Thank you

Autumn glory

On this Thanksgiving eve, with just a month of posts to go to achieve my goal of one post a week for a year, I'm grateful to all who read this blog, for your encouraging feedback, and for all I've learned this year through writing.

Having had a gratitude practice for many years, I recognize it's one of the most important things I do for myself. Over the last year, I also had the good fortune to witness what gratitude looks like from a position of leadership when it's authentic and coupled with humility. It's transformational.

Through a number of experiences this year, I also deepened my appreciation for forgiveness and acknowledgment. While it seems we do these practices for others, we really do them for ourselves. By continually forgiving and acknowledging, we give ourselves and others the grace to be human.

I also learned even more how important it is to tell those I love how much I care, continually, because life is short and we never know how long we have on this earthly plane.

I've shared the Hawaiian Ho'oponopono before, but here's Carrie Grossman's Thank You version again. (For my Canadian readers, if you can't access the link you should be able to find it with an online search.)

I'm sorry, please forgive me, I love you, thank you. 

There's so much power in these words. You don't need to say them out loud, or to anyone. Just say them whenever you need grace, or feel grateful, of need to shift something in your life.

Please know that I continually strive to be the best version of myself, and I hope that through this blog and other ways, I help you, too. 

Four more weeks! And then? Stay tuned... 


If you like this post or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to subscribe (see right column), share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here. 

Extra grace required...

While some may call these weeds,
some of us appreciate their presence.

Extra grace required... 

I heard this statement on Sunday at the spiritual center I often attend. The talk that day was a Father's Day tribute to all the men who love, nurture, and teach. 

My grandfather was my father figure; he left the mortal plane when I was 9. But love, nurture, and teach he did during those scant short years, and his lessons and love endured. I am forever grateful. That said... In the coming years, starting at about age 12, I needed a whole lot of extra grace.  

Thankless work 

Parenting is a lot of work at the best of times, and while there are countless books available about how to do it better, it's one of those things we only learn through experience. While I don't have children of my own, I dipped my toes into that icy water during a stint as a step-mom. To say I needed extra grace, as did my step-daughter, would have been an understatement at the time. 

We will all need extra grace at one time or another. And likely many times over; as humans, we're all just making it up as we go.  

Our deepest desire is to be loved

Extra grace came up while talking about love: Those who are easy to love need our love the least because they love themselves; those who are hard to love need our love the most. And they need extra grace, because they don't love themselves.  

Referencing the biblical verse from the book of Matthew, love your enemies, we were asked from the podium if we could all think of someone who was hard to love (including those holding high political offices). Um, yeah... I can think of a few. While the center isn't Christian- nor Bible-based, the Good Book occasionally comes up as a source of wisdom and lessons, filled with great stories and parables from which we can all learn, even if we question their validity as truth.  

Tough love, love tough...

We also heard a few examples. One in particular stood out: Blues musician Daryl Davis, a black man, armed himself with knowledge and then befriended Klansmen, which eventually led to at least 200 of them giving up their robes. Initially brought together through music, he took the time to listen, talk, and learn, and yes, extend grace.  

This reminded me of a story I read a while ago about Derek Black, a former white nationalist and son of Stormfront's founder, one of the most extreme hate groups in the country. Derek was being groomed by the Klan's grand wizard to be the next leader of the movement. But while attending college in Florida, Derek hooked up with a new set of friends who were gay, Jewish, and immigrants. Love, knowledge, and grace made him see the light and walk away from hate. You can read his words here in the Southern Poverty Law Center's Intelligence Report.  

While these are extreme examples, we all know people who need extra grace. With a little bit of grace, change is possible. And if the seemingly worst of the worst can be granted grace by those they've harmed, can't we all do that? 

And again, gratitude... 

I count my blessings every day for the grace I've been given over time: for losing my temper, doubting myself, doubting others, acting out, outright failing at life sometimes. I am as human as the rest of us, after all. And the only way we continue to grow and expand is to be, do, and say—for which there's no real blueprint. Mistakes are inevitable;  hence, grace. 

Love your enemies... bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you... 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

The art and practice of forgiveness

Roses are the flowers of love,
a true love stronger than thorns. 
Forgiveness is the ultimate
act of love. 

Forgiveness is one of the hardest things we do, along with self-compassion. Forgiveness isn't about forgetting, or letting someone off the proverbial hook. But it is about letting go, and creating space for peace of mind. 

Forgiveness also isn't about doing something for someone else; while it is a gift to them, it's an even bigger gift to yourself. 

Practicing forgiveness

I had an experience last weekend that took me by surprise, and triggered an emotional response that I in no way expected. 

So now, I'm trying to find space within myself to forgive: my friend, who's grieving a major loss and lashed out in anger, and myself, for not anticipating that something I said could be received in a way I hadn't intended, and for my teary and completely befuddled and reactive response. I believe fully that the few words I chose were said with no intent to minimize or take away from her in-the-moment experience. And, that's how they landed.     

...Holding space

Holding space for someone isn't easy. It's being present and allowing what is to just be. It's stillness, understanding, grace, and getting our egos out of the way. It's also forgiveness. 

