Change is the only Constant

06 Nov 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: , , , , , , ,

I posted something on my social media today that has had me thinking most of the day. As I went about my work- scheduling meetings, editing materials, looking at budget projections, & walking my oldest son through one of his most recent appointments- my mind kept coming back to this concept of worth.

I mentioned that when I was growing up, I believed we only got one opportunity at finding & retaining happiness- that kindness, love, affection, concern & compassion had to be earned. I learned that people do not just DO something out of the goodness of their heart, that there is always an ulterior motiv- (I don’t operate that way, I am finding others don’t either.) I was taught that performance & that meant the better the performance- the bigger the accolades- the more attention (positive kudos) came my way. And boy, did I love those affirming moments- I felt like I was on top of the world- like I really mattered, that I had done something worthy. You know where all those trophies I earned reside? They sit in multiple boxes in my parent’s dank & dusty-musty basement. I have a box of them from my college days in my house, but they sit on an old wooden bench in my mudroom collecting dust- they mean nothing- they are not even good paperweights (wait-do people even use paper anymore?)

I was conditioned to embrace a philosophy that it is every person for themselves- you don’t share anything- you deal with your own problems quietly & if there was a problem or a controversy-you handle it on your own ( think-you made your bed now….. slumber there). Do not under any circumstances ask for help-show outbursts of emotion- keep yourself under control, ( if you would just behave like….. was a familiar mantra) IF I could just behave in a certain way, then all the other dominoe pieces would fall into place. You know- I have spatial relational issues- I don’t even LIKE dominoes- (but they DO look & sound really cool when they fall in a patterned sequence that someone ELSE has set up!) I never knew exactly what that certain way entailed-all I knew is that most of the time it was NOT how I was behaving at the time. ( I am an emotional after all- & NOT just because I am a female- I was emotional because that’s how I was created!) Most of the time, my actions & behaviors did NOT warrant the kudos I wanted- but wow, could I perform- I could nab those trophies, bring home the hardware & fake my way through most of my days- (actually there were those who saw through it- they just didn’t know why I was doing the fake act)

So, fast forward decades- fast forward through a committed relationship that lasted 25 years ( when you count dating & married life), fast forward raising 2 young boys into young men about to strike out on their own ( one has boomeranged back home for a bit, the other one takes flight in a year and a half). Fast forward amid believing that going through the motions was the best that we (any of us) have available to us. Fast forward to moments when remaining silent was better than speaking the truth, when we shirk the idea (or the effort) of doing the hard work, when admitting that it takes more than 1 person to mess up a relationship ( any relationship), through not believing that I was worth more than how I felt. (believe me- I felt pretty rucky ) to the present day.

Today I stand at the precipice of such amazing changes in my life that they almost take my breath away at times. ( insert Berlin song here…https://youtu.be/Bx51eegLTY8?si=2yc1zdVnq7NgZ5AU) In the span of 7-8 months I will (hopefully) have a title added to my name, & a month later my surname will actually change! (say what>!>!) A surname, for those whose vocab is a little rusty, is the equivalent to a last name. In June of 2024- if all goes well, & in accordance with a Plan far bigger than me, I will lean into a Rev./Pastor title….I will gratefully & with such incredible respect & reverence walk into Provisional status as a Deacon in the United Methodist Church ( think the start of a 3 year internship period here). This is a calling which has not left me alone for nearly 13 years & the road has not been easy (I hear that few things really worth it are) & it has been fraught with challenges, tears, heartbreaks, questions, answers, & more tears. Now I embark on the last couple of checkpoints that include interviews, more questions, more interviews, & finally (& hopefully) a series of approvals. I know this material- I know this call- I know this desire like I know my own children (at least I HOPE I know them). What terrifies me are the moments when I will be dismissed to be discussed- when the answers to questions posed to me will be analyzed, my actions scrutinized, my behaviors now & into the future evaluated, & my current & future effectiveness judged. Remember when I said that “If you would just behave like…..or do…..” then I would gain entrance into the postive affirmation promised land…..well, here we are- some 45 years later with the same tapes running through my head. If I don’t do this- if the wheels fall off- what happens then? Will I have lost the faith that so many have in me? Will I have let everyone down?

The same goes for the man I am about to commit the rest of my life to in a few short months. 8 months from today, to be exact (but then, who’s counting?). 8 months I will join a family that is full of love, legacy, committment, fierce loyalty, faith, & a staunch belief in one another. This is unlike anything I have ever experienced- & I have longed for it my whole life- yearned to be part of a unit that supports one another- one that doesn’t keep score- one that loves unconditionally-one that I feel like I could be accepted, cared for, loved, & ushered in as a daughter- sister- auntie in law just for who I am. And I see that just within my reach- (pretty terrifying eh?) These people already want to embrace me & all I can think of is I pray to God I don’t let them down. I hope above all that I can be worthy of the surname I am about to adopt- that I can be true to the Auntie- Pastor- CiCi that seems to be coming to fruition. I keep thinking- “what do I have to do to keep this here? What standard do I have to first achieve & then maintain?” They would answer- NONE. And THAT is also terrifying. How do I embrace that? How do I move within a framework that negates all that I have believed about love & relationships my whole life? How do I integrate this & what if I fail at that?

Today, my fiance’ looked at moving a vacation to Arizona in January because one of the days we would be gone would be a board meeting (did I mention I am an excutive director of a really cool non profit? Check out www.groundworksconnect.com for more information.) & a major partners meeting in the western part of the state. Here he is, online chatting with me, willing to move dates so that we can travel on a 1st vacation together. WHAT>!>!>! I mean, what almost married (or married couple, for that matter) go on vacations together? I never did that! So we Facetime talk during the noon hour & he digs out his calendar right there to talk about options- he tells me he knows that the 2 events taking place are important & sees the need for me to be there. ( he would tell me at this point- “I see you. I know you. I love you.) See, words & actions I have longed to see & hear. What did I do to earn them & what’s more- how do I not lose that? What if I can’t live up to & maintain what we have now? Why does he love me in this manner? What did I do to deserve this second chance? Where was this the first time around?

The answers to those questions will have to wait for another blog- right now there are so many thoughts whirling in my head that I cannot even separate which makes logical sense & what are lies screaming at me. I know I feel like I am in the midst of an identity crisis- I feel like running from the very things I have waited for what seems like ever to see happen- (I can’t believe I just used the word “very” to describe something- the English teacher in me is so cringing.) I feel like I have to apologize in advance for letting people down- for not being all that I should be-for not winning 1st place- & asking them to be ok with 2nd where I am concerned.

Now, I know that logically these comments are incorrect-they are untrue-lies-but they are louder & louder the more grace & love that I receive. And yes, this is totally fodder for the counselor’s couch. That’s already on the agenda. Right now, I am seeking peace, assurance, a calming resolution to the turmoil I feel brewing. I need, but it is soo sooo hard to admit any of what I may need- so I remain quiet. That too, will need exploration.

Until the next moment-I bid you all ado-may intrusive soundtracks be put to rest for each of you- may a playlist of the wonders of who you are blare at full volume, reassuring you of your infinite worth. And, maybe soon, I will hear mine play too!

agape,

cindythea

Suspended-but not Alone~

25 May 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: , , ,

The above image is of a suspension bridge connecting a chasm within the Black Hills in Western SD. It connects a gap from one set of property lines, across a ravine of rocks, trees, and limbs to a more wooded area, giving way to a beautiful golf course. The suspension bridge spans about 200 ft , is about 4 feet wide, and more than a little wobbly.

I hate heights- I mean really, really, really dislike them. Not the “I hate sub zero windchill” kind of dislike- but the kind that churns my stomach, elevates my blood pressure, and renders me sometimes incapable of coherent thought. I feel weak, unsure of myself, and my own good judgment seems to fly out the window. For all my bravado, when it comes to heights (and those blasted snakes, spiders, mice, rats and other creepy crawlies) and I am faced with fears like this, I become almost incapacitated, paralyzed with all sorts of images of danger running through my mind. I envision all sorts of scenarios–losing my balance, plummeting to my death, the definite Indiana Jones bad guys that are surely coming out of the darkened forest to impale me on the end of their dagger thingy on their way to secure the Holy Grail–( I do not have access to, nor do I know where to find said Holy Grail). I imagine the security of what I was walking on giving way and I am tossed to the ground (after free falling millions and millions of feet at what could only be Top Gun 10 G’s speed), and I am left there-cold, broken, missing my water bottle, with my phone lying just out of reach ( and what’s that sound- oh yes- the intrepid mountain lion or bear coming to eat me while I wait for rescue), alone.

Is that really going to happen- prolly not ( but….there’s still time!), but the idea that something so scary COULD happen is what often stops me from beginning a process or taking a step in first place. The reality of the situation is far less damning than what I am concocting in my head and I foster this idea that I have to tackle what I deem terrifying on my own. If I could get out of my own way, I could experience so much more-

Anyone else out there terrified of the terrifying?

I’ve been thinking about this as I recall a couple moments that occurred recently. The above picture is of an actual suspension bridge some 30ish feet above a ravine. That is a real rickety and wobbly bridge and ……wait for it…….I walked across it- 4 times! Well, technically 2 times (to and from my destination), but still I was on it 4 times! That’s a pretty big deal. I can look down and see the rocks and tree limbs, I scan for the RIP tombstone I am convinced exists, and when it wobbles back and forth, I catch my breath ( reminding myself that “Weebles Wobble, but they Don’t Fall Down!”) and utter a prayer, and let’s face it, more than a couple expletives. I was on this bridge with 3 other people- a brother type, a sister type, and a fatherly type– incidentally, the 2 males in our party took up the front and back end of our trek across DOOM. Could I, would I have done this alone? Most definitely not. There is the lesson- ( I am, after all, a teacher, so everything is harkened back to some sort of lesson) and yes, the second I say “there is the teaching moment” my kiddos would roll their eyes and groan- (she turns everything into a teaching moment- Yes, Yes I do– get used to it!) and it’s a musical too, but I can’t dance across this dang bridge.

