SmallTown//BigCity

#keepcalmWRITEon
Day 11

**

I'm both country and city.
I can do red-carpet-fresh, and I can do gym-casual-hipster.

I was trying to explain my self, my lifestyle to a new friend last weekend.
I was trying to provide clarity as to the vast array of my awkwardness.

It's not an easy task.

My background is agriculture, my roots in the Desert Southwest of Arizona.

Growing up, "cold" meant the temps dropped to the 60's.
"Dangerous" meant being out after dark.
"Friends" were hard to come by and "trust" was everything, and nothing at the same time.

Agriculture took us to the fertile Salinas Valley, eight miles from the Pacific Ocean.
There I learned what hard work meant--- including how to be ready to uproot your entire life at the drop of a hat and turn around and retrace your steps in hope of finding your way back home.

The quiet of the desert provided the most stability, and also gave me the wings to fly away.

Enter Kansas.

Specifically, Lindsborg.

In college, you're shielded from the outside world.  At least, I was, living in Little Sweden, USA.  But the College theme that year was "From the Plains to the World", so I guess in a way, you could say this quietly influenced the spirited, venturous, young adult I would become.

From here, I've gone everywhere: South America, the West Indies, all around the Midwest, West Coast, and back again.

And what I've learned, is that, I'm all of it.  

I summed it up by saying something like this:

"It's like....I like my quiet moments, the places I can feel truly relaxed in.  If I don't have down time, I freak out.  I'm big on comfort, until I get too comfortable.  I appreciate small-town businesses, and love connecting with the people I see walking down the street.  But I can't feel contained-- or squashed --- for too long.  I gotta go -- have to keep it moving.  I like having a Home Base, somewhere solid to come back to-- but I have to go breathe different air every once in a while.  

I am so Lindsborg.  That place has my heart.  It's where it all started for me (my adult life).  I have such a connection to that town and the College--I know it was exactly the place I needed to be, it was the decision I was supposed to make, it was where I needed to go to begin growing.  Or continue growing, depending on how you look at it.  I'm still extremely connected to Lindsborg and active in its community, in fact, I HAVE TO get away and go back to Lindsborg every so often, or it's like: 'I can't breathe'.

But then, Kansas City?...Yeah, I love that place.  I love the people there.  I love the energy and diversity and how everything is different every day.  It still feels safe, but there's enough mystery to keep me challenged.  Kansas City lets me d r e a m.  I have to go there every once in a while, or I CAN'T BREATHE.

I need all of it.  I'm not simple.  I'm complicated.  But complicated in a really good way, I think."

**

Layers and Layers

12/7/16

#keepcalmWRITEon Day 7

Today was the first snow of the year.

If you know me, you know I love the show "Gilmore Girls".
As in -- eat, sleep, and breathe it.
For those if you not familiar.... in the show, the main character, Lorelai, loves the snow. Adores snow. She has at least two monologues about her relationship with the fluffy white stuff over the course of the show. She says, "The world is magical when it snows...the whole world changes color."
I am a desert rat, living in Kansas.
I used to say "stuck in Kansas" but I've changed my tune because, well, e'rybody got choices. I no longer feel stuck but rather, at home. But that's a story for another time.
I can't handle the cold. I wore two layers of under armour today, beneath a hoodie, beneath my work polo, beneath a coat. With ear warmers. And I still whined a little.

At my job, you have to be prepared for anything: kids could run away out in this cold, and we have to chase them! Better be prepared for the worst of conditions!
And yet, after I returned from just such an excursion this evening, I found all my layers of preparation working AGAINST me----I was sweating through my clothes and feeling so uncomfortable. I had to sit with my jeans rolled up to my knees at the desk while I completed my end-of-night paperwork, exposing my patterned tights to anyone who walked through the nurse's station. (My legs can't get cold, either!)
So this all got me thinking---even our most earnest methods of preparation can harm us in the end. Even when we think that we think of everything ----- there will be curveballs. We should always prepare to get a little uncomfortable, because there are always two sides to every coin.
Isn't it so interesting that the same things that can protect us from some elements, can very well expose us to others? I wonder what other areas of our lives this concept applies to.
I won't stop wearing my crazy layers anytime soon--- but I think I will start paying more attention to those things disguised as lifesavers, when in all actuality they might be weighing me down.

Sink or swim, friends.

Nothing to Give

The assignment this week: focus on possessions, giving away 7 items a day for a week straight (I was inspired by the book “7” by Jen Hatmaker).

I really hate this week.

I actually spent most of the week worrying about how to complete the task, thinking to myself, “I have nothing to give.”

