tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84965912024-03-13T04:27:55.078-06:00A Thousand JoysMy Life Ever OrdinaryEEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.comBlogger307125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-20636510711871961862011-10-25T11:46:00.000-06:002011-10-25T00:01:19.341-06:00Annual DisorientationThis post is a repeat of last October and then the October before that, but I can't help it. I cycle through this emotion each year that I live in Arizona. It's my SAD. But every fall, I become disoriented in both time and space with the static weather. I'm still running my air-conditioner even though The Simpson's Halloween specials are running during the 10-o'clock hour. <br />
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At no other time of the year does the shimmering heat of this city in the sun bother me. I soldier through the stickiness of late July and August with the best of them and a smile on my face. But just as everyone else is thinking of hot apple cider, fall leaves and pumpkin donuts, I'm thinking, "Holy shit, why is the pool closed!?" I still operate as if it is summer, but it's actually nearly November and autumn is firmly in place.</div>
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CEWG saw fall leaves for the first time when we were in Virginia last week for Roommate Barbara's wedding. We walked outside on a drizzly day and she saw the orange leaves floating along in the gutter. A beautiful red maple caused her to shout, "Look, Mommy, that tree is on fire!" Autumn is my favorite time of year. I love the smells of wet leaves, damp earth, the chill in the air as the sun sets earlier and nights grow longer. The smell of woodsmoke curling through the trees bringing memories of marshmallows, cold noses and frost on a windowpane.</div>
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Every year, the holidays sneak up on me. I have elaborate plans to decorate, bake, craft and carve, but every year, as I continue to sweat my way through November, I forget because <i>it still feels like August</i> and suddenly, it is too late. This year, it will be different. I am going to try to put effort into making the season one to be jolly, to hold those I love close, to find something to celebrate in a big way, to remember to turn my face up to the blinding sun and say a prayer of thanks that despite 90-degree heat through November, at least I don't have to scrape ice off my windshield in the morning.</div>
</div>EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-74459805036737162472011-10-24T23:59:00.000-06:002011-10-25T00:01:33.287-06:00Inside and OutA very dear friend has recently introduced me to the idea of inside clothes and I have embraced it wholeheartedly. <br />
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The idea of different clothes for different things isn't a completely new idea. Growing up, we had a strict dress code that required dress clothes--longer skirts or dress pants, nice shoes, blouses... So every day, coming home, we put on play clothes--standard jeans, t-shirts, tennis shoes. My parents also changed when they came home. Ties exchanged in favor of Periodic Table shirts, pantyhose shed for socks and sneakers. But it was never clothes only meant for inside, not to be seen by others outside your family.<br />
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The idea of inside clothes is completely different than simply having dress clothes vs play clothes. Inside clothes are lounge clothes--soft shirts, knit pants. Not sleepwear, exactly, but not something you'd wear out in public. Only those closest to you get to see your inside clothes. Inside clothes are your private persona, your most intimate wear.<br />
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I've dug out some old comfortable clothes (as well as purchasing some new ones). As soon as I get home, I put on my inside clothes to vacuum, cook, nap, paint, play or write. If I go out to run an errand, I change--even if it's changing into casual clothes. When I get return home, I immediately put my inside clothes back on. I wear inside clothes several days in a row before washing them. Who cares if they smell like last night's dinner?<br />
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I like the idea of inside and outside. A public me and a private me, a comfortable persona that exists underneath the skirts and high heels of the office. I do often think of clothes as a form of protection. I dress a certain way to invoke a certain image, but every so often, it's good to remember just me. To shed that external skin of appearance and take a deep breath to just exhale. The inside me in my inside clothes can relax enough to know just where I am at this moment in time, even if it's in lounge pants. <br />
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<br />EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-62772672387399806002011-09-26T13:46:00.000-06:002011-09-26T13:46:00.379-06:00Taking CareRecently, someone posed the question, "How do you take care of yourself?"<br />
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The first thought that popped in my head was "work." <br />
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And I realized that it's true. Work is a way for me to take care of myself. Not every day, of course. Some days are exhausting and hard, but eight mornings out of ten, I wake up excited and ready to go to work.<br />
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I feel privileged that I have a job I love. I know not everyone does. I feel so thankful that I do what I do and with whom I do it. I'm honored to be surrounded by individuals who have dedicated their lives to helping others. I forget, sometimes, that any one of them could be working a better job, making more money in the private sector and yet, here they are, next to me, striving to help people help themselves.<br />