The first steps were tentative-wiggly-fraught with hesitation-I watched the stride of the person ahead of me-concentrating on the next forward movement. The next few steps were stronger-with a little more confidence. Then I came to a section that had pieces of the plank missing-the voice ahead of me warned me-threw me a caution to be careful. They did not fix the situation-did not piece together the partial plank, but instead gave me a heads up as to what to expect. (it is the unknown that often catches us and throws us for a loop). I crossed the damaged area-noting that the flaws gave the whole walkway more character. This part differed from the others-gave me something new to consider, a challenge to overcome, and I did. So did the others that were with me. We grabbed on to the rusty metal pipe that’s attached to a bit of chain and wended our way across the expanse. There were moments where I caught my breath-wondering if I could indeed put one foot in front of the other-could I truly take on this scary ( and of course, death defying) big big bridge?

On my own-not a chance. Without seeing those feet ahead of me and knowing that there were people behind me-counting on me- bolstering me, I would never have set foot on that wooden walkway. Without realizing it, those of us on the bridge that afternoon were demonstrating exactly what I think many of us know deep down–we CAN do hard things- we can surpass our expectations- and we do this because as a whole we are better together! We can draw strength from each other and push further and do more-together!

It dawned on me as I was writing this that the story of the bridge is not just my story-there were 3 others with me on that journey-at least one other who was as nervous as I was. They needed me not to bail. Maybe, just as I was keeping my eyes fixed on the figure ahead of me, they too, were watching and needing me to pull through so they could too. So, we ventured forth-over the rickety board gap, further away from the security of the lawn we left behind towards what we could only see just before us. The look down (wait, don’t they tell you NOT to look down?) threatened to catch me off guard-but the promise of something waiting for me just ahead was enough to keep me moving-(if you’re not moving-you’re likely being passed). Crossing the finish line, so to speak, brought me back onto solid ground-the smiles, the affirmations from those of us that had bested our fears was exhilarating-we did it- we did it together!

Then-wow, oh wow…..the trees, the landscape regions, the examples of growth all around us- This-THIS is what we brave the hard parts to find- (ok sometimes the hard parts find us first)-I discovered a piece of the world I had not seen before this walk-if I hadn’t braved this moment, my eyes wouldn’t have taken in green-life-the smiles from those gathered-the smiles that confirmed that they were proud of us. I wouldn’t have heard the affirmation nor taken the next steps of learning from a long respected patriarch of an incredible family. The walk that ensued, the conversations that took place, the sharing -none of that would have happened.

Later that weekend I invited someone else to walk that same path with me-the fear was palpable- no one believed we’d be able to do it and certainly not just as dusk threatened to overtake our outing. No way did we think we’d make it- no way did we believe we would take the big step to venture into an unknown. But….we did. (remember I said I walked that bridge 4 times- here was trip number 2 into the abyss) And……we did it!

This time I took the lead-this time I made sure that I was the voice or the feet that someone else could follow-and it feels amazing to provide support to another-and it is amazing to watch another be brave and do hard things. It feels even better to know that we can do hard things-together.

You see, we were never meant to walk these paths alone. I am a fierce independent and I pride myself on doing everything on my own. I like it-I like knowing that I think I can take the world on and conquer it-all on my own! ( but wow-when realizations kick your bum, they really kick it!) What I rarely admit to anyone are the instances that I foster a healthy dose of my own terror-the moments that I don’t step forward and make a move because the fear of the unknown is too great ( and let’s face it, I don’t really like doing the chicken dance). So that fear grips me-takes hold and chokes out the goodness and growth I might have otherwise experienced. (nothing ventured, nothing gained) I used to think that was ok-that it was just fine to not know what I might be missing-but catching glimpses of vistas I have yet to see offers me too much to walk away from- See when you get a taste of amazing, you want more. When I realize that hard things can be accomplished and they are made easier with someone (or multiple someone’s and a faith) there is something that makes me want to walk more bravely, take on harder issues to see what can be tackled-how we can inspire each other to be better and more than we thought possible.

Now that does not mean that the initial walk across and the walk back wasn’t scary it was ( and in the dark it was even scarier)- but waiting at the edge of our return was another someone ready to see us through to the other side.

I think that’s what part of this life is about- it’s about admitting the hard truths-facing them-reaching out-knowing that we are all in this- I’m capable, we’re capable of so much more. All those things that we yearn to have and achieve-they can be realized-we can, I can- We can do this—–together. So, there’s the bridge-there’s is the path forward-it’s the risk we take-not knowing if we’ll break into a million pieces. But what if, what if in our Humpty Dumpty brokenness, all the people gathered to piece us back to whole? So, here’s an extended hand-I offer you my strength when you need it- grab ahold and we can take the next brave steps-together.

Are you with me ?

A New Normal?

24 May 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: , , , , , , , ,

May is mental health month and it is an area of focus that is near and dear to my heart for obvious reasons. I have a son who wrestles with mental health obstacles, many of my family members and loved ones do as well. I battle my own skeletons of anxiety, dysthymia, and PTSD response. I spoke to a good friend last week after they read my most recent blog where I talked about my son and some of the struggles he has encountered in this, his first year in college. It was after that conversation that I felt compelled to keep writing, to attempt what I deem the impossible- to write unabashedly and transparently that which is on my heart in a way that invites others to find themselves within the words should they choose to do so. It feels impossible because I am a consummate perfectionist and creating anything that is less than the standard I set for myself (which in itself is almost unattainable) is unacceptable. That means that anything I write must be 100%, iron clad, perfect with impeccable grammar, a quantifiably large number of big words ( cause you know they make me sound smart) and created without error from the first draft-(after all, I am just as good as Hemingway, right–NOT!!!) The more I listened to their conversation, the more I realized that maybe what is needed is good ole fashioned realness-in its raw, gritty, often muddy, not perfectly tied up with a beautiful bow kind of insight. Maybe instead of glossing over that which hurts and trying to put a pretty pirouette on it, I could peel back the layers and walk the walk I challenge myself to in my head ( my head talks to me, like a lot!) Maybe there are others who are thinking similar thoughts, journeying through common grounds, and could use a moment of “OMG, that’s me!” So, yeah-let’s see what we can unpack here.

The above quote comes to me after 2 weeks of soul searching as the result of interactions with a loved one and what they bring to the table in my world. I have spent years (ok decades), beating myself up for the stories of my past that are not lily white and purely perfect. I come from some tough stuff- I harbor some pretty deep hurts and tell myself some awfully damaging stories that are directly related to my family of origin and my adopted upbringing. I have told myself for decades that those skeletons from my past render me inferior to most people-that once they knew who I really was and the source of all the insecurities they would run screaming for the hills ( but the hills ARE alive with the sound of music after all….). I have looked in the mirror, loathing the image that I saw each day, wishing for a different narrative, hoping that one day the clouds would part and the sun would come streaming through to illuminate a new path. (insert Wizard of Oz Yellow Brick Road reference here) I believe (d) that the dysfunction I experienced and in some cases helped perpetuate meant that I was garbage and unworthy of love. In reality, things happened in my world- trauma (multiple ones) occurred and caused massive chasms of pain in my soul- some have lessened over time, some will likely never heal completely and yet others will rear their feisty heads at times and demand that I pay attention to them. What I am realizing is that those traumatic experiences do not have to dictate who and what I am-not to myself nor to other people. Biting that off and chewing on it is proving quite the task.

My friend and I spoke of what it feels like to be loved- to be truly seen, heard, and cared for just as we are- festering ickies and all- reactions that are sometimes unpleasant and all the things that make us who we are–the good, the not so great, and the downright putrid. We both expressed a massive sigh when we discovered that until the moment we were united with the person who can show us that kind of love-we’d both been holding our breaths so to speak and now- now finally we are beginning to know and embrace what it feels like to breathe- (did you know that consistent breathing is good for your health?- huh, who knew, right?) That we didn’t know what it was to kinda feel alive until such time that we in a sense found the “one whom my soul loves” What a feeling that is.

Words are vitally important to me-they, in my opinion, have the power to elevate and build or to topple and destroy. They leave a lasting impact and I often am analyzing for both their individual message and the collective communication they bring. I am hypervigilant (to an extreme)- and not just because I am a female and that tends to be an MO for many of us. I am hypervigilant due to a heightened need to be aware of my surroundings at all times. It is a state of constant tension-of being on high alert- ready to fly or fight any danger (real or perceived) that may occur. It is a massive trauma response and is closely tied to our friend, PTSD. It is absolutely exhausting–and yes I used the absolute there on purpose- it sucks. It turns normally benign situations into danger zones and conversations become filled with landmines that both parties feel like they have to sidestep in order to avoid a blow up- it twists reality into a writhing mass of insecurities that threaten to choke the life out of the good that is present (see the really cool snake reference there?) That vigilance causes me to question, doubt, OVER analyze, and negate that which is good-reducing it to a sodden pile of waste–then I think it is too squashy and grotey for me to pick up, so I run or I avoid or I deflect. I am a master at it-and it also sucks.

That’s the thing though-when people enter your life with a desire to do nothing but love us for who we are-something happens-something dislodges and things you never thought were lurking below the surface come rushing forth and engulf you in emotions. The person or persons who can handle that and love us through that are treasures indeed. I have such a person (and people)- and it is discombobulating at best.