As Amy Wright Glenn writes in Holding Space, On Loving, Dying and Letting Go, we fear holding space in part because we don't want to say the wrong thing. "We don't want to add to the pain and suffering." Of course we don't. I certainly didn't. And yet, even though my words came from love, and while in no way meant to add to or even ease suffering, they were heard in ways I didn't and couldn't predict.  

Under normal circumstances, my friend would assume positive intent... (the only kind of assumption we should ever make, by the way, and one we should make often), but grieving such a loss isn't a normal circumstance. 

Letting go...

Surrender. Forgive. Let go. Those are the words that keep coming up for me as I process my own experience this last weekend. We all do the best we can in any given circumstance with the knowledge and capability we have. I know this to be true, in this case for her and for me; I also know "one's best" may be different every day, every moment, and that not everyone will see one's best in the same same way.  

Relationships are truly the hardest things we do, and there are times when I want to throw up my hands and say, "I'm done!" and isolate like my mother did. But that's not the answer. 

Practicing presence

Show up. Listen. Witness. That's what we do for the grief-stricken. I did those things, as well as cried, held, and honestly said few words.  

I'm not a therapist, and I know better than to wear my coaching hat when not asked. I showed up as a caring friend and nothing more. And yet, my few words were interpreted as the wrong words, words that apparently felt invalidating and unsupportive of her feelings and her need to be present with them, pushing her along before she was ready. 

I know myself well enough to know I wouldn't invalidate or not support. We must go through our experience, and the more we can dive in, bathe in it, breathe it in, the more meaningful and powerful it will be for us. It's necessary—and yes, it's necessary for healing. 

Because we do heal from loss and grief. 

And while loss stays with us until we, too, say goodbye to the mortal plane, it won't always be our daily moment-by-moment experience—hard as that may be to hear when we're right there in it. We must stay in those depths for as long as it takes. There is no timeline for grief, and there are no shortcuts. The one caveat—if after a period of time (for many, it's typically one to two years), we're still overcome with sadness and can't find joy in any part of our lives, we may need to get help from a skilled outside source.  


The tension of opposites...

There is both beauty and anguish in grief. I know this from personal experience; I've had many losses throughout my life—most of my immediate family, many extended family members, and some of my closest friends have died too young, lost to disease, drugs, depression, and accidents. In my earlier days, I endured huge abandonment issues that still show up on my very worst days. 

What I know most of all is how grief shows up differently for all of us. We each have our own process, and it's even different each time. There is no pushing through. We must feel what we feel, because there are consequences if we don't. 

So... we must give ourselves and those we love a lot of grace, and the room to make mistakes—we must hold space for and forgive again, and again, and again. Because dammit, there is no great love without great loss. 

Onward. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find me here.

10 years: On anniversaries, getting started, starting over, and now

Our garden path, today

This month marks 10 years since I first wrote in this space—full of hope, excitement, and commitment to this new journey of writing—and gardening. 

The beginning

Growing Things started as a gardening blog, when we launched a community garden in our yard through Urban Garden Share, an online matching service for gardeners and homeowners (you can read more about that in the 'about' sidebar). But it quickly became personal when, a few months later, my partner and I separated after 13 years together. 

That first year I wrote with fervid commitment—at first it was fun as we transformed the garden space, and then it became a place to share my challenges, my pain, to express, and be witnessed. The name "growing things" took on new meaning, and the garden became a metaphor. 

Backyard

After that, even though the garden thrived, the blog languished as work and life took over. Just over a year after separating, he and I got back together, and began putting the pieces of "us" together in a new, different, and ultimately better way. 

Starting over

With help from an extraordinary therapist, he and I learned to relate to each other differently, to talk with each other and hear each other while noticing and monitoring our own filters. We learned to call each other on our stuff, gently but clearly, and even laugh about it, too. We both learned we got in our own way, and it was the "I" in the relationship who could fix it, not the we. So we focused on ourselves, and became capable of moving forward independently and together—interdependent, as we learned to call it. 

In the years following that first year, I worked hard to find my voice, both here and in real life. To speak up, not withhold or wither, to know my worth, know my value. To understand that life just is, and continue to nurture new ways of thinking and being. I still struggle on occasion with these—with my own self-confidence and the limiting beliefs that linger in the background, threatening to unearth themselves and derail me. 

But overall, I wouldn't trade any of these experiences. I've learned to be comfortable being uncomfortable, to be more brave, and that without challenges and pain, my life would be very different, and far less satisfying. 

Recommitting

Together and separately, we have dreams, goals, and ideas, respect how each other interacts with the world, and know we both act with our best interests in mind—no longer in our own way, or that of each other. 

Early years

Since this online journal came to be, he's traveled the world by ship, I've had a couple different jobs, and thanks to life's constant insistence that we grow and not get complacent, we've had many opportunities to further our inward journeys. 

To say it's occasionally been a slog, well, yes. Yes it has. Nothing seems to move at the pace we'd prefer. We've had countless bumps, hills, roadblocks, potholes, and the occasional crater slow us down. His recent work injury is the latest crater, with a 9 - 18 month healing window and an inability to do much with his right arm due to intense shoulder pain. A few years ago, I was laid off when my employer re-organized and I nosedived into a confidence crisis. A few years earlier, he took a circuitous route to a career change that required more learning and growing. And within those 10 years, our three precious furkids all took turns going over the rainbow bridge and for the first time, we are without cats. 