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How fortunate I am.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-29885355727121963332011-09-25T11:55:00.002-06:002011-09-25T11:55:50.603-06:00Dirty, BeautifulI love seeing my daughter dirty. <br />
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I love when she has dirty, bare feet and flushed cheeks, slightly damp sweaty hair, smelling like the outside. The joys of childhood run deep and it is a beautiful thing to watch her unselfconsciously exist in this magical moment of complete freedom.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-37806527253610692832011-09-18T23:44:00.001-06:002011-09-18T23:44:28.009-06:00Vocabulary LessonThe last few days, I've been caught up in reading a popular YA trilogy about war and revolution in a futuristic time. It's nothing mind blowing and it's a quick, easy read, but I am absorbed in the story line. When I get focused on a good book, I have a hard time doing anything else but sitting and reading. In fact, even as I sit here, the other part of my mind's eye is pulling me towards my Nook, to rush through whatever I am doing, asking to refocus on the story, to reach the conclusion sooner rather than later. It's a good thing that I'm an incredibly fast reader (my one skill) otherwise, I'd be bogged down for weeks every time I opened a book.<br />
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But as I started the third book last night, a word I see every day jumped out at me on the first page.<br />
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<i>Refugee</i>.<br />
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Staring at me. And for a minute, I was overwhelmed at the meaning of that word.<br />
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I know what it means. Every day, I say the word refugee, see it written a thousand times. At least once a week, I'm explaining to a stranger the nature of my work, the individuals whose lives I am privileged to be a part of, even for a brief moment. The weight of that word is so heavy. War. Pain. Loss. Grief. Dehumanized. Fear. Desperation. Flight. I live in a world of privilege where I am allowed to look how I want, speak the language I know, practice my religion how I see fit. I've seen poverty, sadness but truly, I don't know what it means to lose everything.<br />
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The individuals I have met have endured the most horrific things imaginable. Wars, sometimes continuous over decades, wars that never end, just a different group in power. Persecution because of their ethnic group, their language, their religious beliefs. Watching people die. Rape. Tortured for what they know, or don't know. Aggressors stripping them of what makes them human. Fleeing what they knew, leaving behind homes, towns, family members and friends, knowing they will never ever go back. Illness in camps. Deaths of children from diseases that no longer exist in other parts of the world. Discrimination in their nation of asylum because they look different--their skin is darker, their accent is odd. Arrests, interrogations simply because they don't quite fit into the norm. Always on the run, the defensive, waiting for the next blow. Never quite being safe.<br />
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Every story unique, every story different, but somehow, every story the same. Heartbreaking.<br />
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<i>Refugee</i>.<br />
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The weight of that word is so heavy. Strength. Resilience. Safety. Forward. Ahead. Future. Hope. People come here, sometimes with one bag, holding the only belongings that anchor them to this world. They come here with only the family they have left. Or, they come here alone, leaving their families behind. They pick up the pieces of their lives as best they can and keep walking forward because it's all they can do. Sometimes, they do it for themselves. Sometimes they do it for their children. And sometimes, once they get here, they can't do it at all. They are finally safe and that's when they give up, go under and just let go.<br />
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I know most of my clients would think I'm ridiculous for having these overwrought thoughts about them and their experiences. <i>"I'm just here. I do what I have to do. You would, too."</i> I am certain that several of my colleagues who were refugees themselves, if they ever read this, would outright laugh at my wonderment at their experience. <i> "You just have no idea how the rest of the world is. This is how it is."</i><br />
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But truly, the meaning of the word refugee is so far beyond my comprehension of reality, that when I really stop to think about it, really dwell on what that would mean for me, now, to become that word, to put myself in their shoes, I don't know that I would be one who made it. I mean, I white whine when I'm told the restaurant I'm dining in is out of ranch dressing. How could I possibly deal with the reality of fleeing for my life? <br />
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I'm humbled to know these individuals, my clients, my coworkers, my friends. Their lives are a testament to the sheer will of humans to survive. Their lives are a reminder to give thanks for what I have and continue to give back to those who have not.<br />