“Love,” Andrew Lloyd Webber says, “Changes everything.” Oh my gosh, how true that is. Breathing-leaning in, acknowledging, and accepting that kind of love here on earth and even in the Divine can be such a difficult task-but oh, when I recognize it-I want to run full force towards it. My friend and I talked about how we view ourselves in the midst of such love-“it’s like I can admit that I like the person who is loved in such a way”. I am right now in conversation with 3 of my best friends, planning a trip to see P!nk in concert and I am flabbergasted that they want to include me-that they deem me ok enough to love and journey with on the daily. I spoke to another “sister from another mister” today about my own insecurities and doubts about myself and there was no judgment-no anger-they did not condemn me- I’m like- “what???” There is a significant emergency contact in my life who calls me beloved-believes I am beautiful in any light-delights in my weirdness, whose quirks don’t irk, and despite my best efforts to blow crap up-stands in the midst of rubble around us and steadfastly declares, “I am not running”

What the hell do I do with that? You may be saying-uh—-you accept it and revel in it. Careful, careful though. You see with all that goodness comes all sorts of bells and whistles that scream at me that there must be danger lurking somewhere-there is certainly a shoe about to drop (where ARE Dorothy’s slippers anyway?)-there is a constant feeling that what I am seeing and experiencing can’t possibly be real (who knew you could gaslight YOURSELF). Readers-this is sooo sooo sooo exhausting and inspires me to want to crawl into a hole and cry. I want to bawl for all the amazingness that I am experiencing as it is mixed with a fervent fear that I am about to lose it all and it will be all my fault. That one day my friends, whom I call brothers and sisters, loved ones I adopt into my fold, my darling significant emergency contact will all one day wake up from the hazy hallucination and discover that loving me is too much work-(that’s not a drug trip I want!) I ache for the years wasted in disbelief and self hatred, for the narratives that have shaped my self image and threatened to engulf what I know to be true about myself.

What am I trying to say with this blog? I think I am saying— I don’t know shit. I don’t know how to do this-I don’t know how to sit amongst the amazing and admit that I have to embrace the suck that this journey is taking me on right now. You see, because I have such incredible people in my life (and there are many-I can FINALLY admit that), I want to heal-I want to know what soundtracks sound like without the interference of constant static-I want to enjoy breathing-I want to explore needs, wants, desires, and figure out how to vocalize them. My own counselor is overjoyed at the emotional quandary in which I find myself-she believes this is where the truest Cindy will reveal herself ( and stop talking in the 3rd person) and show a transparent strength that has been sitting there this whole time-she believes my best days are yet ahead of me and that to get there I have to walk this most stinky part of the road- Loving others is easy-oh, so easy, cause I can concentrate on the needs of others and put them first. It is accepting the love of others that is proving so hard and so so so painful- painful enough that I feel almost consumed with how to perform perfectly so that I don’t lose any of it- and yet, there’s the rub ( and Shakespeare makes an appearance-Well, hello William). If I am insistent on performing perfectly I will lose it because there is no way I can be perfect ( knowing there was only 1 perfect person to walk the planet). I can’t get this 100%-and people don’t want that. People want the real-the icky squishy, vulnerable, and perfectly imperfect me so they can Velveteen the crap out of me. At least that’s what I want to offer others-and secretly it is what I yearn to receive for myself- What am I saying- I know what I am being called to be about and what I am being asked to embrace on multiple fronts and it scares the hell out of me- Yet- And….yet…….And YET—I want it more than I can articulate, I am not sure how to do this though and that is prolly the most scary of all.

Anyone else out there feeling like that? (cause it is such a relief to know I’m not alone–) (Insert “You Will be Found” from Dear Evan Hanson here—hahahaha earwormed ya, didn’t)

YOU, you are NOT alone! And maybe, just maybe, I’m not either.

The Ties that UN Bind

12 Jan 2023 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: ,

Wow. It has been 34 years since I started in SD as a competitor in high school speech and forensics. I memorized the season which began, for me, the beginning of October and did not end until the end of March. It was an every weekend, multiple day competition, pitting the best that SD had to offer–it was intense & most that have never participated would never understand its depth, just as I do not understand what it means when my youngest son trots onto the football field in a varsity game. 30 years ago, I was riding high as one of the top rated drama and ld competitors, about to graduate, and I had worked by butt off for 4 years to develop skills, relationships, and trophies. I loved it-loved the people and what we meant to each other. 30 years ago I was set to graduate& head to college knowing that I had given them the best I had to give.

The Speech & Debate Circuit (in any state) is a weird, almost incestuous family-in SD it is even more so. We take care of each other-we know each other-watch out for each other, are involved in each other’s lives-we’d have to be to travel every weekend for 6 months and more than 20 weeks out of the year (and that’s just during the school year). We are family-whether we admit it or not.

I had the unique advantage of having one of my (then) favorite people travelling almost every weekend with me, & he just happened to be my brother in real life-so I got double dipping dibs on the family gig. I loved that I had access to him so often-he was 4 years ahead of me in school and I admired just about everything about him. He had a talent that never ended-a charisma that drew people to him like a moth to a flame (most of the time)-I thought he was near flawless. I know now that was an unrealistic and unfair expectation to have of him. I believed in him & when I was graced to be in his favor-I thought there was nothing better. I felt like I was on top of the world-I felt like I belonged-that I was important, that whatever else might have been happening didn’t matter quite so much….I felt worthy.

I remember the hours we walked around the countless high school hallways-it was a tradition we established that I continued when I became a teacher-“the Heidelberger Walk and Talk”…..He’d walk me to my room when I had “broken” to the out rounds or to finals-drilling me on what I needed to do-how I needed to frame an argument, what I needed to do during Cross Examination, and above all–TELL THE STORY! The drill was incessant-what did I need to ward against? What holes existed in my cases? What tendency did I have in my humor or my drama that might trip me up and throw me off the story? Who were my judges? What did they expect from me? What did he expect? That was easy- he expected (like me) perfection. And, often I delivered-or I got as close as I could. The drilling gave way (when I earned it) to honest praise and admiration. When I heard the words of affirmation, I’d swear I was flying— “Holy crap–he believes in ME?! He sees me! He thinks I’m good? Better than that, he knows I am!” I worked harder to attain those words & beliefs than I did any hardware I took home. Trophies tarnished & collected dust, words & true connections meant so more- (they still do). It was during my senior year that I was still in this La La Land, fairytale relationship with my older brother-and I relished it.

My grandfather had been placed in a nursing home when I was a young girl & so much of the time we would have had to experience grandparents was cut pretty short. We made the most of what time we did have and when he passed on January 13, 1993, his loss was felt. Although we had not had decades of memories with him, what we did have, for the most part, was positive. I recall him telling me to listen to the tone of the blinker in the car in which I was riding-the rate, tone, and pitch said something-his old Plymouth (I think) said, “toothpaste, toothpaste, toothpaste.” I can’t get in a car to this day without listening for what it sings to me.

I’ve written about the moment that I found out my grandfather had passed & the person I reached out to in order to look out for my older brother. Some in my family would contend that I overstepped my emotional bounds, that I had no business letting a non family member know what was happening. You see, everything that occurred in our family (unless it was success ) was to be kept in secret-we were sworn to remain quiet-“You don’t talk to or tell anyone about anything that happens in this house. It’s none of anyone’s business.” I suppose there was a certain amount of truth to that-but wow, what a burden for any of us to bear-an indelible gag order. I’ve articulated being at the debate tournament with my older brother instead of at the funeral with the rest of my family and the extended family (which was extensive)—I’ve mentioned the hurt and betrayal I felt when I received the full weight of my brother’s fury at the end of the tournament, raging at me in the foyer of a local high school-it is something that I don’t think I will ever forget.

Today, my ex-husband confirmed what tournament was taking place this weekend-it has a new name of course, but the timing on the calendar the same. I smile because I know this timeframe as familiarly as I did when I was actively competing or coaching. Some things never change (and maybe that’s ok). Something in realizing that it’s been 30 years this weekend caused something in me to break-I suppose it didn’t help that a John Denver playlist was alive on my Spotify and “Leavin on a Jet Plane” clawed at my emotions.

I miss that time competing-I miss that family, I cherished those people with all that I am. Had I known then what I know now, I would have realized how many of them were watching out for me-caring for me from afar, worried about whether I would make it through to the end of my HS career. I owe many of them my life and I don’t think I could do enough to thank them for the gifts they instilled in me. I use what I learned from them every day -& I wish I could look at that group of coaches from that time and express my gratitude and my love. My hope has been that the way I’ve lived my life & what I have done in the meantime has been a small token of appreciation.

While I miss that time-I have to admit-I miss my brother more. I miss the connection we had, how we seemed to understand each other, how, without saying a word to one another, we had been living similar household lives-and I had watched (in awe) as he made it out & succeeded. I admired him. I loved him. God help me, I still do.

I haven’t typed that or admitted it publicly-I miss him-and I love him to this day. Despite all the bullshit, the hurt, the pain, the betrayal, and the ostracization- I love him, I love his family which includes a sister in law and a niece. If he were to walk into my home right now and utter 2 words-he’d have it (not that he wants my forgiveness nor a relationship with me.) If I were to look up and see him stride across the room, & look at me with a set of eyes so like mine, & know that we could mend something so broken-I would move heaven and earth.

But, I can’t & that connection is not possible. We have not spoken for 30 years. We know nothing about each other, our children know nothing of their extended family members-neither one of us knows the roads we have traveled to become the adults we are. Neither one of us lends the other any support or encouragement–I do not wish him or his family ill will in any capacity-we have absolutely no link to one another at all. That hurts me at a intensely deep place, although I am not sure how that affects anyone else. I will say that this fractured relationship has all but severed other ties with immediate family members. It is the ever present elephant in the room that we never speak of if any of us happens to be in the same place at the same time. Our family does not actively choose to engage with one another and the older I get, the sadder I feel about that. But, I understand emotional baggage, boundary, and brokenness. We just (at this point ) are not meant to be- So tonight, I reflect on 30 years-what was the dream of yesterday & the current reality of tomorrow.

30 years-the unraveling of a family unit- the ties- unbound. Someday, just maybe tethered again, someday.