"In the shade of the old apple tree,
there's a place just for you and for me... "

And here we are, 10 years later. I'm still writing. We're stronger together. The garden continued until two years ago, when we ended the relationship with the current garden partners and made plans to sell the property. That's one of those slow parts—two years later, the city is still backlogged and we haven't moved forward. While my heart will ache when we finally say goodbye—I have often said I'd miss the Gravenstein more than I'd miss the house I live in, the tree and the property require more time, money, and resources than I can give them. It's more complicated than I'll go into here, but the house and garden are on separate lots, and given circumstances, keeping the house makes more sense than keeping the garden. 

While I'd love to kick things into higher gear—his healing, his work goals, the property sale, my developing career and personal goals, travel plans—there's not much I'd change. I know that through pain, we grow, and without it, we wouldn't have joy. 

We have a lot of joy in our lives, and much to be grateful for—good friends both near and far, a warm and (mostly) comfortable home, nourishing food, overall health, our careers (and my job), cars that get us where we're going, and plenty of resources and tools when we need them. We've even hung onto some of those earliest gardeners who became our friends, and I'm so grateful they continue on this journey with us. 

Lush life: first year with Urban Garden Share.  Shiv, 
our neighbor, often sang mantras to the plants, saying it 
helped them grow. Together, we created something amazing.  

This year I recommitted to writing and for the most part, I've penned my thoughts about once a week. Some posts take longer than others, or morph in an unexpected direction, so which day they publish isn't guaranteed. But I have a lot more to say and share, hopefully with insights that help those who join me here. Stay tuned. 

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find out more here.

5 simple steps to take when nothing feels possible...

Spring is late this year;
the crocus only just showed its colors.
Nighttime temps are still in the 30s (F). 

Maybe it's just Mercury in retrograde. I'm not very versed in what that means, but when others remind me, I usually say, "Oh! Now it makes sense!" 

What I notice is that something doesn't feel right. Planetarily, Mercury went retro on March 5, so that could explain my last week or so.

I've felt a little SAD (for those who live in sunnier climes, that's Seasonal Affective Disorder—an acronym that actually describes its associated feeling) and unproductive. I couldn't put my finger on why, even with valid reasons like a long winter and painful anniversaries of long-past March events.

I don't track retrograde dates, and...  should there be actual truth to the retrograde effect, those who know say it contributes to crossed communication, unexpected tensions, missed connections, etc. Rather than make bold moves, sign contracts, or have heartfelt conversations, they say it's a better time to reflect and just be. However, I know some of us don't do this well without prompting.

So let this be your prompt. 

Take time out, stop, think, and contemplate what you want your world to look like, be like. The time for action will come—just not yet.

Here's a list of simple, albeit not always easy, self-care strategies to use until you can take your next steps. It might require some mental gymnastics or shifting some energy, but you can do that. There's not a lot of 'action' in these steps.

1. Be compassionate and forgiving of yourself. Feelings of unworthiness, self-doubt, ineffectiveness, or just low energy, can show up and stop us. Remember this happens to everyone, even though our social media highlight reels make that seem untrue. Here's a line I've read and heard numerous times: Don't compare your insides to someone else's outsides.  
2. Check your self talk. If your inner critic is doing all the talking, think about how you'd talk to your best friend. Then do that for yourself. What would you want that friend to tell you right now? Say that. And say it over and over, even if you don't believe it.  
3. Take stock and do small things. What are you able to do right now? Can you go for a walk? Have coffee with a friend? Maybe listen to a meditation app like Insight Timer or affirmations online. If it's too much work to make a green smoothie, can you buy one? If you usually pray but can't, listen to the Hawaiian Hoʻoponopono. Whatever you can do, do that, and acknowledge yourself for it. Know that food and exercise affect your mood, so even small tweaks can help lift the fog. 
4. Be grateful. Every day, remind yourself and reflect on what you're grateful for in that moment. 
5. Surrender. Sometimes, that's all there is to do. I've found that word coming out of my mouth more times than not lately. My word, or theme, for the year, is manifest... but perhaps surrender must come first.  

And here's a bonus step. Ask for help. I add this as a bonus because most of us can't, or won't, ask. It's a very hard thing for many to do. But it's also important. And if you can't, or won't, ask someone with the physical or emotional means to help, then say it out loud or write it down and let the universe, your higher power, or whatever you believe, think, or hope might be out there, know. Ask for what you need and be specific.

It gets better...

Even during our darkest hours, there's always something to hope for and be grateful for. As Leonard Cohen sang, the cracks are how the light gets in. When we're stuck and pondering, frustrated and worried, we can trust that answers will come, and at some point, everything will look better and brighter than before. It's almost always true.

Note I say this from a place of relative comfort—I am healthy, partnered, and I have a job and a home. I know at least one of these isn't true right now for people I care deeply about. Still, despite the sadness I feel and my desire to take their pain away, I must trust that what happens in our lives leads to our highest and greatest good. I know it's been true for me, and I've had some hard knocks.