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>"You are forgiven for your happiness and your successes only if you generously consent to share them."</i></span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: Times, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><i>--Albert Camus</i></span><br />
<br />EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-73498502020266646952011-09-15T12:27:00.000-06:002011-09-15T13:17:31.544-06:00RewritingBefore CEWG was born and during the time I stayed home with her, I wrote. A lot. Short stories, novellas, full novels, tiny memoirs. In ABQ, I had a fantastic group of writer friends and each week, we came together to read each other's stories, share ideas and laugh about bad plot points.<br />
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But after moving to the Valley of the Sun, leaving my writing group, rejoining the workforce and juggling mothering and working meant all that writing went by the wayside. <br />
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Except it shouldn't have. <br />
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I have no other creative outlet. In fact, I would argue that I'm not a creative person at all. I can't paint, draw, sketch, play an instrument, read music, or sew. I blame my private school upbringing where there was no art class or opportunity to stretch oneself creatively. However, I can write. But even in my writing, I find that I'm not particularly creative. I've reconciled myself to the idea that I lack an artist's soul.<br />
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Even so, it's nice sometimes to sit down and have actually done something with my time. Not just worked to produce education, knowledge or behavior change as in my day-to-day work, but actually have a product, something I can hold, wave about as proof of my existence. <i>See world, here I am, I am real. </i><br />
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I have no excuse for not sitting myself down at least once a week and just doing it. The Doctor's nighttime work schedule means I have ample evening time to write after CEWG is in bed. It's just a matter of choosing to put words on paper. So one night a week, I am going to start choosing to write instead of reading celebrity gossip websites, lingering on Facebook and doing work.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-87577685440770057072011-09-11T14:42:00.002-06:002011-09-11T14:42:30.035-06:00Secret FulfillmentI love being domesticated. Leisurely weekends, cleaning, cooking and making my house a home are my favorite weekends. It is my secret fulfillment to center myself around my home, even for just one day a week.<br />
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Busy weekends are enjoyable, of course--catching up with old friends, dinners out, nights out, play dates and pools. But I love Sundays when I wake up slowly, drink coffee around the house in my pajamas, catch up on reading. I sort the mail in my bare feet, plan out my menu, make lists of what I need to do.<br />
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I love to do the wash, make the bed with clean white sheets, put out fresh towels for the week.<br />
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I wear my inside clothes all day, put on my apron and cook meals for both tonight and later in the week.<br />
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There is something sacred about a day of creating order in preparation for the chaos of the week, knowing that as the busy days march forward, I have groceries stocked in the refrigerator, my counters are clean and I am ready to start the week.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-77695543638923085242011-08-31T23:00:00.000-06:002011-09-03T09:54:43.337-06:00Forever FriendsEvery so often, we meet people in this world who change our lives in a real way. Or maybe, it's that you have friends who are with you during life-changing periods of your life and they forever remain tied to that person you were as you were becoming who you are.<br />
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I have several of these friends, women who stood by me, walked with me and held my hands during critical points of my life. They have my secrets in their hearts, they know my soul. Some of them are still my friends, some still flit at the edge of my friendship circle, while others have wandered out of my life entirely.<br />
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But every so often, one of them returns. This past weekend, one of these women came back to me. From the moment I met LC, I knew we would be friends of the truest kind. But on Saturday, when I saw her name flash up on my phone for the first time in years, for a split-second, I worried that her voice would be different, that I somehow wouldn't recognize her, that the years which have passed would have altered us so much we would have nothing to share.<br />
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I couldn't have been more wrong.
Her laugh was the same. Her smile. We were seven years older, but there she was, standing in front of me, seemingly unchanged. Wiser, perhaps by another degree or two. But still the same girl who I trekked across a foreign country to visit, who shared whispered hopes and understood darkest fears. We couldn't keep our arms by our sides, hiking side-by-side, arms around each other, making our gait awkward, but still we moved forward.<br />
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Moments like these makes me remember how fortunate I am in the realm of friendship. How lucky I am to have a host of women who touch me, who love me tenderly and toughly, who simply <i>know</i> me.