In trying to write about it, some memories came out instead:

Once when I was about 9 years old, my dad said we were loading up his truck with all of our old toys, clothes, books, and stuff.  We then drove an hour down the road to some remote little pueblo outside of Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico.  It was December, shortly before Christmas, and we parked the truck in the middle of the road and called out to the people in their houses.  They ran next door to grab their friends, and soon, my younger sister and I were handing our well-loved Barbies to little girls who were very excited to receive them.  I remember one older gentleman asking my dad specifically for a ball cap that I believe was actually a children’s size, but it fit him, so it didn’t matter.

I never looked at a dirt-road, lean-to neighborhood the same way again.
We visited our neighboring border towns quite often, especially since my grandmother lived in one of them, so I did a lot of looking out the window, wondering about people’s lives, asking hard questions, and worrying.  Yes, between the ages of 9 and 14.

I don’t think my dad took us down there that December morning to make us worry incessantly for the rest of our lives.  But I do believe this memory has remained with me for so long because the event stirred something deep inside of me.

Another, earlier, memory is from California, when I was probably about 7 years old. I’ve mentioned before that we were a migrant agricultural family of sorts.  We spent about half the year in Yuma, Arizona, and the rest of the time in Salinas, California.

From what I remember about Salinas, it was a bigger city than Yuma.  There were more freeway on-ramps, and we seemed to use them a lot to get around town.  Because of the nature of my parents’ work, we always had boxes and boxes of fresh or packaged produce and vegetables (they got sent home with the workers sometimes).

So one day, my dad decided we were taking some produce in the car with us.  I remember sitting in the backseat, holding bags of baby carrots in my lap.  Upon reaching one of the stoplights at an on-ramp/overpass/underpass, my dad rolled down the window and began to hand out the bags of vegetables to the man who was standing on the corner holding a cardboard sign.

When my dad reached back to me, I handed him only one of the bags of baby carrots.  My dad corrected me and asked for the other bag as well, and I reluctantly gave it to him. “All yours, buddy,” he said cheerfully to the man.

“Esta pensando en todos los demas,” my mom said to my dad with quiet, marked realization.

“She’s thinking of all the others.”

I remember knowing, just KNOWING, that I had seen other men like this one, and that they were hungry too, and now I had nothing left to give to any of them.

We went along our way that day, but I remember being a little confused and maybe even a little
angry. Why hadn’t we saved some vegetables (there was celery, too) for other men? Why couldn’t we share more, why couldn’t we help everyone?

I think one of the many lessons my dad was trying to teach me that day was that even when I get this crazy overwhelming feeling, be it guilt, or worry, or panic, or sorrow, it can never cancel out the good deed I am doing right then and there, right in that moment.  And to never let the fear of not being able to fix the whole problem, keep me from taking a stab at the need right in front of me.

To always give what you can, even if it’s a humble bag of vegetables. To never become blind to my blessings, and to always keep unwrapping and rearranging life’s little “extras” and presents, until I find a way to use them to bless somebody else.

Even when the last bag of baby carrots is gone, there is never nothing to give.

Food Warmup

The truth is, we never went hungry in our house growing up.  I now know how fortunate we truly were.  We weren't wealthy either, though.  Not that we knew how much money our parents made, because it wasn't talked about, perhaps exactly the way it should be with children.

I will tell you that the only "restaurant" food I knew in my early childhood was McDonald's, but not in the way you might think, in the stereotypical way we've come to think of families gorging themselves on junk on a nightly basis, with parents who are too "lazy" to cook.

No, McDonald's was a very special occasion, but mainly, a road food.  We were a road family.  I may have mentioned before that we were a migrant farm worker family of sorts, so we traveled long distances between California and Arizona on a regular basis.

During a normal week, our parents cooked.  Just simple food.  I come from a Mexican background, and friends often ask me for "recipes".  The truth is, my parents just cooked food they remembered from their own childhoods.  Yes, there are staples -- chicken, pinto beans, rice, tomato sauce, corn tortillas -- but really everything is just very.... RUSTIC, is always the word I've used to describe it.  However, English is my second language, so if that doesn't make sense to you, please forgive me.  :)

Once in middle school, I had a couple of friends over after school, both girls.  As we rummaged through the walk-in pantry, one of them made the comment, "Everything you have is stuff you have to MAKE, isn't it?"  Most of it was, I suppose, but I didn't know any different.  There had been a period there, after all, during the custody battle, during which my dad fed us lots of Honey Buns, Snickers Bars, frozen chicken nuggets, and introduced us to Frozen TV Dinners (we were ages 10-12).