When we stop learning and leaning in to life, even its hardships, we stop living. And damned if that hard sh*t doesn't move us forward in ways we couldn't have imagined. It won't feel like it at the time, and likely won't for a long time, until one day we look back in hindsight and realize we're thankful for what we gained. We learn to navigate, and with that, we get closer to having the lives we want, when so much more is possible.

Mercury leaves retrograde on the 28th, when spring will be in full swing. So if waiting it out is what you've got, do one of those small things listed above. Even if they feel hard. They'll keep the momentum moving so that when the fog lifts, you can take that next step, and maybe even leap.

What's your strategy when the fog rolls in thick and heavy, and nothing feels possible? Let me know what works for you.

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find out more here. 

Anger is an energy

Alone in the wilderness... or, well,
 in this case, on a beach. 

A few years ago, while talking about growing up, a life-long friend told me my anger scared her when we were teenagers. This caught me off guard; I had no idea. We met in elementary school; I was a lieutenant on the safety patrol and she was on my squad. From there, our lives became deeply intertwined; we know and understand our origin stories. And yet, her words made me think.  

As a teenager, I was small, smart, and cute, which didn't benefit me at that point in time and caused ire among my peers. So I was feisty; I had a mouth only sailors could love, and I was often in trouble with teachers for directing it at them.  

We learn to be angry... 

I learned how to be angry from my mom. That was her acceptable emotion, along with frustration. She yelled a lot, swore a lot, slammed doors, and threw things. Throughout our life together, I watched her vacillate between anger, frustration, and depression. Consequently, my teenage self yelled and swore a lot, and sometimes slammed doors and threw things (typically, just my hairbrush on bad hair days, though). Full transparency: I had a few good reasons to be angry. I just needed better ways to express it.  

I started my journey toward healthy expression in my early 20s, but it's an ongoing practice and I don't always get it right. As a newlywed, I yelled during an argument—and my husband's response taught me to quell my anger, even deny it. Instead, I withdrew rather than rocking the boat, which had its own unintended consequences.  

Now I'm rarely angry and I know anger is just one of many options. But it's also a useful one if we pay attention. It's a tool, a motivator. Or as John Lydon (nee Johnny Rotten) sang on Rise, it's an energy. It's information. 

Anger is often our quickest response in a heated interaction and can easily mask other emotions, like fear or hurt. Stopping in the moment, when we first feel angry, is a big step. What's it telling you? Stop, notice, and name it. Then choose how you want to respond to any given situation.  

I don't avoid conflict, but I stopped provoking controversy when I 'grew up.' That doesn't mean I don't express anger when I feel it, but I discovered my limitations around arguments. I sometimes struggle to follow a train of thought when emotions are high, and verbal communication can be challenging for me. That's why it's important to know I can stop. I also noticed in heated conversations with certain people that I can become overwhelmed and get flustered and acquiesce when they insist they're right. This also isn't OK, and I've learned to navigate those relationships more carefully.     

Communication, awareness, and boundaries 

Now, with a lot of deep work behind me and a high level of self-awareness, I have very clear boundaries, which makes setting limits easier. Anger isn't my immediate response.  

But here's something else: We typically have different boundaries for different relationships, and we're allowed to change and adjust them. We're also not required to tell people when we set new boundaries, especially if it puts us at risk in some way. Push-back is real. Sometimes, they don't know what's different, only that something is, and that's enough to cause a reaction.   

The trick, then, is to hold those new boundaries and not get sucked into old behaviors, and not get angry. I recently got tricked. Hence this post. 

Remember Charlie Brown and Lucy? 

I found myself in a situation where I expected a different result. I have a friend I regularly feel challenged by. I'm Charlie Brown, falling on my ass trying to kick a football that Lucy pulls away at the last minute. (Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice... what?!?) I decided I couldn't do that anymore, so I created some new boundaries for myself in that relationship. I didn't share that; I just showed up differently. And then... here I was... I did the same thing, again, and I said a thing or two in a conversation I didn't want to have... and got lambasted for all the ways I was wrong. Charlie Brown... I should know better. 

I was livid. But... this time, I didn't react. I didn't swear. I didn't cry. I noticed it. I stepped back to look at what just happened.  

Behind the reaction...  

The Landmark Education Forum asks you whether you want to be right or whether you want workability. I aim for workability, which is why I don't think all disconnects need to be discussed. I could very easily find myself saying hurtful things that don't help. 

So what happened... I felt like a caged cat, trapped, attacked even... which made me even less interested in further engaging. It wasn't pretty, so we hung up with neither of us in a good place. What I know for sure is that this cannot happen again. I refuse to again be Charlie Brown.   

Trust your insides... 

I have finely honed gut instincts, and I must listen to them. I can't second guess myself, nor must I explain my actions and choices, nor defend them in most circumstances.

I mentioned anger is information, and this particular experience enlightened me to a couple of things. 

• How I relate to my partner: I have a new appreciation for my partner's process when he's working through something. Now, when I ask him what's up when my spidey senses are buzzing and he says 'nothing' or 'it doesn't have anything to do with you', I have to trust him. I must also trust that if he does have something we need to talk about, he'll let me know.  
• What's important to me: I have more clarity about my values and boundaries, how I want to show up, and what I expect in relationships, friendships or otherwise. 