Thank you, my friends, far and wide, for loving me and all of my numerous imperfections.<br />
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Thank you for standing by me, for holding my hand, listening to my words, hearing me. It has been a privilege walking this journey of life, sharing my joys.<br />
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Thank you.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-5717969777197127402011-05-08T11:04:00.005-06:002011-05-08T11:58:22.420-06:00Mother's Day the World OverI marvel at the love a mother has for her child. When she puts her sticky hand in mine to walk across the street, I get a catch in my throat. When she snuggles herself up against my chest and puts her head under my chin, the smell of her hair brings a wave of joy and sorrow surging through my chest.<br /><br />Motherloving is letting go, slowly, surely. I don't want to keep my daughter from growing up. I want to see her experience climbing a tree, riding a bike, reading, the joy of girlhood friends, the awkward braces/glasses years, and eventually, I want her to experience the love of a man and to know how to cherish someone in return. <br /><br />And, yes, I want her to be a mother someday because only then can she ever truly understand how much I love her, truly understand what I would do for her. It's selfish, of course, but I think all mothers must feel that way--to have our daughters understand why we do what we do and to know that it's always meant out of love.<br /><br /> But sometimes--<span style="font-style:italic;">no, all the time</span>--I want her to do her growing up a little more slowly.<br /><br />Why is childhood the shortest time of our lives? Why must we power through these magical toddler years of "Why" and "How" and "I love yous" whispered into my ears before bed. I want her to stay three for two more years to soak up all that being three means. And I'm fairly positive I'll feel the same way about four, five, six, ten, fourteen and beyond.<br /><br />But this day always makes me think of mothers around the world, too. Until I became a mother and had a taste of motherlove, I had no concept of how much love is in the world. When we hear of current events and news around the the world, it's tragedies--bombs, war, stealth, killing. What we don't hear enough of is the day-to-day love that exists around the world because we are all humans and, when it comes right down to it, motherlove is the same the world over. Every Mother's Day, newpapers run human interest pieces about motherhood around the world to remind us that love does exist everywhere and is in everything--even the places (and the people) seemingly most forsaken by both God and man.<br /><br />Many of the women I work with have lost babies and children during the course of their lives. We all know the statistics of neonatal, infant and child mortality rates. We know that it is a dangerous occupation around the world to be a child. But nothing is like hearing a story from the mouth of the mother. Then it becomes real. There is suddenly a name on the tongue to one of those 105.56 per 1000 live births that died last year in Somali. <br /><br />Tragic stories of broken children and broken mothers who healed, but only partially, whose hearts are still raw, even all these years and miles passed. Children shouldn't die before mothers. Mothers' hearts are already exposed to the world at large. We should never have to feel that unnatural pain, that loss that rips a woman's already-exposed heart out of her chest. <br /><br />Today is the day that I think of all mothers and rejoice that we are blessed enough to feel this motherlove and I hope for the day that will never come that mothers around the world need not fear the pain of losing a child.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-21188062787838788602011-03-29T20:35:00.004-07:002011-04-07T22:36:35.437-06:00Sun-Baked WoodToday, I was sitting outside on the picnic tables at work with (soon-to-be) NewYorkRachel and I kept smelling this familiar scent. I couldn't put my finger on what it was, but I definitely associated the smell with summer. And then it dawned on me. It was the smell of sun-baked wood, a scent I strongly associate with the beach.<br /><br />Growing up, we used to spend weeks at the Outer Banks. I am unable to even remember a summer that I didn't go to the beach. My earliest summer memory is when I was four, my mother was pregnant and we spent a good portion of the summer at the beach. I remember my mother's red and white maternity bathing suit, the tang of the salt water and the grainy sand between my toes.<br /><br />The sounds and smells of summer stick with me. Beach houses in the Outer Banks are made of wood, weathered over time and in the middle of summer day, smell exactly like the picnic table, this indescribable smell of wood and sunshine.<br /><br />I've been living out West, away from home, for almost 7 years. It's a long time to be away from the smells I grew up with. But sometimes, I still wake up in the morning, sun streaming through the shades, the call of a morning bird piercing the air and for a split-second, I'm 11-years old again, waking up to the indescribable joy of a summer day yawning before me.