Shalom dear ones,

cah

How do you Measure, Measure a Year (RENT) ?

01 May 2022 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , ,

It is no secret that musicals tend to run on auto play in my head-well just about any song lyrics from my various playlists flood my brain at any given moment of the day. This time as I reflect on this of all days, RENT seems the most apropos.

The above picture is the exact same day 1 year later- In one picture I am posing for an award nomination that I received, and the other one, I was fresh out of a salon afternoon. Both instances I was in the same salon-doing my thing and letting them do theirs. The differences are stark- and they have not left me alone since I saw it. The fact that it was April Fool’s Day is also not lost on me. Huh.

Today, May 1st marks the 1 year anniversary that I moved out on my own, left a place that I had known for well over 2 decades. A place that I had helped create-fostered-thought was a haven–it was simply a location. 1 year ago, I packed what I was taking to my new home and set forth to create something new. My youngest son was with me-numerous trips had already been made and the furnishings were coming together. One of my besties accompanied me, loading what could not fit in my car-a car that my youngest now drives daily (that’ll mess with your head), and followed me out into the country.

I remember driving away with such a mixture of feelings. I knew that I would never return to this location as a family member-part of a unit. I knew that I had no right to expect that and out of respect I have maintained those boundaries. Knowing that I would be there as a guest of the home hurt. I knew what went on in those four walls-I knew the people inside, knew their habits, their schedules, their idiosyncrasies. I knew I was leaving the comfort of what was known and starting something new. I was scared, I was terrified, I doubted my decision, I doubted me.

I felt massive levels of shame- and guilt. Mostly I felt ashamed. I felt that way for so many reasons. I was walking out-walking away from something that I knew was imperfect, but it was known. I was leaving 2 sons that I had seen day in-day out for the last 17 years…I felt like part of me was ripping apart at the seams as I contemplated life without their noise and mess around me 24-7. I felt so much shame at not being able to piece something back together-to give it one more shot. To be honest, I didn’t have 1 more shot left in me-my physical body and my emotional well being were screaming at me that is was time do something or others may be left holding the pieces. The heart scare was enough to awaken me to time. It is oh, so short. Having to go through those tests, hearing the doctors tell me that if I was going to have a problem, this was the one to have-enduring episode after episode until resolution happened was terrifying. But, it woke me up. I remember being the in ER and the lead Dr, ( I had worked with her often as a chaplain), look at me and ask, “A little Ativan to take the edge off? Our pulse is still 175, you’re not leaving here until I see it at 100 at least.” I actually told her no, that I could do it on my own-that I had this in complete control. OBVIOUSLY I didn’t-I had been brought in with a pulse rate of 255 ( I guess that’s a little fast). Obviously I could not get this under control on my own-but damn I was bound and determined to maintain that stubborn, stiff upper lip, ask no one for anything attitude that has bound me in titanium for 47 years. I was not going to break for anything-I vowed that I would never break.

I broke.

In fact, I have been breaking for a year.

I drove away from the house, steeped in shame, doubt, fear, and unconfident.

I look at the 2 pictures posted above and I am shocked by the difference in them. They are like 2 totally different people. Sure, the smile is the same shape, the eyes too, still gots good hair (thank you to my amazing stylists). There are other elements that exist in the picture on the right. The woman on the left looks ok, but it appears like she is going through the motions-the eyes have no luster, no life in them. The face is strained-what emotion is in there is for show-to let people on the outside know that NOTHING is wrong and NOTHING will penetrate titanium-that I can do all the things on my own.

The woman on the right-the smile is open-engaging-dare I say happy? The eyes are more alive, they contain more energy, they invite a person to come along for whatever ride we’re about to take-together. The face-albeit with more wrinkles than I would like, is relaxed, contains some character. You may wanna hang with this one- For the first time I am willing to admit that I DO hang with this one.

I never wanted anything to do with the many facets that are me. Driving out to my new home a year ago, I knew that I would be left alone with one person and one person only-me (well me, and my best boy OLIVER, the PUG). Did I have the courage to sit with her, dine with her, care for her, and rest with her night after night, alone? Did I want to? Could I stand to be with her and all her stuff?

As I watched people unpack my home, placing items in cupboards and re-arranging furniture, I felt such immense sadness at what I had left. I felt horrible that I could not give my children a perfect story, a fairy tale ending where no one got hurt. I knew others would be left in the house, dealing with their own stuff and it hurt to know that I had caused part of that.

People left, the house in the country got quiet, really quiet. Out in the country, you have space and time does seem to stand still. My son went in to the other house in town and I was left to my own vices-and to discover where he had put most of my kitchenware. I was alone, with only my thoughts, emotions, and days to fill on my own.

That first night was so quiet-so was the next one, and the next, and so on. A year later it is still so quiet. But I do not fear that quiet as much as I did those first couple weeks. Weekends, when they aren’t jam packed are solitary and often inspire me to feel a certain amount of loneliness. And, not gonna lie, the nights are the roughest-when you are working on something (in my case writing or reading) and you have a thought and you lift your head to share it-there is no one there to hear it. I used to visit my son’s rooms each night, hug them tight, and whisper, “You are beautifully and wonderfully made. And I love you.” It was our thing-my way of connecting with them and I no longer had that. That gutted me-still does. I often watch, search, yearn to see on my phone that moment of connection and often have to choke back a moment when it doesn’t come-and then the joyous smile I have when I see the opposite happen!! They remembered! They read my text! I matter! I AM important to them!

Even though I would tell them good night, I would then walk down the hallway, into my room, sit on my bed and be there- alone. You see, you can be surrounded by people and still feel alone. I was feeling that and my face and my demeanor and my room showed it. My room was a scattering of mess. In fact, I rarely entered the living room for any length of time-unless it was to pick up or whatever and I often remarked that there was not one thing of mine in that room-nothing in it that indicated that I was there-I had never noticed it-never noticed how small I had made myself–how many layers of titanium I had built to wall me off from the rest of the world. I had never noticed how many bricks I had added- I had not broken because I couldn’t feel anything. And no one could get to me-but I dearly wanted people to come in-I just wouldn’t let them.

Today, a year later-and it’s been a year. The boys come and go-sharing time in and out of town. That is still hard to get used to-but I know they are ok. I miss hearing their commotion-dearly miss talking to them in the morning-I did not realize how much I needed or wanted those connections at night and in the morning. But, they matter. They matter because they make me feel like I belong to someone, that there is a tether between me and them and though the outside world exists and still turns, there is a home base for all of us. They matter because it’s important to tell the people in your world that they are important to you-it is something I am teaching them–when it happens, I am on cloud 9 (whatever that means). When it doesn’t and I go holidays or weekends without hearing from them, I feel this immense void-like a part of me is hollow. I know that will subside, that there will be days, weeks, and months in the future that I will not hear from them. Today, though, I need that connection that lets me know that for now, we’re ok-maybe even more than ok.

Today, a year later, I can honestly say the process of melting titanium is taking place-it is painstakingly arduous. It hurts worse than any pain I have ever experienced. There have been issues and situations that have come about in this last year that have driven me to my knees-knocked the breath from me, and catapulted me into memories I thought I had boxed neatly and shelved. I can say that I am breaking-breaking molds that I hid behind-narratives that I play ad nauseum, theories that I have fostered, beliefs that I held onto with everything that I had. Those are breaking free and it often leaves me feeling naked and vulnerable and that screams at me that that is weak. Vulnerability isn’t weak-it’s hella strong! I am learning that and I am admitting to you, dear reader, that I suck at it. I am constantly asking myself if I am doing it right so that I don’t mess up-OMG it is exhausting. It means looking at situations head on and asking myself why I am having the reaction I am- (enter CPE training here) and what can I own versus what is for others to own. That is hard, especially for this people pleasing, over functioning, empath.

Today, a year later, I have discovered a village of people who are FAMILY! I may have been part of separating one family unit ( and I miss those relatives dearly), and motivated a new definition of how we do it, but it’s being done. I have learned that despite my smart kid in the class mentality (and I LIKE it that way!), that I DON’T KNOW JACK….I am coming to grips with that knowledge and I can’t say I revel in it. I have seen incredible acts of love and kindness and I have seen people and situations ripped apart-and each level me as I feel them intensely. I have experienced love and acceptance from people who barely know me, but convey such care, love, and regard for me that it often brings me to tears. I am recognizing so much that was never on my radar-so many ways of doing and looking at things, that I am often left baffled and wondering if I am doing it right. That’s where grace enters. There’s always grace-I am learning to extend that my way-there’s lots of layers to this writer that have yet to be uncovered and each of them needs TLC and a whole lot of grace.

On my counselor’s floor a week ago, I uttered some of the most honest words I had ever said in her office, ” I don’t know how to do this.” I really don’t.

Today, a year later, while breaking up is hard to do, time heals and new ways of relating take shape-or not in some cases. What is happening is the chinks in the titanium armor are elongating, giving way to revealing the squishy-the smooshy. I am not always sure I like that and I often retreat back in, hide out, and deflect to concentrate on others-to love on them, to compliment who and what they are-to build them, because it’s easier to do. It’s easier to flip a compliment than to say thank you and let others know how much their insight means to me-it’s easier to believe that they are lying-that they don’t mean what they said, that they’re just being nice-that’s BS! And, I am learning that.

So.

Today, a year later, I continue to break.

Shalom,

cah

At it Again

05 Jan 2022 1 Comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , , , ,

It has been almost a year since I have written anything publicly-a year in which so many changes took place it is overwhelming to consider. Yesterday, January 4th, I felt compelled to write but didn’t necessarily felt justified to do so. Wound up in a fit of uncertainty about why I was writing, the purpose, & whether anyone would actually read my words had me questioning. Then I realized that, for a writer, the goal is to write–to let the words tumble forth and see what becomes of them.