As with anything else, there are always gifts... that proverbial silver lining. This exchange prompted me to write on my bedroom mirror, where I see them sometimes multiple times a day, a few affirming statements:  

• take up space
• amplify my voice
• know my worth (an ongoing theme here)
• trust myself, and 
• take no shit

None of this is about making someone else wrong, or not loving them. What I find I need is to rethink my relationships, my needs, and my interactions—which right now, is taking back some space, and when I say "no," know that I mean no, especially when something is personal and not about them. 

Writing this, I feel less angry and more compassionate, for my friend and myself, even as I recognize I'm done with being Charlie Brown.  

Anger... it's useful. In this case, it caused me to pause and reflect, and then stand firm, know my worth, and resolve to set more limits.   

Let anger be your guide...

And, lastly, there's a lot to be angry about in the world... like oppression and inequity. That's where anger can be truly motivating. It's information and an energy. Use that. But don't let it consume you, and when you feel it, explore it.   

If you like this post, or this blog resonates with you in any way, please feel free to share it, comment below, or send me a message. I'm also available for one-on-one coaching—you can find out more here. 

The answer is gratitude

Sombrio Beach, BC

A fresh start, a clean slate, a new year... Don't we all have high hopes for the year ahead when the clock strikes midnight and a new year begins?

I do. However, few of us have an easy time during the holidays, which largely culminate on New Year's Day. Family dynamics, our financial circumstances, our health, and so much more impact how we feel on this first day out. 

That's why it helps me to see this day as a continuation; while it is a new day, New Year's Day is, in reality, a 'next' day in a continuum. 

But today, as another day starts and this new year begins, I'm worried. Mindful that worry has power, I know feeling gratitude is key. And... 

Worry activates a future we don't want...

There's a lot of noise in the world, and there's little I can do about it. Yet, my worry list continually repeats the negatives from the inputs of the day: 

• our currently precarious economy, a government shutdown, a potential wall and rampant isms
• increased property crime in my 'hood, and how those tasked to protect and serve don't, won't, or can't
• the hardships so many currently experience (and how my usual mantra, "I feel with loving compassion..." isn't appropriate for all circumstances right now)
• what happens to others because of bias 
• a seeming lack of kindness, consideration, and civility everywhere

I know worry doesn't serve me or the world. I can't project the future; I'm making assumptions and projecting. Imagining the worst.  

Why is it so hard to imagine the best???  

Socially, we're conditioned to imagine the worst, but it's deeper than that. Genetically, worry and fear saved us. Today, though, life is rarely life threatening (for those of us with privilege). (An aside: imagining is an important tool, however; read The Gift of Fear and The Unthinkable -- books I highly recommend to everyone.) 

Be intentional with your words

Words have power. They can guide us and help us stay on track. One approach I take is choosing an annual word to represent where I want to focus each year, and this helps me imagine the best. 

My word for 2016 was invest. And then, not long after the start of the year, I was laid off. Suddenly, investment looked very different than I initially intended, and I re-interpreted that word to invest in myself -- internal confidence, skill building, and building community. 

In 2017, my words were expansiveness and spaciousness, and I see how these played out, although again, differently than initially intended. I started two new jobs, took on new challenges, drove cross-country, built new networks, furthered community, shifted more limiting beliefs, and developed practices to support positive change. 

Vancouver Island

In 2018, my word was deliberate -- focusing on experiences, not 'stuff', learning my new job, and practicing self-care. I tracked my spending, and in most ways, spent less. I changed my diet, lost 12 pounds, and at the end of the year, my blood work was the best its been in years. I went to more concerts, saw more shows, spent more time with friends, and mostly stayed true to my focus and beliefs. 

Words are my framework; they motivate me, support me, re-engage me. I've made countless changes in my life in part because of using words deliberately, including creating a solid foundation with my partner. We have done the work, and we've landed in a good place, with a future we can look forward to.  

Now it's time to reap the rewards of that work. So I'm leaning toward manifest or fruition as my word(s) for 2019.

But first... gratitude. Gratitude is my keyword. It underpins everything else. It's at my essence and is essential for managing life's curve balls. Because we may not achieve everything we've planned for 2019; we still have challenges ahead and all those worries I mentioned. There's so much we can't control.  

Changing the dialogue...  

I believe consciousness is cause. I also believe we're all capable and creative. And it's up to me to direct my inner dialogue away from that which doesn't help. 

So, here goes. 2019 is the year I: 

• deepen my belief that everything works for me, even if it doesn't always seem that way 
• repair my relationship with money, making that work better for me, too
• get my house in order, literally and figuratively
• own my worth--not just know it, but own it, and accept nothing less
• write more
• ... and try harder to believe in miracles... 

I recently heard the questions, "What miracles would you love to experience this year? What would be an outrageous good and transform your world?" I'm going to ponder these for the next week or so and see what shows up. 

The key to manifesting miracles is gratitude. Living from gratitude makes our days look brighter and more seems possible. Add in grace, compassion, and forgiveness, and it's a mixture for deeper satisfaction.  

I don't want for anything--I have a warm, comfortable home, a loving partner who's a staunch companion, a good job with a steady paycheck, a satisfying social network, and I'm generally healthy in mind, body, and spirit. 