I didn't drink "dark" soda until 6th grade, when I was introduced to Dr. Pepper by a friend.  I gave it up cold turkey as a freshman in high school, when my cross-country coach told me it was bad for me.  (It may have re-entered the picture in small amounts during/after college...)

Anyway, as an adult now, it's so interesting to think about the different ways I have seen or known food throughout my life.

I've been thinking LOTS about food lately, and what role it plays in my life.  I've got lots to say about it, but I'm not a data analyst or a research scientist; everything I've got to say is emotion and reflection, observations, and lots of questions.

I believe the way to do anything is to start from the bottom and work your way up.  The way I write my "blog" is mainly by studying myself: my history, my habits, my memories.  Then I try to piece them all together to help me understand my present-day beliefs.

So, while every post may not be terribly exciting, it's still a piece of the story.  My story.  And once in a while, it comes out powerfully and loudly.
I think I'm warming up my vocal chords with this one.  

Desert Diaries, Volume 1

Well, this week, I've gotten to spend some time in my hometown--Yuma, Arizona---visiting friends and family.  I haven't been here in two years, and I had been getting pretty homesick/nostalgic.  I don't know that homesick is the right word, because I don't LONG for home or anything like that.  I've gotten to this point where I've accepted and created my home around myself in the state and city where I live now, so it's strange to come back here.
I find myself driving the streets of this city, wondering, "I really grew up here?" Not because it's a bad thing, but because my entire adult life has been somewhere else.
I feel strangely at home, and a stranger, at the same time. While I've been here on this visit, I've gone running on the canal, which I ran 2-3 times a week during cross-country season in high school; I've gone running at Smucker Park, another high school favorite; I've had meals with friends and people I love; I've reminisced on "the good ol' days" and had conversations about my next steps in life; I've been around all my friends' and families' animals, mostly cats and dogs; I've visited and bonded with my Ocean in San Diego (yes, I needed to re-bond with my Ocean).
I've helped with a lot of things at my mom's house, planned and brainstormed with my sister, taught my baby sister card games, and eaten lots of fresh avocado.
I always end up with same panicky feeling: it's never enough time.
There's always someone else I wish I could spend time with, another old haunt I wish I could revisit.  I hate always running out of time.
I feel like at some point soon, I want like a 2-3 week period to come back and visit.  Life feels so different out here from what it does in my little Midwestern city.
I am more present and more appreciative of certain things this time around: the sunshine, the occasional warm (cool?) breeze, the faces of all the people who need someone to acknowledge their existence and say hello.
It feels like nothing's changed, and yet, like everything has.
I'm not the same person I was when I was growing up here.  It's strange to go develop and spread my wings as a person somewhere else, then come back to visit and bring everything I've learned with me.
Life is a really wacky thing.

8 Months Free

May 1, 2014

So it’s been 8 months since I stopped taking any anti-depressant or anti-anxiety medication, after 5-and-a-half years of being on them. (Over the course of those 5+ plus years, I took 3 different medications. Number 3 was the one that worked best for me)

 I think it’s time to update everyone (and myself) a bit on what I’ve gained and lost from this process.

I made this decision on my own, and asked for my doctor’s support.  We designed a “taper off” plan for me to follow, which I proceeded to do, and before I knew it, I didn’t have to remember to take a pill anymore.  I didn’t have to call in refills, or budget for the cost of the medication.  When going on an overnight trip, I didn’t need to pack my pill.  I didn’t need to worry about keeping it in my carry-on while flying.  I could stop worrying about all the horrendous chemical reactions going on inside my body.  Shedding all these things made me feel like I freed up tons of brain space.  I gained confidence, for a while, and optimism about my ability to cope with my emotions and stressors using my own skills and strength.

So, how do I feel?  What is it like?  Am I “cured”?

I wish it was all good news, or that I could say I’m all better now.

I feel like I’ve lost my energy, my sparkle, the pep in my step.  I can’t help but notice how much more taxing it is for me to get up early, and stay up late.  I enjoy being active.  For the last two years, in addition to working my full-time job, I had a class, a Bible study group, or something I was volunteering for, at least 4 evenings a week.  Plus, sometimes I work overtime on Saturdays, and was volunteering at my church on Saturdays, and then I added some volunteering time on Sundays twice a month.  Sometimes, I would attend all 3 of my church’s services in a weekend, because I had the energy and desire to.  I enjoyed hanging with friends, and sharing about my life, smiling, talking, and laughing.  