Today, I endeavor.

A year ago unmistakable physical signs appeared that dictated I take action to ensure my health & safety. I had had instances of similar physical signs before this particular day, but I downplayed them-offered an excuse as to why they were happening, ignored them & told myself that they did not matter. In doing so, I also told myself that I did not matter & had never had the guts to admit that I felt that way.

As I sat atop a stretcher, an ambulance ready to receive me, I talked with my oldest son who was 16 at the time. I told him what was going on, (to the best of my knowledge) instructed him as to next steps at home, & assured him that I was ok. ( I was in great hands and I knew it) He later remarked that, “You were so calm, I could see the pulse rate in the mid 200’s on the monitor, and you were so calm in what you were telling me….how did you do that?” Well, that’s part autopilot, part mom protect son moment, & chaplain non anxious presence all wrapped into one. The fact is, I was scared.

The ride, the ER visit, the care I received was top notch, but what I discovered in the ER procedure room was what changed my life drastically.

As the ER Dr., a middle aged, talented, smart, articulate woman checked my vitals and noted that my pulse rate was still not coming down into manageable range, looked me dead in the eyes and offered some “Ativan to bring this down, yes?” I responded with a, “no-I can take care of it on my own”–I am strong, capable, smart-dammit, I have been taught to be independent & resilient. We don’t depend on anyone-we sojourn on-on our own. Oh the stories we tell ourselves. I could no more resolve this SVT episode than I can do physics (or much of any math for that matter). She recognized a problem, knew a solution, & was offering assistance-not offering, directing my path so that I could be in a better position physically than I currently was (it seems pulse rates of 175 are not good either). Why would I not listen? The stories.

Over my shoulder, the person I had spent almost the last 25 years with, sat in a chair, masked, & quiet. Instantly, something in me broke. Quiet-I’ve never been described as that-(I’ve been described as many other things-but not quiet- Incidentally, I CAN be quiet-serene). I am a take charge, get things accomplished, rally the troops, & rise to the occasion kind of woman. I look at problems & situations, asking myself what in the status quo fits, what doesn’t, & what is to be my response? (Sometimes no response IS the response). To see a situation unfolding in an ER room, with Dr.’s & nurses rapidly responding, my heart rate racing & anxiety climbing, then seeing quiet equated unresponsive in my mind & the lies I had been telling myself came into clear focus.

Just as I had ignored physical symptoms for almost 2 months prior, I had ignored who I had become, forgotten what I wanted-(or never really explored what I wanted), & completely disregarded what I needed. I had made myself small-shrunk my needs ( if I had any) & dreams into a tiny ball & shoved it aside. I was hiding in my room, hiding in my work, hiding in focusing on everyone else around me. The quiet I observed was the loudest sound in the room-it eclipsed the monitors, the vocalized directives, the voices in my head, trying to make heads & tails of the situation. Now it is true that I am a strong personality with a headstrong resolve that can be intimidating & hard to come up against-I admit that. And, it is also true that I tend to shove help & assistance away the second it is offered, or I thwart the offer before it even happens. Here, I needed someone to be stronger than me- & it didn’t happen. Truth be told, it hadn’t happened for decades.

The rest of the month was a whirlwind of tests & preparations for an upcoming procedure, & the quietness of what I had experienced in the ER thundered in my head–I looked for signs that things were changing, that I had missed something-that I was misreading what my heart was telling me. I wasn’t. Early afternoon towards the middle of January, I calmly drove to the county courthouse & filed my petition to end my 20+ year marriage. This is the first time I have written those words-the first time I have seen them in print- & it hurts.

Irreconcilable differences-no fault really-no fighting-just nothing. I thought that no fighting was a good thing-that it meant that no one was hurling angry words at one another, that no physical damage was being done-that others were not being hurt by seeing or hearing it. This is not to say that there were not fights where people were hurt-but those were actually pretty infrequent. No fighting-that concept took on a whole different meaning to me. When I finally got the nerve to serve the papers to the recipient-I ugly cried, it tore my heart out to do this to anyone, let alone someone I had committed to building a future with—(ugh I ended that sentence with a preposition), it hurt to hurt someone, & it still does. But one comment stuck with me, “I hope you’ll change your mind.”

“I hope you’ll change your mind.” Matter of fact, calm, quiet,-it told me all I needed to know. Just like in the ER chair moment, hearing that, something else in me broke. NO NO NO!!!! Fight for ME! Fight WITH me! Throw down & rail–do SOMETHING! But, for some, it’s not in their nature & I cannot hold them to that expectation–I am learning that. I realized immediately that as a partner, this no longer worked for me. I don’t think it ever did, & I pretended that I was ok with being super strong Cindy. I needed, wanted, & desired more- (yes I referenced a word in here that I loathe using). I admitted to myself that just as I had ignored physical heart symptoms for 2 months, I had also ignored what I had allowed my relationship to myself & my marriage to become. I told myself that my symptoms & I did not matter.

I do matter. So do the people with whom I am in relationship–my children matter-. The decision to leave-to move out on my own, to dissolve a commitment did not come easily. I walked away from a known situation (whether it was healthy or not) & struck out on my own. I walked away from a status quo that was not uplifting to anyone- in fact, dismantling was a piece of cake because nothing had been built. I asked for nothing on the way out. I realized we were 2 people individually functioning-not growing, not building, not learning or challenging each other-together. I am not sure when it happened-maybe it was never there, I don’t know. I blamed myself for much of it ( still do to some degree), but ideas are changing in my head. Like tectonic shifts, my mindset is moving from one of complete blame to acknowledging simple reality. These 2 people are better colleagues than lifelong partners & maybe always were. Let me be clear that the 2 boys resulting in this partnership are THE best 2 boys I could ever know & I am eternally grateful to be their mom & that they have a father who is committed to them! I chose to pay attention to the symptoms, pointing me in the direction of the bigger problem-I chose to, as I tell my students in English classes- “Go Below the Surface, Don’t just Skim the Top!” What I found below the surface revealed so much more than I ever thought.

What I discovered was decades of lies, decades of behavior that I thought was normal–I discovered that in all areas of my life I had settled-I was content to remain in the status quo even though I felt the discomfort, even though I was chomping at the bit for something more. While wanting something more I also fostered an immense guilt & a feeling that I did not deserve something more. I believed I had no right to want something more-that there was something wrong with me for wanting more.

I found that I can stand on my own-I had always been independent-but I found that I could lean into the confidence that I can do hard things on my own, but that there was a village of people waiting to walk with me. I had not allowed people to do that before this year.

I learned the impact of decades of tapes playing in my head, & am learning how to reframe or flip the narrative of my story. I am learning that I am in charge of my own story & I have the right to write that story in a way that honors me. What a learning edge-I knew others were people of sacred worth, I am beginning to embrace, I too, am a person of sacred worth.

I realized not paying attention to the signals my body was sending was causing more damage than anything-explaining them away did not remedy the problem, it only placed a faulty band-aid over top. The same theory applies to my personal & emotional life. I had explained away, justified, excused, analyzed, guilted, & flat out ignored almost all of what I was feeling. I negated my internal intuition ( i have a strong spidey sense) which told me to pay attention-I thought the heaviness, the misery, the loneliness was normal. I figured every woman in their mid 40’s feels like they don’t belong, aren’t seen, & don’t matter. I was wrong.

So, now a year later, I ask myself where do I go from here? Well, I move from realizations to doing the hard heart work that I’ve dabbled in for so many years. It means that as I sit in my counselor’s office she rejoices because for the first time, she sees authentic emotion & reaction come from me. It means that maybe I don’t have to rehearse all my answers ensuring that they sound perfect so as not to offend anyone. It means dismantling layers of lies, stacks of stories, & bundles of baggage. It means that I work to embrace people & situations that, up until now, have been foreign concepts to me. Concepts like accepting blanket invitations to supper-(I can JUST drop in, what?!?!?!), or watching families gather for times of celebration & leaning in to being included in those celebrations-or simply included as a member of the family. There is much being revealed that is foreign to me & much of the time I don’t know how to handle it. See, the decision to divorce was one hurdle to jump, ( and I am pretty darn short-I miss the hurdle most of the time) now new realities are staring me in the face, forcing me to deal with long held philosophies about who I am, what I know to be true, & what is mine to carry. This, now, is the hardest part of the whole break. Who am I on the other side of it all? What does healing look like & am I brave enough to walk boldly into that reality? Do I have the guts to accept the people & relationships in front of me & embrace what and who is healthy, beautiful, & giving -do I have the smarts to lean in & celebrate them? Do I think enough of me to treat myself as a person of sacred worth, which in turn, impacts how I treat others? Am I brave enough to turn off the tapes & reframe the narrative?

I don’t know. I know, for once, I can’t do it alone. It’s incredibly difficult to pen that statement-that I can’t do it alone. I was taught that you don’t ask anyone for anything, you don’t accept anything either because that’s charity & no one wants that….(uhhhh I work non profit….) you work your a** off & mind your own business, you shoulder all of it alone. Drilled into my head is perfection, performance, & persuasion. If I am perfectly performing, you are persuaded to love & esteem me. That constant perfect performance is exhausting & unattainable. So maybe in 2022, I put away perfect performance. And maybe, just maybe, I humble myself, accept grace, & ask for help.

Hand Me that Mellophone!

04 Oct 2018 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: , , ,

This past weekend I got to do something that I have wanted to do my entire life.  I got to be in BAND!

I am not kidding, from the moment my classmates went to the band room in 5th grade, leaving a hand full of us in random study halls, I have yearned for the chance.  Then as classes advanced and I went to their concerts, the desire only grew.  When I was high school, I sat, in rapt attention as I watched field show after field show take center stage.  I came from a school with a long and solid reputation in marching…I wanted to be part of that legacy.  Going to college at SDSU ( NOT San Diego), the PRIDE has had a long and successful tradition.  I was friends with many of them–but I never fit in their world.  I didn’t know or understand the inner workings of the programs and shows they put together.