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-38566477820552489912010-12-22T22:08:00.004-07:002010-12-22T23:25:31.711-07:00Silent NightsThis poem was on The Writer's Almanac yesterday and it captured the heartache and beauty of Christmas for me. <br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">Noël</span><br />by Anne Porter<br /><span style="font-style:italic;"><br />When snow is shaken<br />From the balsam trees<br />And they're cut down<br />And brought into our houses<br /><br />When clustered sparks<br />Of many-colored fire<br />Appear at night<br />In ordinary windows<br /><br />We hear and sing<br />The customary carols<br /><br />They bring us ragged miracles<br />And hay and candles<br />And flowering weeds of poetry<br />That are loved all the more<br />Because they are so common<br /><br />But there are carols<br />That carry phrases<br />Of the haunting music<br />Of the other world<br />A music wild and dangerous<br />As a prophet's message<br /><br />Or the fresh truth of children<br />Who though they come to us<br />From our own bodies<br /><br />Are altogether new<br />With their small limbs<br />And birdlike voices<br /><br />They look at us<br />With their clear eyes<br />And ask the piercing questions<br />God alone can answer.</span><br /><br />As an adult, Christmas brings twinges of bittersweet with the joy. Those memories of years past, the excitement of childhood, the anticipation, the magic that comes with the smell of a pine tree and the twinkle of lights. Christmas, the story of Christ (even though, yes, I know that Jesus' birth didn't actually occur in the angelic manner described in Silent Night), resonates with me in an unexplainable way. Perhaps because now, I cringe at the thought of riding a donkey at any point during pregnancy, much less giving birth on a pile of dirty hay. Perhaps because I already know the ending of the story that begins with a manger and a star but closes with a night of agony on a cross; my mother's heart hurts for Mary and what awaits her. <br /><br />My favorite Bible verse of all time speaks to me as a mother. I think about Mary, tired, sweaty, bleeding, holding a tiny, red, screaming infant in her arms, wondering if <span style="font-style:italic;">this</span> was her miracle. (I also wonder, at times, if she felt a little cheated after all that angel build up.) Like most women in the Bible, Mary isn't much more than a bit player. I mean, yes she is Virgin Birth, but aside from being cherished for her virginity and a vessel for the Christ-child, she really isn't much more than a silent witness to the acts of her son. But the verse....makes her so....real.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;"> "But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart." (Luke 2:19)</span><br /><br />These words make me pause every time I read them, but especially during this time of year. What am I missing in the life of my child? What am I neglecting to treasure as I rush around to get through the day? This time of year, especially this verse read in the same breath as the Christmas story, reminds me to linger, to slow down, to listen, to treasure and to ponder the joys and wonder of my child because before long, all I will have are these few moments, treasured in my heart and my memories.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-8940983994499759512010-11-13T21:00:00.000-07:002010-11-14T16:55:36.272-07:00PeacefulThe last few days have been filled with joy and peace. Some days, I find my mothering groove so much easier than other; the last few days, this parenting thing has flowed naturally. <br /><br />Today was a simple day. We played in the morning together and in the afternoon, we went to the library, park and grocery store. We made muffins at night, breaking the eggs and stirring the batter together. She lined the muffin tin with papers, counting up to twelve and helped spoon the batter (taking little licks along the way). We read Madeleine books and laughed as Miss Clavel ran fast and faster before I tucked her in bed with a kiss.<br /><br />I love days like today, when peace flows around. I have patience and hold my temper, which is something I don't always do well.<br /><br />Mothering is such a tremendous joy and a terrifying job. Small sticky hands hold mine, big eyes look up at me full of trust and love and I know that somehow, I will fail her because all parents fail their children somehow, someway because we are only human. I can only hope that I do right by my child to the best of my ability. I hope that I can lead her and teach her how to be a kind person, a compassionate person, a person who knows that she is worthy of love and respect.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-25317873435424236372010-11-06T10:14:00.007-07:002010-11-07T10:29:56.723-07:00If I Was Stronger Than IFive years ago, I began a healing process from an experience that forever has altered the course of my life, both emotionally and physically. Although it has been five years and I have found peace, my soul still searches for sunshine and forgiveness on this day. <br /><br />Last year, on this day, another life-changing experience occurred. I am still struggling with the ramifications of another's betrayal, still working to trust, to forgive even when I know I don't deserve to ask for it. I don't know if I will come out of this experience intact as a person whole. <br /><br />How does one piece this puzzle back together? How do you move forward if you aren't even certain that moving forward is what should happen? How does one even decide to contemplate making a choice?