When I stopped taking my medication, one of the first things to go was my motivation for evening commitments.  Out the door went youth group, for which I volunteered as a leader, and Bible study.  I started skipping out on my Tuesday night dinners that I had at a friend’s house.  I lost interest in being around people and making small talk.  All I wanted to do was go home, and be home, with my cat.  (She has been the best companion for the nearly 4 years she’s been part of my family)

“It is like” not really knowing how to get my old self back.  Is this reserved, independent person who I’ve been all along?

“It is like” I have to work really hard and plan ahead all the time, to make sure that I’m going to be in the right mood at the right time, for whatever it is my responsibilities are at the moment, be it work, volunteer, or social.

“It is like” I’m excited about not depending on a drug anymore, but I don’t feel as proud of myself as I used to feel.  

“It is like” every day is just a routine, something to get through, something to accomplish.  

“It is like” I have to work really darn hard to create the life I want, all the time; the feelings I want, the choices I want, the opportunities I want.  

“It is like” all these questions come up.  

“Was that person not really me?”

“Have I been fake for the last 5 years?”

“Do all my friends only know - and like- the medicated Gilda?”

“Does no one want to hang out with me because I’m depressing to be around?”

“Can I even handle my own life?”

The only choice I see is to keep trudging forward.  Because even at a crawl, I’m not waving that white flag.  The only thing I can choose to believe is that it does get better with time.  That I’m (STILL!) not done growing yet.  

Some days, I’m pretty miserable.  I get fed up with people and commitments; I find myself overly critical, feeling envious of those who possess things or live lifestyles different than mine.  There are moments where I let myself start spiraling down the black hole again, being angry at God for my circumstances, placing my worth in other people instead of in what He has said about me.  

Eventually, I distract myself.  I pick a coping skill (usually rigorous cardiovascular exercise) and go with it.  I hope to write more about the methods of self-defense I use against the enemy of the ever-looming cloud of doom.

Am I cured?  Choosing to separate yourself from something is the first step to ridding your life of it.  I work in the mental health field, so I’ve seen and know what Severe and Persistent Mental Illness looks like.  My level of anxiety and stress doesn’t fit that diagnosis, so I don’t know that “cure” is even a correct term (or that "cure" is a correct term for those who DO suffer from Severe and Persistent Mental Illness).  I believe that anxiety and stress should be managed, and if they are not, then they can lead to a chronic condition.

I know that my stress and anxiety have come from years of building certain thought patterns.  I continued to build these thought patterns as I grew up because I didn’t know any better.  So now, as a young adult, I start the hard work of undoing all those patterns of toxic thinking.  It isn’t easy.  There’s scientific research on this, folks.

So the truth is, if you decide that you can beat toxic thinking, and believe with all your heart that you will, it will still be difficult to do so, and take time.

I choose to be public about this because I refuse to be labeled or judged.  If I put everything out there, then there’s no stories people can make up about me, or judgements that people can make about “how it all started”.  And I can be an example of determination and strength.  

So.  Eight months down.  

There may or may not be a huge celebration involved for my 1-year anniversary.  :)

My First Thanksgiving

11-27-2013

Today is Thanksgiving, a major American holiday.

I was thinking earlier that I don't seem to make as big a deal out of holidays as everyone around me.  Don't get me wrong, I don't think holidays are bad. 

But, in processing my thoughts and feelings about holidays, I realize that I really had no family structure growing up to show me the "American Way" or "how holidays are supposed to be done".  That's just a fact.  I am a first-generation Hispanic-American.

 A.K.A. --- my family is from Mexico, and my parents had no idea how to do things "the American Way."

I realize that this has made my experience a bit different from that of my friends and other loved ones in my life.

The first Thanksgiving we celebrated as a family was when I was in 5th grade.  It consisted of my sister, my father, and myself.

Basically, what happened was that my sister and I had spent enough years in elementary school, surrounded by children whose family structure was more traditional than ours.  We saw them and heard them every year talking about all the holidays, so of course, after a while we started asking questions---and telling our dad how it was "supposed to be".

So, in 5th grade, I told my dad, "We need to buy a turkey.  We need to cook a Thanksgiving dinner.  We are supposed to make something called stuffing.  And mashed potatoes."

My dad wanted to do anything that would make his girls happy, so went to the store and bought a turkey, a box of stuffing (don't know how I figured out what it looked like), and a box of instant mashed potatoes.

My dad helped me soak the turkey overnight in Sunny Delight orange juice.  Yes, really.
I cooked the rest of the meal.  Yup, as a 5th grader.  Not because my dad couldn't cook, and he did help a little, but because I watched lots of Food Network cooking shows at this point and also could read the English directions on the boxes.  :)

We have Polaroid pictures of the meal. 