I know a bit more today. And, I want more.

My oldest son is a drummer-he has never taken a piano lesson, but has an understanding of rhythm and music that comes so naturally to him.  It is truly remarkable to watch him sit down at his trap set and improvise or to listen to him re-create music he’s only heard.  The other day I heard him on his bells practicing away to the tune of Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah”  

I sat there with a goofy grin on my face, knowing that some of my love for music and theatre has transferred to at least one of my sons.  (the verdict is still out on the other one.)  I knew the song he was playing and then I listened as he maneuvered from the chorus to his own improv of the verses.  He didn’t sing-he just stood there, almost trance-like, fully present to what he was creating.  I fought back tears of my own in that moment.  I could see his love-I could feel how much music means to him, I could sense his connection.  And, because I have that connection to music (and words), I understood him on another level.  “I set him on that path,” I breathed to myself.  YES!!!

So, I decided that since he was entering high school and the instances of my connecting with him will lessen as the years speed past, I would volunteer with the band-and marching band as much as I could.  What began as simply assembling, transporting, and moving set pieces for the field show, gave way to chaperoning.  Now that is a whole new reality.

On a bus, among multiple high school students, all in various stages of morning to NON morning person attitude welcomed me.  After the grunt work of loading coolers and instruments, we took our seats.  I chose a seat up front-“cause parents don’t sit with the kids mom” and waited for us to leave.  Suddenly, my seat was inhabited by a gangly, orange and black braces wearing drummer who could barely contain himself.  “I’m coming to sit with you, mom.  Is that OK?”  OK?  Of course it was OK!  Didn’t he want to sit with the drum line though?  Nope.

Armed with my phone, my Spotify playlist, and a pair of earbuds, I was ready to tune out for a bit.  Toothy grin boy next to me grabbed one of my earbuds, stuck it in his ear, and offered me his earnest face.  “Let’s sing, mom!”  Okey dokey.  Song after song, we thumbs up or thumbs downed our selections and smiled at each other once in a while.  This is what it feels like to relate to your kiddo as an almost adult!!!

The parade is typical of any line em up and move em out parade.  Other than warm ups and the quiet marching before you take the parade route, it’s pretty uneventful.  The field show is where it’s at.

The unloading, assembling, tuning, prepping, and executing a field show is some of the most intricate and detailed work I’ve seen high school students do. Every step, timed.  Every movement has a motivation, each note tells the story.  And, each member is integral.  If a member is out of step, the whole thing looks sloppy-it is a lesson in communication, teamwork, and listening.  It’s also a lesson in ego.  Like you have to set down your own ego and work for the good of the whole.  It’s not the snare that grabs the spot light to win percussion awards-it’s the work of the whole percussion section that lands an honor.  For the artist ,setting aside that ego is sometimes the toughest ask of the whole show.

I loaded, unloaded, gobble-gobbled at students who wanted turkey sandwiches, I taped, tied, untied, and stood behind banners on the field.  I saw behind the scenes what no one watching the show sees.  I saw the counting, the looking down at feet to make sure laces were tied, the nervous grins of good luck, and the extreme concentration of all involved.  It left me speechless.

From behind a large fabric banner, I watched the percussion pit-I am beginning to know these kids-some I have watched for years now (well at least since 5th grade).  Others I am just coming to know.  They are a riot!  Their goofy humor and hacky-sack playing speaks to me and reminds me of games of “spoons” and “Egyptian Rock Kill” that we played waiting for results at debate and interp tournaments.  But standing there, watching them engaged in the show, I was transfixed.

A couple of times I had to choke back tears.  “That’s my BUG out there.  Oh, hit that transition….YES!  Watch your step on the backward march and cross step with that big ole bass strapped to you…..Sweet-he made it!” This was more than watching my son come into his own and realizing a group of people who may turn out to be some of his best friends who have his back play.  ( with his adhd and anxiety struggles-having friends who accept unconditionally have been hard to come by)  I was living a dream.

True, I did not have an instrument in my hand- (boy did I wish I had), but I was watching and listening to something come alive—and I was a tiny, tiny part of it.  Walking back with the students, I could feel their excitement.  They had nailed this show-they knew it, I knew it, anyone who had seen it knew it.  Gathering back to dismantle and load, I looked for my son.  Spotting him, I opened my arms for a big hug-he flew into them!  And, he attempted on 2 different bear hugs to lift me off the ground-  He just needed more arm strength.  I blinked back tears, blamed them on the cold, and hugged him tighter yet.  This!  This is what pride in your child feels like.  This!  This is what having a tight and loving bond with your child feels like–blissful and a myriad of emotions all at once.  I stood quiet some time later and my son ambled over to ask what was wrong-“nothing, it’s just this is my first ever band experience.  I had wanted this my whole life and never got to be part.”  “Well, what did you want to play?”  “Trumpet” I said without a moment’s hesitation-“but the middle of my top lip is not strong enough for that mouth piece-I can only play out the side of my mouth on a trumpet-and forget about the french horn!”  He yells for a fellow bander-she hurries over and my son says to her. “Hey, let my mom try your baritone-(mellophone)!  She’s always wanted to play, but was never allowed to.  See if she can play that one!”  Happily the student hands it over-I nervously wipe off the mouth piece, position my lips and fingers in what I think is the right way and blow.  High baritone notes flowed forth–up the higher end of the scale! “Ok, that’s good!” he said  “Quick before Mr.______hears you playing and thinks it’s one of the kids and we get in trouble!”  Sheepishly I hand the horn back-an impressed look forces a smile–“You did that pretty well-those high notes are not easy.”  “Well, I was a soprano vocalist-we learned to develop good breath support.  With more air, you have the chance for higher notes sounding clearer-or something like that.”  Aaaahhhh.

A long and busy day gave way to standing in sleet and waiting and more waiting.  The ride home was quiet.  The same drummer came and sat with me, sharing earbuds and a smile.  This time though, instead the of the excitement I felt buzzing around him, I sensed peace.  I purposely chose quieter songs on the way home.  A contented sigh escaped from him and I glanced down to see his head resting  heavily on my shoulder….eyes closed, relaxed, damp, and more than a bit tired.

Silently I whispered a “thank you Bug…thank you for allowing me to come along on this journey with you.  I may not ever get to march or learn an instrument, but this is a moment I will remember for a lifetime.”

https://photos.google.com/u/1/photo/AF1QipOrDJJuqHh0ae32as6HUgIkLWPkCacOdHBYr9tN

Standing Worlds Apart.

08 Aug 2018 Leave a comment

by cindythea in thoughts Tags: , , , , , , ,

There is a scene in the movie, I Can Only Imagine, where the antagonist is seen tossing trophies and mementos of a former football career into a burning barrel and setting them on fire.  You can feel the pain and disappointment in his movements, the charred remains of the barrel hold the soot seared reminders of a life they hoped would be theirs, and never was.  You can almost taste the dreams that now lay in ashes at the bottom of the rubble.  The hurt is real.

Moments later that same antagonist comes face-to-face with the story’s protagonist, a  young boy intent on dreaming his own flights of fancy.  He is a bright-eyed, optimistic, creative, boy- youthful exuberance bubbles out of him as he proudly shows his mother the make-shift helmet he has constructed out of trash heaps he’s ruffled through that day.  It’s a fighter helmet for use in an epic space battle he knows he’ll engage in someday.  As his father asks about it, he shrugs it off explaining that it’s really nothing-just junk.  We know it’s not true-we had just seen him describe it to his mother and heard her remark how hard he had worked on it.  In a swift moment, his father reminds him that, “Dreams don’t pay the bills.  They keep you from all this, from knowing what’s real.” With that he snatches up the helmet, walks to the lit burning barrel, and tosses it in without so much as a glance.  The flames lick at the drawn designs on the cardboard before it too, becomes the same ash as his father’s football trophies at the bottom of the barrel.

“Dreams keep you from knowing what’s real.”  I understand that statement and I wrestle with it daily.  You see, I am a dreamer.  I am a 100%, head in the clouds, fanciful idealist, who has long envisioned a life somewhere else, living out the dreams I have entertained since I was a little girl sitting at the end of a dock, hashing them out with the fish swimming below me.   I’ve known for decades what those dreams look like, I can taste them-hear them, I know them as intimately as an actor knows the character they play on stage.

Many of my dreams do not involve material goods. I want to be comfortable, to have a few nicer things, provide an education for my children and enough to enjoy trips and treats every now and then.  Most of mine are centered on cycles that I want to end, of relationships tattered that I want mended, of perceptions smashed and reputations restored.  I dream of truth and forgiveness and love unconditional.

I know what it feels like to watch those dreams burn to ashes.  Recently, I realized a dream that was singed 25 years ago.  The day I watched,  I Can Only Imagine, with my oldest son, I recall how gut punched I felt viewing that burning barrel scene.  I sat there with tears streaming down my cheeks and it took my son pointing them out to realize how long I had been crying.  I understood the anguish in that scene.

I had a hero growing up.  That hero happened to live in my house, and the sun rose and set on the opinions and actions of him.  When I was in their good graces, I floated.  When I fell from grace, I crashed and burned.  There was a moment my senior year of high school-some 25 years ago where I fell from his favor.  In that moment, all of their pent up frustration, anger, resentment, drama and ego spewed forth and I, like Icarus, flew too close to the sun, melted my wings, and plunged to the earth.  I’ve yet to repair those wings.

That moment shattered the image of my hero and sent them crashing to the earth too.  In all fairness, it is unrealistic to idolize someone that much.   There is no way they can maintain that expectation, nor should they have to.   That kind of pressure, self inflicted or other, is dangerous and often leads to heartache.  I knew that and yet naively believed that after such a fall, I could piece things together and go back to before it happened.  Icarus died mid flight.