That's a lot to be grateful for. And for now, that's really all I need to focus on. Because with gratitude, all things are possible. 

Letter to my step-daughter

Well, this sure isn't an easy one to write, but it's been on my mind a long time. Here goes: 

Granted, it may be as many as 20 years since we've seen each other, and technically, you're not my step-daughter now. It's been more years than that since your dad and I split and you and I only saw each other a few times after that.

But that doesn't mean I haven't thought of you often. I have. You played a significant role in my life. You're 30-something now. Older than I was when we last saw each other.

So much water under that proverbial bridge.

You were eight when we met at the beach house in White Rock. Sandcastle weekend. Your dad and I reconnected the year before, and by then we were pretty enamored with each other. We'd met and dated briefly a few years earlier; we liked each other, but the distance was too much the first time around.

To be clear, there's more I could say than can or should be included in a blog post like this, but this feels like a necessary step.

It seemed like destiny.

When your dad and I got married, I was happy you were my step-daughter. I didn't have children, and you were funny, creative, sweet and smart. You lived with your mom but we liked spending time together, even though it wasn't often.

A lot happened during the years our lives were interconnected. But I want you to know that, despite all that proverbial water, you were family and I cared deeply for you. I still do, although to say I know you, or even know much about you, would be untrue. But I knew you during a formative time.

I'm glad we reconnected, even if just on Facebook (thanks for the friend request!). I'm sorry it was your loss that made it possible, but when I heard, I set aside previous hesitations to contact you, because I know what it's like to lose a mom too soon.

I was close to your age when I lost my mom. We were both too young to say goodbye; their lives were short. But I don't think the similarities stopped there. My relationship with my mom was complicated, despite how much we loved each other. That's why I sent a note to you...  I think yours was, too. And it tugged my heartstrings.

But even that isn't why I'm writing this.

There's this thing about completion...  

...about things unfinished. And I've felt unfinished with you. Early on, I felt sad, guilty, confused, concerned. Reconnecting brought some of that back up. I'm fortunate to have a life I'm truly grateful for, but there are things I've wanted to say, and never forgot.

The last time we saw each other was a year or two after you moved back to your mom's. You were living in Kamloops, so I drove up to visit you. You were busy with friends, though, as any self respecting 16-year-old would be, so we didn't have much time together. Instead I tagged along with your mom to the local bar, and left early the next day. I didn't try to contact you after that. I learned you moved back to your dad's after a couple years, and finished high school in the city. Reaching out really didn't make sense then.

That said, the point of this is...


...this post is about us, and that last year together.

Frankly, there were a lot of "shouldn't be's" during that year you lived with us. By then, you were 14 and looking for trouble--that's why you came to live with us. Ideally, you wouldn't find trouble, and trouble wouldn't find you, under the guidance of me and your dad.

Hindsight being that rear-view mirror, I saw later that it was pretty much a no-win for both you and me. Your dad was largely absent, working 16-hour days at least part of that year. I landed the role of stand-in guardian, rule-setter, school conduit, curfew enforcer, wicked step-mom, the bitch from hell... a few choice words you didn't shy away from saying. As the adult, I won't deny some of the accusations were earned; that's part of a parent's job, but... I wasn't your parent, and I overstepped (more on that later). You were rebellious, indignant and misbehaved, asserting your independence, no matter the conversations about honesty and consequences.

When you moved back to your mom's after the school year ended, our marriage went from bad to worse. While I would never say or believe you caused our break up, I'm certain that disastrous year, including my behavior, hastened it.

Those first years on my own required some intense soul searching on my part. I loved your dad. I thought we'd grow old together, together for life. I was devastated when I learned that wasn't to be; even on our last day together, he said he still loved me and we were family.

But neither of us had healthy role models for how to be in a relationship, nor how to parent. So I have a confession of sorts, and this wouldn't be worth writing if I wasn't completely honest...

First, I'm sorry. 

There were times I didn't show up as a skilled adult. I don't fault myself, but I'll own it.

So... 

At 14, terrible things happened to me. I wasn't fully aware of it then, but that history colored my experience with you. You were so grown up, or wanted to be, but you were still a kid. I was a child at 14, but I would have been really pissed off had anyone said that to me. You would have been, too. But your presence in such close proximity made me see my 14-year-old self as the child I was, not yet capable of adult decisions, nor the experience to understand consequences, and very much in need of boundaries and protection.

I'm not proud of my teenage self. Yet I have come to understand why I made the choices I did. Sometimes I'm sad about that. Unsupervised, I was a party girl, desperately looking for love and acceptance, afraid to say no, unaware that was even an option. I found myself in some precarious situations, some of which I couldn't get out of, some which caused me harm. There wasn't much I wouldn't do or try as I unconsciously sought that connection and affection. My friends were my family; you said the same of yours.

So, part of me wanted to protect you. Another part was scared--for you and for me. You reminded me of me. Except, by the time you hit your teens, the drugs were scarier, the consequences greater, and men and boys still dangerous. A lot of my friends didn't make it out; I was lucky. I didn't want anything bad to happen to you, or to me, or to us.

I wanted you to have a better experience. 