I knew we were supposed to dress up, so I put on my favorite dress.  I knew we were supposed to pray, and I knew how to say the Our Father because I was taking Catholic CCD classes (a story all on its own--another instance of me saying, "Daddy, we are supposed to be doing this by now..."), so I made us all hold hands and I said the prayer.

I don't remember any other specific Thanksgivings in our household growing up.  I'm sure there were one or two more until I graduated from high school.  Maybe it's because Mexican families are bigger on Christmas, and this was when my grandmother would visit and we would do all of our big cooking (read: TAMALES!).

Seven of the eight Thanksgivings in my early adulthood have been celebrated with a meal and with a group of people.  I have spent time with different friends, seeing how different people celebrate the same holiday.  It's been a learning experience.  The family unit always amazes me.  It's astounding to show up as a guest to a dinner and have my friend tell me, "I'm related to every single person in this room."  I have never known anything like that.

I didn't grow up with a big family--just my mom, dad, sister, and I.  My maternal grandmother, aunt, uncle, and younger cousin lived in Mexicali, Baja California, Mexico--an hour away from my hometown in Arizona.  We visited them often, but that's as big as my family got.  I have never met any of my dad's side of the family.  They are deep down in Mexico, and I've never been.  (Yes, this is a project on my Near Future List)

I guess in telling my story, I hope to encourage people to remember that there are individuals out there who truly don't know what a family or a family gathering is "supposed to look like", and for different reasons.  I want people to remember that we're all different.  I want people to remember that not everyone has experienced everything we think they have experienced, or everything we think they "should have experienced by now".  I want us to stop putting each other in boxes.  I want us to start embracing other people's stories and backgrounds, not just pretend to understand.  I want us to not feel sorry for people like me: "Oh, poor her! She never had pumpkin pie as a child!"  It's not the end of the world.  Not everyone grows up the same way. 

We all end up on the same journey.

A Letter to My Body

11-24-2013

 

Dear Body,

 

 

 

 

 

           I wanted to take a little bit of time and express some of my thoughts to you.  I feel like I’ve been suppressing them for a long time, and I think it’s really time to get them out.

            I can’t lie; I’ve never really communicated with you before.  I always just kept everything inside and thought that my thoughts meant nothing.  I thought it was all better left unsaid.

            You’ve confused me, Body. 

            I have lots of memories of moments when I wasn’t very happy with you.  Like in 4^th grade, when you decided you wanted to be 5’4” tall and weight 133 pounds.  That was awkward, but I didn’t say anything; I just went with it.  Then in sixth grade, you wanted to weigh 186 pounds! But then, you decided you wanted to run all those laps at P.E. and prove to all the other Bodies that you could do it.

            In 7^th grade, when I wanted to play basketball, you didn’t like it.  You wouldn’t get it together and figure it out, and I didn’t make the team, and I was upset.  But then, I was able to throw the shotput pretty well.  And play soccer.  So, there you went, changing your mind again.

            In 8^th grade, in modeling school, they tried to tell me that “if maybe I lost some weight” I could better fit into their hourglass figure they were describing.

            Then, freshman year of high school, I tried to control you.  I thought you were too big, and that we couldn’t achieve what I wanted if I didn’t control you.  So I starved you of carbohydrates for a little while, and I took those diet pills to make you burn fat.  I’m sorry about that.  I knew by the way you responded that this particular pattern was not going to be something permanent because it was not okay with you at all.

            I also wanted to apologize for all the times I put you down in high school.  It was really hard to not compare myself to all the other Bodies around me, and I think I was so used to everyone being smaller than us, that I automatically thought you were the biggest Body around.  I may have eaten right and treated you well with exercise and training hard in the weight room, but I did not send my Brain good messages about you.  I admit that I always had really negative conversations about you without you knowing.

            I have to say that I didn’t feel comfortable with you until college.  And thank you, by the way, for getting me into college, and for getting the majority of my tuition paid for.  Because you obeyed all the demands I put on you in my athletic training, I got that track and field scholarship, and even a partial cross-country one.  You continued to exceed my expectations, and those of everyone around us.  I don’t think I’ve thanked you enough for that.

            When you decided it was time to be an adult though, in my junior year of college, I have to say you surprised me and angered me quite a bit.  You changed, Body.  You made everything more difficult.  I couldn’t run as fast as I used to, and I had to buy new clothes.  I swore I could feel everyone judging me.  I didn’t want to let go of everything you and I had shared, but you forced me into accepting the way things were going to be now.  I think I’m still kind of angry with you about that.