I was embarking on a new adventure the summer after this fall out and my hero and I would be attending the same college, situated in the same dorm complex.  I knew I would see them.  I knew many of the same people and I wanted desperately to restore my former standing.  I wanted to matter.  I wanted to fix it.  So, I set about doing so.

This was the time in the fashion world where button down silk shirts were all the rage-my hero had seen one, remarked they wanted one and I knew it.  In fact, that same year we had been at a store together and I promised him his first silk shirt would come from me.  So, I devised what I thought was a fool proof plan.  I saved up my money from the grocery store job I had, marched into the local men’s boutique and purchased the nicest, button down, silk shirt I could find, $60 some dollars later.  I asked the salesperson to wrap the gift because if anyone knows me, they know that I can’t wrap my way through a Christmas present.  They gave me the box and it was full of color and ribbon and festivity.  I beamed with pride, nearly skipping my way to the car.  I knew this would be “the moment”!

I brought it into the house, excited to have something to gift to my hero for their birthday.  I just knew that this would heal all the cracks that had developed in the past few months.  I gave it to my mother for safe keeping and requested that  she not tell my hero what it was or who it was from.  I was convinced that when they opened it, saw what was inside and recalled the conversation where I had promised  this gift, that the ice would melt and all past transgressions would be forgiven!  I couldn’t wait to see the reaction and  hear the lifetime music that would swell in the background as a moment of heartfelt sibling connection was re-established.  I could walk into my college dorm feeling whole again.

Knowing that my presence would be unwelcome during the birthday celebration, I ran to the only sanctuary I had available at the time.  I ran to the water’s edge.  I ran, with a black , cassette tape,  headphone player,  complete with a worn copy of REO Speedwagon in its case.  At the edge of the rocky boat ramp, I climbed into my hidden refuge, hugged my knees to my chin, and hit play.  The swells of familiar music filled my ears as the lyrics to, “Time for Me to Fly” washed over me.

I’ve been around for you
Been up and down for you
But I just can’t get any relief
I’ve swallowed my pride for you
I’ve lived and lied for you
But you still make me feel like a thief
You got me stealing your love away
‘Cause you never give it
Peeling the years away
And we can’t relive it
Oh, I make you laugh
And you make me cry
I believe it’s time for me to fly
You said we’d work it out
You said that you had no doubt
That deep down we were really in love
Oh, but I’m tired of holding on
To a feeling I know is gone
I do believe that I’ve had enough
I’ve had enough of the falseness
Of a worn-out relation
Enough of the jealousy
And the intoleration
Oh, I make you laugh
And you make me cry
I believe it’s time for me to fly  Songwriters: Kevin Patrick Cronin
     Over and over I hit Rewind and played that song, singing to the bullhead, to the algae, to the boats across the lake, to anyone that would hear the lament.  the desire to move beyond this obstacle, to be freed of the guilt, the shame, and the worthless feeling of being unloved was stronger than an anchor at that boat ramp.   I wanted to rail against the pain that walled me in, caged growth and left me clamoring for identity.  I wanted to fly.
     After what I thought was a safe time frame, I ventured back up to house, taking care to watch for signs that the family was not still celebrating.  All appeared calm and I trekked up the gravel driveway as dust and wind from the August swelter settled and the cicadas sang their lullaby.  Pausing at the front of the garage, I looked up the quarter mile drive at the setting sun, reminiscing the many walks to the bus I had done over the years.  Coming to terms that this year my feet would be walking a college campus and hopefully finding themselves center stage in a theatre production every now and again, I closed my eyes and uttered a whispered “I wish…”   “Time for me to fly,” I kept thinking to myself as I walked into the garage, prepared to step into the house.  I stopped at the top of the stairs leading to the door and noticed a figure trooping across the lawn.
     With a determined step that mimicked a march and with a ramrod, straight back, the hero of my childhood stepped into focus from the back of the house that faced the lake.  Eyes trained forward, mouth set like stone, he carried a box in his hands.  I watched, fascinated with his resolute attitude.  The box, gaily adorned in muted pastel wrapping paper and purple curled ribbon was on full display.  Keeping in perfect step he marched to the burning barrel, set the unopened box in it, pulled a match from his pocket, struck the flint against the ragged, rusted, iron edge and tossed in the spark.  Instantly the barrel was flooded with flames that shot a full foot into the air.  The paper, once so carefully folded and taped, curled, sending inky smoke heavenward.  The ribbon turned on itself and caved to the heat. The box holding the silken treasure never saw the light of day.  In seconds hours of work and months of hope was destroyed.  The lid of the box had never been opened, the contents never revealed, a promise fulfilled, never realized.
      It was in those moments of watchful horror that I noticed the matriarch of our clan standing at the top of the stairs also watching my hero’s action with intense interest.  In a voice heavy and choked I turned to her and croaked, “You told him who it was from, didn’t you?”
“I did.” They confirmed.
“Why? I begged you not to.  You knew why I had done this-you knew.  You knew what I was trying to do here.  You knew!”
     Sobs wracked my throat, causing strong resolve to crumble as tears streaked my cheeks.
“I did tell him it was from you.  You have said horrible things to him-I think he’s completely within his right to do this.  So, yes.  I told him.  And now you know.”
Appalled, I stood, watching bits of paper float to the grass across the yard. Smoke settled, and the flames died.   The hero I had loved, and yes, worshiped, turned on his heel and marched back to his refuge to celebrate the rest of his day.  Glancing up to catch her eyes, I waited for something to tell me this was not happening, for arms to encircle me, taking away the pain.  Instead my mother shrugged her shoulders, grabbed the door handle and walked back inside the house.

Standing there, 3 days before a new chapter in my life would begin on a college campus, I knew.  I knew how Icarus felt.  I knew what it felt like to be imprisoned, desperately clamoring to be free.  I also knew the sting of flames that claimed life for its own, snuffing out dreams and suffocating breath.  With tears still streaming, I sniffed my way down the hallway to my bedroom, closed the door, climbed on my bed.  With chin on knees, head down, I mourned the childhood hero that had plummeted to the depths below, leaving a pair of wings, tattered and scorched at my feet.

Addendum:
https://youtu.be/NFj17GYJEj0  Jars of Clay’s “Worlds Apart” gripped me while writing this and motivated the Icarus metaphor.  Thus, I am sharing the lyrics to that song, which oddly fits perfectly in this midst of this whole piece.  Interesting how a Creator magically makes those pieces fit.

Layer(ed) Cake

05 Feb 2016 1 Comment

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized Tags: , , , ,

I  looked back on the last blog that I wrote about my son and chocolate cake.  Something struck me mid week and today while doing my own work I stumbled upon a couple stark realizations.

I was penning a new blog where I opened with the admission that I was a thief.  It was matter-of-fact and final.  It was wrong and judgmental and I directed  it precisely at me.  I was unapologetic and fully willing to take the blame and I’ve done that for the last 41 years.

There was something in that last blog that did not sit right with me.  It was the image of me as kid,  sitting at a classroom desk waiting for birthday treats that did not come my way because of allergies.  I wrote out of what I knew to be truth at the time.  It was truth until I peeled back some layers of the cake and revealed a crumbly center.

You see, at that time I wrote that my parents had forgotten to send to the school treats that I could eat.  I trumped up every excuse in my mind, or truths that I  told myself over  41 years, so much so that any other reality was inconceivable.  I never thought to question it, it was my reality.  Then I  discovered there was nothing accidental or forgetful in their actions.  Nothing.

I have 2 children, and my job as a parent is to make smooth the road to adult independence.  It is my job to advocate, support, cheerlead, mourn, celebrate, and “be” in it with and for them.  It is my obligation to do all I can to arm them with the tools they need to be successful citizens, husbands, and God willing, fathers.  Forgetfulness happens and can be forgiven.  Intentional neglect does not.

It nearly guts me to type those words, believe me, it broke me to utter them today.  Even though I was in a trusted and safe place, the amount of pain I encountered is something I will have to muck around in for awhile.  Even in the midst of that safe space I fought like hell the tears that ekked out, revealing my vulnerability.

Intentional neglect.  That is quite an accusation and one I do not entertain lightly.  But, if I examine the facts, it is the only conclusion.  In this day and age, peanut and gluten allergies are as commonplace as uttering the phrase Common Core. (not getting into that debate)  There are whole tables dedicated to the “non” peanut eater and special menu considerations exist for those with gluten allergies.  It is a given that if one child is affected, the whole class is made aware; every effort is made to ensure that all children feel like they belong and no one is left out.

I did not have that luxury and now I am beginning to feel the full impact of that alienation.  While we did not have the internet or smart phones when I was young, the invention of the telephone DID exist…even if we had to use a rotary dial to make the call.  Parent-teacher communication was available.  There was still snail mail, teacher conferences still happened, a stop in to the school was always welcome.  The fact remains that those measures were not utilized.  That intentional inaction led to my feeling even more ostracized and alone, lonely and afraid in a time when perceptions of school were just beginning to take shape.  I learned at an early age that I did not fit, that there was something “wrong” with me, that I was not like the others.

Edward Kleban, lyricist for “A Chorus Line” provided some words that resonate with me

“Diff’rent” is nice, but it sure isn’t pretty.
“Pretty” is what it’s about.
I never met anyone who was “diff’rent”
Who couldn’t figure that out.
So beautiful, I’d never live to see.

Without knowing it, I adopted this philosophy and claimed it as truth.  It’s wrong and it kills me to type that.

Why?  Because what the hell do you do when you put A and B together (and I don’t do math) and discover the truth you thought you knew and what you had constructed your whole outlook on is incorrect?  Worse yet,  that truth is destructive and unhealthy?  What do you do when you realize that people who were charged with your care intentionally neglected to follow through?  What do you do when you peel back a layer and find that there is no excuse for their actions?