For much of our time together, I can say unequivocally I tried to be fair. Tried to tie actions with consequences. Tried to help you have a better life and give you tools and resources you weren't getting elsewhere. Tools and resources I hadn't had either, but in hindsight knew they'd have made a difference.

But it shouldn't have been me. 
That wasn't my job. 

Nothing worked. I felt threatened by your behavior and scared I could lose what I thought I had, and my actions reflected that. My early years were hard, but after many painful lessons, and a lot of self-reflection and conscious effort to do differently, I grew and changed. I felt like with your dad, I finally had something good.

I was afraid of losing that. 

After you went home, you got in trouble with your mom within a week, and your dad brought you back. I think that may have been my last straw. My coping skills disintegrated. My fear got the best of me. That year was a terrible time for all of us. I won't sugarcoat it; it challenged me on practically every level. That year -- and you -- left an imprint. I think I did a lot right, but I admit to being ashamed of my own behavior at times. Overall, I felt like I'd failed us both. I don't blame either of us. And I don't regret it. That year, our divorce, and what happened both before and after taught me more about myself, and relationships, that I couldn't learn any other way. I'm grateful for that.

But I've wondered about you. I have hoped for all things good for you. I'm sure you're still funny, creative and smart. From the outside looking in, you have a good life. And you got there on your own, with all the life lessons you gained along your journey.

Through it all, that's all I really wanted for you.

Getting over the hump: Grace and gratitude

Forget-me-nots in the garden

Today is Mother's Day. I have previously written that I'm not very sentimental about that. But I forget that May can be a challenging month for me, full of emotionally charged events - of which Mother's Day is just one small piece.

I rode my bike to the cemetery today. It's a small, lovely, peaceful little spot in a neighborhood just north of me, exactly what a cemetery should be -- gravel roads, many trees, benches for sitting, fragrant flowers and shrubs, with markers of varying shapes and sizes acknowledging those who've gone on. Many of my family members are buried here, and in 2000, when my mom died, I placed a headstone here in her honor and scattered some of her remains. I honor her today when I take care of myself by doing things like riding my bike. She and so many others died relatively young, of illnesses that today are largely preventable. I am doing my best. And I know she would want that. 

May is bittersweet. The anniversary of mom's death is May 19. This month also commemorates more fateful dates: the end of my marriage, my move back to Seattle, a hit-and-run that totaled my car and nearly totaled me (I am so blessed). May 10 was my dad's birthday - a symbolic date I knew as a child even though I didn't know him. And, on a high note, it's the month I fell in love with Forrest. 

So it's with grace and gratitude that I get through May. I've had a few rough weeks, and I haven't been able to get to the heart of what's up with me. Frustrations at work, personal irritations... feeling like my life is a little smaller than usual in key areas... some of it appropriate dissatisfaction. But I amplify these minor irritations by twisting them in my own head... and forgetting the real, underlying emotional reasons. Awareness is usually the first step to clarity, and the ride to the cemetery was the reminder I needed.

Grief is a funny thing; it can show up at interesting times in interesting ways, and I'm not sure it ever fully goes away. We heal, and scar tissue fades over time, but the memory remains.

While I do wish other mothers well on this date, I am not very forthcoming about offering it. I'm not the one posting a photo of my mom on Facebook, or wishing my friends who are mothers or the mothers of my friends a good day. Not because I don't care. Were I to describe how I feel when I see those posts, I think it would largely be numb. I cannot summon emotion.

So today, I recognize how grateful I am for the many gifts in my world, including the grace to have compassion for myself and save some space during a time when I need a little more than usual.  

There's something to be said for scrappy and street smart

I'm definitely not a Pollyanna. I learned a lot the hard way. But early on, I developed the skills to do that. Given where I could be right now, I'm grateful to be where I actually am.

I'm right where I should be. Are you? 

I find the Pollyanna's of the world hard to be around. The naivete irritates me. Perhaps it's because I once wished I had an easier upbringing. Perhaps it's because I didn't.

I often lament my earlier years, say, from 12 onward. The years prior to that are all pretty blurry and largely remembered thanks to photos. I've said from the outside looking in, they look pretty good but reality isn't always as it seems.

But from 12 on, things got interesting. My history teacher, Mr. Kimball, once told me I wouldn't amount to anything (although he also said something about wasting my intelligence, so I guess he thought I was smart). Because of my loud mouth and feisty spirit (to be kind to myself), he suggested I join the debate team, but I wasn't interested.

My years in junior and high school were tough, during a tough time. Nearing the end of the cold war... Busing... Post-60s freedoms and all the confusions that went with them, especially for women...

Some of my school mates and I were wont to say after graduation, which I managed albeit barely, "We went to Handle-It School - we can handle anything." Whatever doesn't kill you makes you stronger? Maybe...

Some of those early friends are doing well now. Some of my closest friends really aren't... or weren't, as they departed this mortal coil. But a tough beginning doesn't mean there's no hope or possibility. Sometimes it's a great foundation from which to build upon.

Hope, possibility, opportunity

My former step-daughter had a rough beginning. I worried a lot when she came to live with us. But now, she travels the world for work, is happily married, and often lives abroad. From the outside in, she has a good life.