<br /><br />If I was stronger then I'd decide to make that choice. But instead, I'm stalled out like a car on the side of the freeway, just sitting on the exit ramp, holding a discourse alone in my head.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-75710657796448893872010-10-21T20:41:00.003-06:002010-10-21T21:28:47.665-06:00My Own GoodnessOriginally, the whole idea of writing out my worst faults and thoughts about myself was to provide a foil for my goodness. I was going to write a list of all the things about me that are good and wonderful and, ultimately walk away celebrating who I am and where I am going.<br /><br />Except this day, this week, this month, this year it seems I'm having a hard time saying those positive attributes about myself. Not that I'm dwelling on my negatives or don't realize my own goodness, just that speaking what I think is worthy about myself out loud suddenly makes me feel very self-conscious. And uncomfortable.<br /><br />Ironic, of course, because I'm generally not a self-conscious person. In fact, I would say I tend towards brashness and overconfidence (again, to a fault), not modesty.<br /><br />Or perhaps I'm learning that I don't need to speak my goodness out loud. I know those things. I don't need to hear them, I don't need to write them because I am them. I am the good as well as the bad. Everyone is, really. We have to have the bad with the good to make up the ying and the yang, the two sides of the coin, the comedy and the tragedy. I can't be one without the other. Together, they make me whole.<br /><br />I've been reflecting on my list of failings over the last week. I realized, as I read and reread them, that many of these have been my failings for years. They are nothing new. And most of them probably aren't going to change much. I can turn over a new leaf, try harder to be a better person, give up my vices (and I try I will), but the reality is I am who I am. I've spent nearly 30 years becoming this individual and it's unlikely that the next 30 years is going to yield dramatic change to the basic person I am.<br /><br />So where to from here? How do I reconcile my failings and faults, know they may not change, but continue to strive to be the person whom I wish to be, a person who is better/kinder/stronger/smarter than I am right now?<br /><br />Perhaps I just do it. I be the better person, choose the harder path and hope that with each passing day, I'll grow, change, stretch into the woman I know I am.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-38022334128872915242010-10-13T21:48:00.004-06:002010-10-21T21:16:34.729-06:00My Own FailingsI belittle others.<br />I am easily distracted.<br />I railroad conversations.<br />I cheat.<br />I don't care enough about those around me.<br />I am selfish.<br />I lie instead of telling the truth.<br />I have inflated self-esteem.<br />I turn a blind eye to what I could help.<br />I steal what does not belong to me.<br />I have intentionally hurt those whom I love.<br />I lose patience quickly.<br />I act like 24 even though I am closer to 34.<br />I drink too much..<br />I smoke and lie about it.<br />I work too much.<br />I am arrogant.<br />I make poor decisions.<br />I am not grateful enough for my blessings.<br /><br />Seeing my flaws laid out in black and white is rather shocking. Like anyone, I don't like to look at my failures in the harsh light. Can I change these, this list of who I am? Can I become a better person? Or are these failings ingrained in who I am and as much a part of me as my brown eyes and wavy hair? Things I can change, but the truth is there, always underlying, simply suppressed for the time being, the way my brown eyes can become blue with colored contacts and my hair straight with a brush and dryer.<br /><br />It's not a pleasant thought, that we don't really become better people, that human failure haunts all of us until we die.<br /><br />But possibly, being honest about one's flaws means being honest about one's humanness. And being honest about humanness raises an awareness of ourselves to work towards being better, to suppressing our innate flaws, to straightening our hair in hopes of fooling everyone around us. Except ourselves.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-16980124853491740102010-09-10T14:54:00.004-06:002010-09-10T20:41:46.856-06:00Lucky, Lucky MeOn my drive into work this morning, I was chitchatting with a good friend many miles away. She is about to embark on a major life change and I was lucky enough to be sharing both her abounding joy and smidgen of fear. <br /><br />I started thinking about my own transitions in life. We've lived in PHX now for well over a year and I'm rounding my one-year anniversary of my job. My life has become routine and settled after years of transition. In three years, we moved twice, got married, had a child. <br /><br />But now, my life is relaxed. When a long-lost friend (or just someone across country) and we haven't spoken in a while, I love the fact that when I am asked if anything new is going on, my answer is, "Nope, holding to the status quo."