They could have picked up the phone to check in every once in awhile.  They could have brought items in during teacher conferences.  They had a whole host of options.  They chose not to.

My mother told me once that because I was such a difficult child, that I was reluctant to embrace her as my adopted mother, and show her love, she quit.   She quit trying.  I never forgot those words and they ring a different tune now.  They quit–they intentionally quit.

Even now I am rolling that around my head and beginning to question 41 years of beliefs I have and finding myself at ground zero.  I don’t know what to do, and I usually have an intellectual analysis, or at the very least, a smart ass comment to diffuse the situation.  I have none.  When I wrote the words, “I was a thief”, I was writing out of a truth that I believed wholeheartedly and called myself.  I was a thief because I used to take sweets from locations in the house, hide them, eat them, and try to smuggle out the evidence.  Sometimes I got away with it, often I did not.  Each time I was caught I was punished for stealing and sneaking around and taking things that did not belong to me.

You know what?  Oreo cookies rocked then, and they rock now.  I know that because I took them, ate them, and liked them.  Maybe instead of stealing, I was surviving.  Maybe instead of looking at the situation and swallowing that I was a bad kid who stole and lied, I was someone who was resourceful and just sassy enough to buck a system I could not control.  Maybe.

That’s a hefty piece of cake.  But, I think it’s important to pick apart all the layers and see what they’re made of.  I think I owe it to myself.  Because what I’m finding that while the cake is chocolate, and appears to be chocolate throughout, there are pockets and whole layers that are bitter like baker’s chocolate.  I know it’s bitter because in one of my sweets’ forays, I took what I thought to be chocolate from the refrigerator and well, let’s just say, baker’s chocolate should be left for its intended purpose…..for baking.

I’ve thought about this understanding all day today and tried to put it in perspective as I parent my children.  I watched my son inhale a  slice of cake for breakfast and I grabbed a piece too.  I smiled at him as he took his first bite and I smile now remembering how his eyes rolled back into his head.  You know what?  Chocolate cake is flippin awesome—it tastes amazing.  It tastes even more amazing when you know someone made it for you, out of love.  Scratch that. Chocolate cake is FREAKIN awesome (insert the intended expletive if you choose)  You know what else?  I am a flippin good mom……I got to share in this moment with my son and I will never forget it.  My son may, but what I hope he remembers is how he felt when he expressed his needs or desires and they were met.

I thought about my mother in those terms today and for a split second I felt sad; sad for both my parents.  I could try to justify this whole blog by saying I was willful, difficult, unruly, and that I did not get those moments with my parents.  Today, a new layer revealed that THEY did not get those moments with ME.  They chose not to.  They quit, intentionally.

God, I wish I could explain the pain that admitting that brings.  I wish I could walk someone through what it feels like to sit and watch 41 years  begin to tumble as jenga block by block is removed.  I wish I could describe the fear of what happens as each block displacement sets the structure to swaying, wondering if the next removal causes it to topple.  I wish I could articulate the confusion I am encountering as I twist and turn this Rubik’s cube, trying to make sense of a reality and truth that is without explanation.  Worse yet, that that truth is wrong.  I wish I could say that this is easy and there is an instant resolution to the 24 minute “Full House” episode where everyone hugs. wipes away tears, promises, and forgives.

It’s not Lifetime movie night.  It’s not easy, it is the hardest work I’ve done because it requires vulnerable honesty, brutal admissions, and concentrated courage.  And, I’m not sure that I’ve got it.  I’m not sure I’m up for the challenge.

All I know is that today, my fork ran into a layer that I did not expect.  Does it cause me to gag, retch, spit out the piece, throw out the rest of the cake; rendering it worthless?  I don’t know.   Do I look deeper into the piece to find out how much of the cake is affected and do I go back to the recipe to determine what happened?  Do I take the information I discover and apply it to my next recipe?  Do I have the guts to enter into the  original story and create a new reality?  Do I have the balls to allow others to join me in baking a new cake?

Tonight, I iust don’t know.  Ask me tomorrow, I may have a different answer.

shalom,

cahl

Your Cake, and Eating it Too.

24 Jan 2016 2 Comments

by cindythea in thoughts, Uncategorized

I frosted a cake last night.  Now that may not seem like a big deal…yah, a box cake with frosting…who cares?  Actually, it was a huge deal.

You see, my eldest son stood in the kitchen the other night and said, “I am so craving a chocolate cake right now.  Chocolate….mmmm”  I can relate.  All I can think right now is that I have gone 4 1/2 days without a Diet Coke and I can just imagine cracking open the can, hearing the effervescence, feel the cool of the exterior as I lift its elixir to my lips…..  (pause while I throw cold water on my face)  I had time last night while I was making supper and spotted the cake mix and thought that it would be nice to surprise my son with a cake complete with chocolate frosting.

He was asleep before it had cooled enough to frost, so I told him he could have some in the morning.  We had to leave early this morning and the look on his face when I cut a slice was priceless.  He held out his hand, took the first bite, closed his eyes and sighed.  You know the sigh.  The Diet Coke sigh as you take in the first taste, sound, feel of whatever it is you adore.  Sinking into a perfectly made bubble bath after an incredibly long day, the smell freshly washed and dried sheets…the AAAAhhhhhh effect.  I smiled watching him.  I smiled watching the pleasure, the joy, the enjoyment he derived from that first bite.  He got me thinking.

In all that I write, I try to draw from truth and my own experience.  So, he got me thinking about what we do for one another and why.  A good friend of mine often says, “we can’t be what we haven’t seen.”  I agree with this somewhat.

When I was young, I was allergic to a ton of food.  I was allergic to sugar, milk, citrus and virtually anything that had spice in it.  My options were limited for snacks and treats.  Now, this wouldn’t be so bad, except that I could not voice any desires or preferences as to what I wanted or needed.  In school when my classmates had birthdays or brought treats I would get a piece of sugar free hard candy and watch as others enjoyed cupcakes and candy and…and…and…..  My mouth drooled, and I am sure I looked like a complete dork with my jaw dropped open and waiting.

Have you ever had sugar free hard candy?  Well, in the early 80’s it left much to be desired and the incessant fear of peanut allergies had not taken hold of the elementary population so classmates who didn’t have treats was uncommon.  I was different. Not different in a good way either.   I was weird.  My classmates would proudly pass out their treats and skip over my desk and try not to look at me.  Sometimes my teacher would call me up to her desk and issue 1 coveted piece.  Then there were other times that the teacher would not call me up to the desk and I would sit in my chair alone and sad.  Even the teachers had a tough time looking my direction.  They knew that I knew.  And, it hurt.

They ( my parents) had forgotten to send anything.  Instead of checking with the teachers and making sure that there was a steady supply of treats that I could have, there was nothing.  I remember those moments as I stared at the table in front of me and blinked back angry tears, quietly vowing that if I had a family, they would never feel that way–that if I had a circle of friends, they would know something different.   You can’t be what you haven’t seen, right?

Oddly enough, my parent’s  behavior translated into similar actions for my birthdays.  Instead of parties with a cake and ice cream or at least treats that I could have, there was nothing.  No parties, no friends over, no cake, no ice cream, no candles to blow out and make a wish.  But I did.  I did make a wish every year that next year I would get a huge surprise party with lots of ribbon-wrapped presents, a massive cake made with non dairy and sugar free ingredients, and the best…..tons of friends and family snapping pictures and singing horribly off key.

It never happened.

And, I never thought it bothered me much.  You know the saying, “You don’t know what you don’t know” ?  Well, I lived that, so I did not know to miss anything.  While I didn’t know what I was missing, I do know what it felt like to want.   I didn’t know what I was missing until I experienced it and it changed my outlook forever.

I remember distinctly the moment a friend of mine decorated a huge Elmo birthday cake  smothered it in orange/red icing and delivered it to a surprise party at a local park they had reserved to celebrate of all things….Me.

It was weird.  I didn’t know how to act, what to do.  Do I host?  Am I supposed to have presents for them?  You see, since I had not ever had a birthday party people stopped inviting me to theirs.  So, there I was, 23 years old, standing there awkward as the horrible off key tune began.  And then it happened.

I smiled.

“I am so craving a chocolate cake right now.”  I was so craving and someone delivered.  I will never forget that cake.  I will never forget the people who gathered.  I do not remember the presents (were there presents?). I don’t remember the conversations, but I do remember how it felt to look at 23 candles—ok 24.  I remember how it felt to know that someone cared, that I had not been forgotten, that I was important.  It felt amazing.

As I blew out the candles framing Elmo’s face, I vowed that if I ever had children they would know….

They know.

“Mom, I am really craving a chocolate cake right now.”  You got it kiddo.

They know if there is a way that I can make something happen, I will move heaven and earth to make it so.  There will always be a supply stashed with the teacher in case they need it.  Their birthday will forever be a huge deal because they are important, necessary, wonderful, and amazing human beings.  If they show an interest in an activity or a hobby and it’s possible to do, I’ll honor that.

I’ll honor that because I know what it means to crave something and not have it met.  I also know what it means to crave and receive.  I’ll honor them because feeling honored is one of the best feelings in the world.

That’s the funny thing.  I didn’t grow up with it, lusted after it, not knowing what IT was. There were singular moments when IT was shown to me, and despite my best efforts to run and hide from it….(The known is more comfortable), I tucked the knowledge that you can break free from cycles and create new realities into my mind for future reference.

Seeing my son enjoy a clandestine (sshhhhh)  breakfast of chocolate cake was a gift I cannot explain.  He closed his eyes, took a bite, and the look of absolute joy brought tears to my eyes.  For now, today, as I type this blog, the cycle is broken.  More than that, he knows….he knows what it means to have his needs met and he knows what it means to have someone listen and respond.  He is becoming what he is seeing……

 

agape,

cindythea.

 

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