When I left what I consider to be my first "real" job (as in, the start to a career rather than just a job), my boss wrote in my recommendation that I combined intellect with street smarts. I wasn't sure what to make of that, but I get it now. It took a while.

Me, December, 2014, Golden Gardens Park, Seattle

Being scrappy and street smart makes me a pretty decent human being, with skills to solve problems, contribute to a meaningful discussion, compromise, and get results. I "get" people and know how to maneuver in the world. I'm pragmatic, a realist, even while holding a lot of ideals about how I think things should be.

There's gold in them thar hills... (or, my 

guess is we're all in the right place, right now). 

If we can find the gold in the hands we're dealt, even if we're playing Cards Against Humanity, we can create something special toward a greater, better world.

There but for the grace...

Why do we choose the paths we do?

My coworkers and I were chatting about the time before our current jobs. One of my coworkers had a decidedly "vanilla" upbringing; we noted that despite that (noting also our own interpretations of vanilla), she's not judgmental, and she's very curious, inclusive, well-adjusted and exceptionally likable.

Another had a straight and narrow Southern Baptist upbringing, which influenced his choices until early mid-life, when everything shifted. He came out, acquired an addiction and found himself living a wild life - a life no one expected given his character and background.

Until about 12, my earliest childhood years had shades of vanilla, at least from the outside looking in (inside, maybe not so much: I sometimes refer to my family as the "grim Swedes," for their stoic determination and head-in-the-sand approach to conflict or problems; a friend also coined my heritage as "JewLute" - Jewish and Lutheran ancestry resulting in a guilt double-whammy). We were white-bread working class - no major scandals, nothing too exciting, basic needs all met, pretty "ordinary" by conventional standards. I can't say there was a lot of love in the house, but there wasn't a lot of visible conflict, either.

But my coworker's story and that of another brought to mind my own tumultuous teen years, and I can't help but shout out, "there but for the grace..."

Somehow, I made different choices than those of my friends - choices I couldn't have imagined for myself as a teenager. For much of my teen years, I wasn't encouraged, I didn't have good role models - in life, work, or relationships, and I didn't have hope. My losses were already extensive and growing. Dreams and desires? My general take was, "Why bother... " I couldn't see beyond the scope of my immediate reality.

I lost my aunt - essentially my caretaker - at 8, an alcoholic who hid her bottles; my grandfather at 9, and my grandmother at 12. Mom worked, and was emotionally detached. So by the time I turned 13, there wasn't really anyone left for me to be accountable to. I felt angry, scared and alone.

Yet somehow... I made it through, made different choices, never quite stepped off that ledge. My best friend at 14, whose father was both violent and a pedophile, succumbed to endless abuse and addiction, and is now occasionally homeless. A later BFF - inseparable from about 16 - 20 - told me to stay out of her life; by then, she was moving quickly down the road of addiction and prostitution, from which she'd never escape. Countless others followed a path of abuse, addiction, alcoholism... leading to incarceration, dis-ease and dead ends, whether dead-end relationships, jobs... or an early death. Stanley said what many of us thought at the time, "Die young and leave a good looking body." He died at 19 of an overdose. Having no siblings and a mostly absent mother during those years, these kids were my family. And yet, while I was prone to self-abuse, I didn't go where they did. How? Did the stability of those earliest formative years, despite the many shortcomings, make a difference, and keep me just shy of self-destruction?

Conscious or not, we do choose. We make choices based on what's familiar, what's comfortable, and what we believe we deserve. If we believe at our core - largely unconscious until something triggers awareness - that what we deserve is abuse (or that people will leave us, not love us, not help us...), every choice we make will likely support more of the same. And those results can be subtle but profound at the same time.

Despite what I believed about myself, somehow, I got myself through high school, college, found decent jobs and eventually got married (not necessarily in A to Z order, and the marriage was short-lived). I was the first in my known family to go to college (on my dad's side, they were well-educated, but I didn't know them until my early 20s; my dad died at 28 just after I was born).

I did what I thought I was supposed to do based on what I saw "out there." I had so many life lessons to learn; my upbringing gave me street smarts but no practical life skills to thrive in the 'real world.' With no real guidance, I drew from an internal well of resources I didn't know I had, even though at my core, I had a lot of shame and didn't believe I deserved much.

Not any more. As an adult, I had some help along the way - therapists, coaches, friends, even a couple of teachers - but I give myself credit where credit's due. When I unearthed a knotted ball of shame residing deep within me, I saw how it kept me from living fully - and dreaming. And now, thanks to a lot of work and a vivid imagination, that little ball is a pile of ashes. Around that pile lives a fireball that drives me. A little flame was always there; I'm certain now that it kept me from jumping over the proverbial cliff into a place from which I, too, might never escape. I started dreaming again. And now I know I'm deserving of creating and achieving my dreams.

And yes, there but for the grace...

My mom always said I had a guardian angel. I suspect she was right. I'm pretty sure that internal fireball is connected to a universal life force, an energy, that connects us all and guides us, despite our own free will. Each of us has a purpose - whether or not we're ever conscious of what that is. We're here to learn, grow and make a difference - even if that difference is the impact we have on those around us, to help them also learn, grow and make a difference. Or just to have a better day. There but for the grace...