<br /><br />A year ago, my life was on the brink in a bad way, even though I didn't know it yet. But miraculously, somehow my life recovered and became better than ever. How did that happen? How did I get so lucky? <br /><br />I can't really answer that. Sometimes, I find myself crossing my fingers, waiting for the other shoe to drop, wondering when the bottom will fall out again.<br /><br />Maybe it will, maybe it won't. But all I can say is that right now, <span style="font-style:italic;">this very moment</span>, I am satisfied with my life. I am lucky, lucky indeed.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-4004369055443089922010-09-06T09:04:00.002-06:002010-09-06T11:55:25.710-06:00Joy and HeartbreakCEWG thinks she is a princess. Who am I to dispute, really? <br /><br />This age is miraculous. She is uninhibited. She is joyous. She is filled with honey and with vinegar. She exudes confidence in everything she does. She knows she is the best dancer, the best singer, <em>the best princess that has ever existed.</em><br /><br />I wish I could bottle this joy. I wish that she could keep this love of herself forever. She has not learned to dislike herself yet, to wish that her hair was straight or her thighs thinner, to think she laughs too loudly or smiles too widely. She has not learned to criticize, just to adore and be proud that she can jump so high and dance so wildly.<br /><br />How do I teach her to hold on to this part of herself? How do I teach her to love her body and her mind and her soul for all that she is? How do I show her that imperfections are not necessarily flaws that should be changed, but merely a part of the sum total of who she is and who she can be?<br /><br />I try to show her by loving myself, by embracing my body how it is now, for all its imperfections which are not imperfections, really. My body grew another life, gave the light to that life, nourished that life for over two years. I am not only teacher, but also student, learning from my daughter to take pride in that body, to shower it with grace and love for doing all these wonderous things.<br /><br />I want my daughter to hold on to her confidence forever. I want her built on a solid foundation of self-love and self-acceptance, so that inevitably, when someone calls her "fat" or "clumsy" or "ugly" she is not shaken and falls, but stands tall in herself and retorts, "No, I am better than that."EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-8293342196177349812010-09-05T22:41:00.000-06:002010-09-05T20:35:14.684-06:00Revolution(Warning: I'm about to get on my high horse and cliched, so be warned. Read at your own risk, dear reader.)<br /><br />I read The Omnivore's Dilemma and I am duly horrified. Objectively, I knew much of the book's content. I've heard of docking chicken beaks and the cruelty of slaughtering beef on a slaughter line. I've always teetered on the edge of becoming a vegetarian because of my love for animals. (Ironic, of course, because I actually slaughtered my own chickens in Kenya.) But there is something about eating animals that I've always had a difficult time dealing with. <br /><br />But there were plenty of things in the book that I didn't know. For example, it takes about 87 calories of energy to transport 1 calorie of food. I mean, that's crazy.<br /><br />So The Doctor and I are attempting to revolutionize how we eat and drink in our small house in the desert. We're trying to buy local as best we can in Arizona. Farmer's markets, local stores, grass-fed, free range meats. I'm considering this my revolution, my food anarchy.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-50349629747423505072010-08-31T19:33:00.003-06:002010-08-31T20:37:15.518-06:00StylelessLast night, I went to a coworker's home to see some photos from her recent trip to Asia (Hong Kong, China, Cambodia, Laos and Vietnam, in case you were interested). She made some appetizers consisting mostly of cheese (delish!) and uncorked a few bottles of wine. The photos were fantastic. I really enjoyed seeing and hearing her stories about rices paddies and buffalo shit.<br /><br />But what I loved most of all was her condo. Her sense of interior design and style wowed me. Everything from the paint colors and placement to the wall hangings to the knick-knacks to the pillows and throws just complemented each other. It was bright, cheery, modern, bohemian, <em>gorgeous</em>. The style of the home was eclectic (e.g. NOT Pottery Barn, etc.), but it looked fantastic. So pulled together and lived in and <em>I loved it.</em><br /><br />For whatever reason, my sense of home design and style is terrible. (To be honest, my sense of personal style is kind of lacking, too. Clothes I can do, but accessories? Forget it.) It's not a family gene becauase Golden Brother has a fabulous sense of style (especially for a straight man) and his little studio apartment looks a thousand times better in shades of orange and green and modern art and contemporary furniture. Granted, Golden Brother studied art and architecture at university, so maybe it's a learned gene.