            After college was over, I was so relieved.  I didn’t have to push you as hard, so I stopped pushing.  I let us get lazy.  This is where I really messed up.  I fooled myself into thinking that we could get by with just getting by, and your responses showed me just how wrong I was. 

            You started attacking me more than ever; the anxiety attacks that happened, the extra weight that came around, the thyroid problems.  All the signs were you screaming at me, as loudly as you could, “Hey! Pay attention! You’re messing me up! I don’t feel good!”

            And I just ignored you. 

            It took me a year and a half, but I woke up.  I started making efforts, and talking to you more kindly, and accepting what you were going to look like.  I set different goals, and I started to come to peace with the fact that you are the only Body I will ever have, and that you can be my best friend, or my worst enemy.

            Even as I write this letter, I can see images of myself in 2^nd grade with you, feeling insecure about how tall you were, or in 3^rd grade, feeling so much bigger than anyone else.  I realize now that my slumber, my period of ignorance regarding the way I was treating you lasted much longer than a year and a half.  It lasted 18 years.  And I’m finally tired of comparing you to all the other Bodies out there.  I want us to have a good relationship, a loving, positive one.

            All these years, Body, I’ve always had some reason or another for wanting you to change.  But now I want you to know that I’m the one willing to change.  I’m willing to control my thoughts so they are positive ones, and I’m willing to nourish you and protect you with the right foods in order to keep you functioning right.  I’m willing to stop comparing you to other Bodies unfairly, and to stop having demanding expectations of you. 

            Thank you for all the healthy years you’ve given me that I’ve always been too ignorant to see.  Thank you for every mile you’ve run for me, every pound you’ve lifted in the weight room, every pushup, sit-up, and jumping jack you’ve done; thank you for your functioning arms and legs, and for the concentration you put into 10 years of coordination necessary for throwing the shotput.  Thanks for being strong and healthy, even when I didn’t treat you the best.  Thank you for always trying your best. 

            I hope you can accept my apology, and that we can move forward from here.  I hope that the next 18 years and beyond will be filled with less hateful thoughts and words.  I hope you can forgive me and trust me to treat you better from now on. 

            Thanks for listening to me and letting me get all of that out.  I’ll make sure that I communicate with you a lot more from now on.

 

            Talk soon,

                        Me

 

 

Sometimes I Feel Like a Motherless Child

October 30, 2013 
This month, my mother celebrated her 50th birthday.

I didn’t get to see her on her special day, because I live halfway across the country, and don’t have the resources or the time off work to be able to go home to Arizona this calendar year.  My sister wants to plan something big to celebrate my mom’s birthday later on, perhaps next summer, when we can all be together.
My mother lives at home with our youngest sister, who is 9.  Sometimes I wonder if my mother gets lonely.  She tells me stories of how my little sister says, “When I grow up, Mommy, I will never leave you.”

That makes me feel guilty sometimes.  I have been away from home for 7 years now, and three years ago when I graduated from college, my mother was ready for me to move back.

I, however, was not.

Most people are in a hurry to move back home; they sense a piece of themselves is always missing until they are back in the familiarity of their hometown.  I did not turn out that way.  I have actually found myself by moving away, and the staying away part was never a question, really.  I never had any desire to move back home.

Part of that had to do with the not-so-fuzzy relationship I had/have with my mother.  My mother is a very complicated, broken person.  Over the years she has manipulated, emotionally abused, and done her best to try to break me as well.  A couple of times she has really succeeded.

But, today isn’t to write about the brokenness; I will save that for another time.

Today is to celebrate the beauty within the brokenness.

You see, I’ve been learning a lot about gratitude and abundance over the past year.  I have been learning how to give thanks for the ugly, the seemingly mundane, and the broken.

So I’ve challenged myself to think through the broken pieces of my relationship with my mother, and to identify glimpses of hope within them.

Even though my mother may not have been the best example to me or the best friend I ever had, and even though I still resent that sometimes, I know there are a few things she taught me that are apparent in my character today.  Most seem like small, trivial things, but they make me smile, and they make me thankful, and that's the whole point.

