ahead anyway, makes dreams come true. Not just our dreams, because, yes, each time I reach the top of a staircase or let go and allow others to see me for who I truly am, I make my own dreams of honesty and genuineness and love come true. But, making someone else’s dream come true, making a little girl’s dream come true, who never gives up or even thinks her dream won’t come true one day, well that’s more than I could, ever, ever hope for or imagine. Let go, despite the fear. Rely on others to carry you, rely on your best friend to spot you, whatever you need to do, do it to make it to the top because you never know what waits. I know now, from experience, trust me. Hope stands up there on top of the stairs of fear, love beckons in her pink robe, and smiles her biggest and warmest smile while welcoming you into her innocent, fearless world of dreams. And I promise you, the view is spectacular. 

Kate's room.

For the Love of the Tears

A few weeks ago, I whizzed around Whole Foods, basket on my lap, sunglasses still on my eyes, unconcerned with anything other than the next item on my list, and stranger walked right up to me, put his hand on my shoulder and asked, “How do you keep moving forward even though your life is so awful?”.

I sat stunned and speechless. My cheeks felt hot and red and my hand trembled when I reached to remove my sunglasses. I pulled off the glasses, looked this stranger right in the eyes, forced the corners of my mouth to form a huge, toothy grin, and replied, “Well, I just choose not to focus on the awful parts. I am so late, I need to run.” And with that ridiculous response, I found the closest check-out line and sped out of the store.

His question threw me. But, even more so, my answer infuriated me. I grasped the hand controls in my car, pulled out of the parking lot, and waited, in a daze, at the stop sign until another car honked at me to move forward. My skin crawled and my heart raced. Tears seeped through my large, protective eye wear. Not even my giant aviator glasses could protect the affect his question and my nonchalant answer had on me. 

As I continued to drive, I watched a memory play out so clearly in my mind it was like a movie on a gigantic screen. I watched as I sat in a hospital wheelchair, not the sleek, light as a feather version I have now, but the heavy, awkward, metal version hospitals use, and I wore pajamas and a hard, plastic, turtle shell brace over my t-shirt. My friend stood next to me and we waited for an elevator to arrive. The top of the brace encroached on my neck and I reached up to push it down. The small force of this adjustment caused me to wince in pain because of the pressure the shift put on my broken ribs. I clinched my fists, closed my eyes, and took a long, deep breath, my new method to overcome these new and sudden urges of excruciating pain. My friend leaned forward, placed his hands on my wheels, and, with great concern, asked, “Are you okay? Are you sure you want to go outside?”. “Yes.”, I replied. He stood back and then said, “You know, I am really impressed with how you are taking all of this in stride.” I blankly smiled, and pretended to agree.

I knew I didn’t agree with his comment, but to be fair, it is what I allowed everyone around me to see. I acted like all of the pain and the heartache were just fine and I was fine. Fine, fine, fine. It became my favorite word. I’m fine. It’s fine. It’s all fine. The truth was and is though, it isn’t fine, it isn’t all okay, and I am not fine all of the time. Just as a I lied to my friend in that moment at the elevator, fourteen years later, I lied to the stranger in the grocery store. With my flashy smile and hurried attitude and brisk answer, I basically lied again and said, “Yes, I am okay, just fine.”

I cry a little bit each day. Still, after all of these years, there are parts of this life I can’t handle or take in stride. I know enough now, though, to know these moments of sadness aren’t shameful or scary, they are just part of the adventure. The definition of the word adventure when used as a noun is an unusual and exciting, typically hazardous, experience or activity. And as a verb, adventure means to engage in hazardous and exciting activity, especially the exploration of unknown territory. A word carrying this much weight and this much of the unknown and uncertainty, certainly doesn’t require a taking it all in stride attitude. This kind of life challenge requires tears and scrapes and bruises and falls. Adventure requires the tough stuff, the vulnerability of the tears and the awe. Adventure requires resilience and an intimate relationship with fear in order to venture forward on the long, hard walk through the woods of the unknown. When the night sky is black, the adventurer relies on the glowing light of the moon, and knows enough to continue on until the sun kisses the edges of the horizon and lights his way again. 

Each day is like this walk through the woods of the unknown. There are awful parts and really great parts. Fear grasps my spirit and instead of running from fear, I allow fear to pass through me and really feel fear. I can’t conquer fear until I know what it feels like. I can’t wipe the tears until I allow them to flow. Feeling my feelings, really feeling the sadness as much as I feel the joy, is what gives me true freedom. Taking it all in stride is just an avoidance of these feelings. I don’t need to be the girl who feels nothing to be brave. I am the girl who feels everything and is brave because of it. I face the tears with as much enthusiasm as I face the laughter. Both extremes feed my soul and propel my spirit. The exploration of the unknown, for me, is a bath in the pool of vulnerability and realness. I don’t want to live in a world anymore where I am afraid to feel. I want to be able to say to that stranger in the store, “Yep, my life can be awful at times, maybe even for a whole day or an entire week, but it can also be really, really great at times. And the best part is I am on board for all of it. I am okay with the awful. It’s my life, my adventure, and the awful comes along for the ride. Don’t feel sorry for me though. You have a little bit of awful in your life, too. You will discover your unknown. Your tears will wash your stride away and teach you dance along with all of the rhythms of life. You will fall. You will get up and you will keep going. You will know your awful and you will learn to love it because it is just a part of your adventure.”

Happy New Year. I resolve to see my tears as marks of beauty. I hope you will too.

This photo was taken the week before Christmas as we headed out to celebrate a dear friend’s birthday. It’s the perfect juxtaposition of the awful and the great. Putting on boots or any shoe can take so much time out of my day. It really is awful to have something that used to take seconds take upwards of twenty minutes. But, it also really great to rely on my leftover dancer flexibility to help speed up the process. I might end up zipping the bootie in the car, on the way to dinner, but I rise to the challenge. One more bump in the road, one more tear, and one more smile. It’s just all part of the adventure.