<br /><br />Whatever I lack, I lack in a big way. My house has prints hung up throughout, but they all look a little mismatched and oddly out of place. My furniture is a hodge-podge of stuff (and stained with child crap like food and paint and crayons). <br /><br />I wish I had an innate sense of style. But for my house to look like anything other than thrown together and mishmashed, then I'll have to hire someone to come and pick out colors, furniture and wall hangings.<br /><br />At least I can cook.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-45383231015116321982010-08-25T22:32:00.002-06:002010-08-25T23:05:26.988-06:00H-O-T HotThis is the time of the year I despise living in Arizona. Everywhere else, it's the winding down of summer, the beginning of fall, the anticipation of school and a fresh start. A change of seasons.<br /><br />Except in Arizona. Right now, it's only the middle of the summer; the heat will continue the sizzle for another few months as the air conditioner drones on outside my window, providing an incessant hum as backdrop to my nights. <br /><br />I love the fall. I love the cooler mornings, the crispness in the air, the slow but steady change of the leaves from deep summer green to crackly orange and reds. I love apple picking and cider, pumpkin-picking and looking at new pink erasers.<br /><br />I miss the change of seasons right now.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-11722848920926182522010-08-24T13:19:00.002-06:002010-08-24T16:56:13.067-06:00ReroutedClearly, I've quit doing a photo a day. My life has had a few speed bumps pop up over the last few weeks, the last of which ended up with me in the ER in VA Beach the day of my grandfather's funeral. Despite my smugness, apparently gallbladder problems do run in my family and hit all women right around the age of 30. I'm close enough to 30 for it to count and had a laparoscopic cholecystectomy (that would be a gallbladder removal surgery) on Friday.<br /><br />So I'm home for a few days relaxing and healing. CEWG is at nursery school, the Doctor is sleeping off his night shift work and I'm watching bad reruns of afternoon television and generally enjoying being home.EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-48329883699006522942010-08-11T21:11:00.001-06:002010-08-11T21:16:14.910-06:008:11<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnZt-UtuI/AAAAAAAAAG8/e3dDlAegaJg/s1600/IMG_2800.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnZt-UtuI/AAAAAAAAAG8/e3dDlAegaJg/s200/IMG_2800.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504356861112268514" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnZAHewDI/AAAAAAAAAG0/B4aHoCG548M/s1600/IMG_2799.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnZAHewDI/AAAAAAAAAG0/B4aHoCG548M/s200/IMG_2799.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504356848802644018" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnYg-Qk6I/AAAAAAAAAGs/aQpNMuFuE_I/s1600/IMG_2794.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnYg-Qk6I/AAAAAAAAAGs/aQpNMuFuE_I/s200/IMG_2794.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504356840442467234" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnYAEfCAI/AAAAAAAAAGk/iykocZmyxsw/s1600/IMG_2792.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGNnYAEfCAI/AAAAAAAAAGk/iykocZmyxsw/s200/IMG_2792.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5504356831610210306" /></a><br />Study in CloudsEEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-51948942990948875132010-08-10T20:28:00.001-06:002010-08-10T20:30:32.793-06:008:10<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGILLi5tGVI/AAAAAAAAAGc/KDuXedTwyqM/s1600/IMG_2786.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGILLi5tGVI/AAAAAAAAAGc/KDuXedTwyqM/s200/IMG_2786.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503973987575470418" /></a>EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-68841043785227312622010-08-09T20:23:00.002-06:002010-08-10T20:28:39.229-06:008:9<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGIKcjtEWHI/AAAAAAAAAGU/vZabES8jBaY/s1600/IMG_2784.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGIKcjtEWHI/AAAAAAAAAGU/vZabES8jBaY/s200/IMG_2784.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503973180337051762" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGIKcSyt0lI/AAAAAAAAAGM/fOx8hNUH5G4/s1600/IMG_2785.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGIKcSyt0lI/AAAAAAAAAGM/fOx8hNUH5G4/s200/IMG_2785.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503973175797338706" /></a>EEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8496591.post-74558423796829351722010-08-08T20:21:00.001-06:002010-08-10T20:23:37.320-06:008:8<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGIJhz0mkHI/AAAAAAAAAGE/mbPvilG6utQ/s1600/IMG_2783.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_mauKQB2WzI0/TGIJhz0mkHI/AAAAAAAAAGE/mbPvilG6utQ/s200/IMG_2783.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5503972171051339890" /></a><br />RADM Edward W. Carter IIIEEWillhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/00897528222671280454noreply@blogger.com0