1) My handwriting.  I always get compliments on my handwriting and how neat it is.  This always takes me back to my schoolgirl days when my mother would compare my handwriting to hers (and almost admire mine).  She would spend lots of time practicing cursive with me, back in the day.
2) My driving.  My mother was the one who played Teacher in most of my lessons. Or, she was in the passenger's seat while I was behind the wheel.  During the time that I was learning to drive, she was pregnant with my youngest sister, and the baby doctor she went to was in California, an hour away.  I drove her to many of those appointments, and although she was very critical and overly explanatory of each detail that she felt I needed to learn, I know that my driving skills are results of listening to those details and the hours of practice she gave me.  I also really, strangely, LOVE to drive long distances.  Tell me I get to drive for 6 hours and I jump with excitement.  In college, it was never a question of who would be the designated driver--whether there was alcohol involved or not--because everyone knew my obsession with driving.  The long-distance driving thing comes from my mom; she basically learned to drive by following my dad on the freeway between Yuma, AZ and Salinas, CA every season for work.
3)Doing Laundry.  Now, I know this one sounds sillier than the rest.  But from my mother I learned how to wash whites in order to get them radiant!Also, given a choice, I would rather hang clothes on a clothesline outside than use a dryer--another little quirk from my mother.
4)Housecleaning.  My mother is a BEAST when it comes to housecleaning.  She hates clutter, and takes pride in how well she can clean.  We're talking scrubbing tubs and toilets and mopping floors. And ripping blinds down and sticking them in the tub to clean with a broom and soap and water. Not only am I now good at it all, I LOVE to do it.  I've got to say, this one definitely comes in handy.

Even though they are small things, and as I look through them, seem almost like little obsessive quirks or complexes, they are my memories and my traits.  Perhaps I created these habits in myself, because I was so desperate to have something in common with my mother, to feel like she had taught me or nurtured me in some way, that I convinced myself to develop them.  That is a topic for further personal exploration.

For now, I see them as gems of humorous wisdom from my mother's 50 years of life.

Maybe in the next 50 years, I will find more.

*also, the title of this post is in reference to an old song title*

2012 Firsts

2012 Firsts

 

A couple times throughout the year, I found myself thinking, “Wow, that’s the first time this has ever happened/I have ever done this/I have ever seen this.”  So, I thought it was a good “blog topic”---something for me to sit down and consciously spend time thinking about and forming into words.  Let’s see what comes out:

It all started with December 26, 2011, the day I purchased my first car.  A 2012 Chevy Sonic, white in color, small in size, excellent in gas mileage.  I know that this day was truly the beginning of my 2012, and my new life. 

Since my birthday is in the month of December, I think it’s appropriate for me to consider my years as December through December.  So, let’s go with that. 

When I came home with my new car (Ellsworth, Kansas at the time), it started a whole new set of conversations between myself and my significant other; real, tough, hard questions about whether our relationship was truly where we wanted it to be, whether each one of us was happy…those kinds of questions.  This conversation has continued all year, in various forms. 

Because of these conversations, January 2012 was a month of preparation for me to move out on my own.  For the first time in my life, I was researching apartments and houses to live in.  It was a scary experience.  I’m a very detail-oriented person, which is a nice way to say I absolutely need to feel in control of everything at all times, and so it was challenging for me to embark on an adventure I’d never been on before.  January was a month of research on the computer, phone calls to landlords, and physical visits to houses to check them out.  It was also the first month that I spent of my life commuting to work in my own vehicle.  At the end of January, I moved to Salina, Kansas.  I was already familiar with Salina, as it is 15 miles from where I went to college, and is always where I’d gone to church; “My whole life was in Salina”, as I was accustomed to saying, so the relocation merely felt like me accepting god’s will for me. 

February 2012 was the first month I made a car payment.  It was also the first time I’d lived in someone’s basement, and the first time I had a roommate outside of college (didn’t consider my significant other a “roommate”).  February also marked the first time I spent a night in Salina, not in a hotel.  February 8, 2012 was the first session of my first “real” bible study: a group of women all gathered with the same books in hand, willingly gathered to learn more about the Bible.  The study was a Beth Moore one, on the book of James.  It was called “James: Mercy Triumphs”.  I am convinced that this study could not have come at a more perfect time for me.  I was so emotionally exhausted and fighting off depression and anxiety at all times from my move and physical separation from my loved one.  I knew that if I let my focus shift or wander, or if I let my motivation dwindle, or let my mind feel sorry for itself, I would soon be headed into a dangerous tailspin (it had happened before, my junior year of college; a topic for another time).  I didn’t want to go there again.  So, I conveniently found something, a group to join, for every night of the week, a desperate attempt to keep my mind occupied at all times and only allow myself to go home to my miserable basement with enough time to get ready for bed and pass out for the night.  But my James study revealed so much to me; James is my first “favorite” book of the Bible. 

From my James study, comes another 2012 first: the first time I memorized any scripture (purposefully).  Part of the James study includes the challenge to memorize the whole book.  I’m still working on it, but I have mastered the entire first two chapters.  I also recited an entire chapter of a book of the Bible out loud to a friend for the first time during February.  (I lived in this basement through the end of June 2012.  It was only five months, but at times it felt like it would never end (more on that another time).)

I then spent weeks preparing for my first ever Sondra Miller-Emmanuel Foursquare Church Easter production, which by default, ended up being my first time performing on the Steiffel Theatre stage in Salina (awesome!!).  Easter was April 8^th.  I also participated in my first Messiah Festival for Bethany College during which I was commuting from Salina for rehearsals, and it was my first Easter preparing for and participating in two Easter productions simultaneously. 

May 2012, was my first trip home (out West, Arizona) by myself since 2008.  It was the first trip I took home “just to visit”, in my adult life, not on a “break” from school, but on a “vacation” by myself, the working young adult.  Much of the purpose of the trip was to see my sister graduate from college, so this was also the first time I got to see my sister graduate from college.  J

In June, I ran in my first competitive run outside of organized school athletics; my first “on-my-own” race.  It was also the first time I went to the Salina Riverfest (good food, expensive jewelry).  June also marked the beginning of my lease at my very first apartment, all by myself, on my own.  No roommates, no boyfriend; just me, and eventually, my cat.  So, June included the first night I spent alone in a place all of my own.  Ever.

June 22^nd was Jodi’s first birthday after having graduated from college, and it was the first time I ever sang karaoke by myself.  It was also the first time we had a bonfire at church on the new front patio area. 

My first concert at the Bicentennial Center in Salina was on August 25^th.  It was Alan Jackson. 

This past summer included lots of firsts for which I don’t have specific dates, including:

• First time running on the dike in Salina
• First time parking at the church and taking off on a run from there
• Frist time running on South Middle School’s track
• First time doing a live Zumba class (Extravaganza at Genesis Health Club)
• First time having shaved ice at Sno-Wizard in Salina
• First time driving to a WV event on my own (Topeka Regionals)
• First time looking up at the sky through a telescope, and seeing Venus transit the sun
• First motorcycle ride, and first time in many of the tiny towns we rode through on the back roads on that ride
• First time playing pool at Big Nose Kate’s in Salina and eating at Legends Bar & Grill
• First time eating at Cotija’s in Salina
• First time shopping at Sunset Dillons and Baby Dillons (which, sadly, closed)
• First time watching the movie “Footloose”
• My first dance class (“Devotion in Motion” with S’ambrosia)

 

Post-summer, the firsts continued.

 

• First time making it to one year at a job after college
• First time renting movies from Family Video in Salina
• First time drinking coffee regularly
• First time eating lox  
• First time drinking homemade beer
• First time visiting Rock City in Minneapolis, Ks
• First time running on Ohio and Markley Streets in Salina
• First time visiting the Salina YMCA
• First time working a part-time job “just because” (didn’t last long)
• First time attending a show at the Salina Community Theatre (“Footloose”)

 

And, other random firsts I cannot otherwise categorize (or am tired of trying to come up with categories for):

• First time participating in women’s groups at church (Rachel, Nikki, Kristy)
• First time attending a bible study with the “older gals” at Joy’s house
• First time attending bible study with Jennifer’s church group
• First time helping out and being a part of Anthem Youth Group at church
• First time I visited Ad Astra books and coffeehouse!!
• First time visiting White Peacock coffeehouse in Lindsborg, KS
• First time I played racquetball
• First time visiting Salina Animal Shelter
• First time having a “regular dentist” and going for a cleaning since age 8
• First root canal (at specialist in Newton, KS)
• First time going to an American oral surgeon (wisdom teeth)
• First time playing put-put golf in the mall in Salina
• First time being exposed to “The Hobbit”
• First time I went to a movie all by myself (“Pitch Perfect”)
• First time I visited a friend’s house who lives “on the Hill” in Salina
• First time going garage-saling in salina
• First time visiting thrift stores in Salina
• First time driving by myself from Tucson to Yuma
• First time driving around and looking at Christmas lights in Salina (with Gloria)
• First Kansas “family” Christmas with Mattisons
• First time my sorority had a line of ONE cross (Headstrong)
• First time I hiked at Lakewood park, and at Indian Rock (got stuck on the hill)

 This is the first year I write a “Firsts” blog; one of my goals for 2013 is to do this on a more regular basis, maybe sit down once a month and think really hard and get them all out, that way I can be sure I don’t miss any, because I’m sure I’ve missed a couple for this year.  It makes me a little sad, to think that there are some memories that are lost forever.  I see each memory as an integrally important piece of my soul... I hate to think that I let any of those pieces go unnoticed.  Here’s to 2013 being a year of noticing the subtle and magical things that make life what it is.