Breathe...

Breathe. This is what I keep telling myself. In spite of my best efforts not to do crazy this Christmas, the crazy is catching up to me. It actually might have overcome me. I might even be buried in it.

Breathe is what I say when I find a form that was supposed to be filled out and returned last week to school. Oops.

Breathe is what I say when a holidazed woman almost runs over me with her cart in Target.

Breathe is what I say when I almost run over someone else with my cart.

Breathe is what I say when the Alien Conquest Lego set I really wanted to buy for James is sold out. I might have said something else too...something a little less Zen. Thankfully there were other Alien Conquest Lego sets. And, I'm pretty sure he isn't picky when it comes to aliens and conquests.

Breathe is what I say when two of my three children are sprawled out on the floor of Sears, at the head of a very long line of tired, not so happy looking customers (who could maybe use a little breathing themselves), screaming at me and refusing to stand up to exit the store. Breathe and Santa is watching...

Because every single second of my day seems to be accounted for lately, Breathe is what I say when someone asks me to do something I wasn't planning to do. I wonder how I'll fit it in.

Breathe is what I say when I look around a table where my dad should be sitting, but isn't. I try to catch my breath as the reality of his absence soaks in. Again. I thought that the second Christmas season without my dad wouldn't be so bad. But it is. I really miss him. The holidays seem even emptier this year. Maybe last year it still felt like he might come walking through the door? This year, there is no question that he is gone. I wonder if he would recognize that three year-old daughter of mine, who had just turned two the month before he died. Would he love her sass? Is he laughing his ass off up in heaven? What would he say when I told him that I was singing Christmas carols with my kids and James stopped us to run upstairs to get his guitar to accompany us? What would he think when I told him that Alexander said, "I think Nature should make an award for our neighborhood because it is just so pretty. This whole town is just so pretty!" last night as we drove home (from Sears!?!) My dad loved strong, spunky girls and women. He loved to share his passion for music and guitar-playing with James. He loved Nature and he loved those who also loved and respected it. He would be loving all of this. Breathe...

A few weeks ago, in the midst of an extremely stressful work week, I yelled to my husband, "Don't forget to breathe!" as he walked out the door. He told me that was good advice. I think it is too. At the yoga center where I practice, the instructors say that breathing is the only function of the body that is both voluntary and involuntary. I am so thankful for that because sometimes I think I go days without breathing. That must be when the involuntary breathing kicks in. For me, these are quick, shallow breaths, pumping themselves in and out just to keep me alive.

The voluntary breaths are different. These are life-giving breaths. There is a difference, you know - between doing something to stay alive and doing something that makes you feel alive. These voluntary breaths nourish me. Try one. Mouth closed, inhale through your nose. Suck in as much air as you can, and then a little bit more. Now let it out. Slowly. Again, but with your eyes closed this time. And again. Do you feel more alive? Maybe a little tingly? If even for just a moment, these voluntary breaths bring us smack, dab into the present moment. These are the breaths I keep telling myself to take. Before my mind runs off into crazy, or mouth runs off into God only knows where. These breaths keep me right here, right now in the perfection of all these seemingly imperfect moments.

Deep breath. Ahh. For you, in the crazy of your days and even in the calm, I offer this great advice: don't forget to breathe!

'Tis the Season to be Crazy. Not.

This Christmas will be the best Christmas I've had in years. Nope, I didn't find the gift of all gifts for everyone on my shopping list. I'm not expecting anything unusual or extraordinary myself. It's not even about Jesus or Santa Claus or cookies or candy or carols. All the usual cast and crew will be present, so no special appearances are planned. This Christmas is different because I am different. I feel different. I am operating differently this year.

I've been making some changes in the way I live life in the last year or so, but I didn't realize how much I had changed until last Sunday. It was Day 8 of my husband, Dan, working in his office from dawn until way, way, way, (WAY) past dusk. I knew he would be busy, but I didn't know how busy. I wasn't at all prepared for him to be gone as much he was. It wasn't that he jumped ship without discussing it with me, I just couldn't wrap my head around his need to go missing when I was expecting him to stay put.

We hosted a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner on Thursday and our first-ever Pierogi Day on Friday (a longstanding tradition in Dan's family) and he left for work on Saturday morning and didn't come back. Much. In the meantime, as soon as my 5 year-old son Alexander swallowed his last bite of turkey on Thanksgiving Day, he began asking if it was Christmas. He wondered where our tree was. He wondered when our decorations would go up. He offered to put them up. He noticed other people putting theirs up. He feared we were the only people on the planet without Christmas decorations up (which we know isn't true, but he is 5 and lives in a world where everyone celebrates Christmas and refuses to believe me if I try to tell him something different).

I spent Saturday night with some of my aunts and cousins on my mom's side of the family for our annual Secret Pal Getaway and gift exchange. I laughed so hard and for so long that my cheeks hurt the next day. I stayed up way too late and was exhausted when I woke up the next morning. Visions of coffee danced through my head as I drove home on Sunday morning. I was tired, but touched by the Christmas spirit. My sister hosted the Secret Pal gathering and her house was decorated beautifully. I wanted my own twinkle lights. I wanted to put our tree up. I wanted to see Alexander's huge smile when I put it up.

I polled the kids earlier in the week. We voted to stick with our artificial tree from last Christmas instead of going out to cut a fresh one. I knew the box was in our basement. I imagined it was heavy. I decided I would carry the damn tree up piece by piece if I had to because I was determined to put up our tree. Anna of yesteryear would have created a story that went something like "Dan is not home to carry the tree upstairs. We'll have to wait until next weekend to put up our tree." With a huge dose of Woe is Me, My Husband Works Too Much and a sprinkle of What a Jerk, He is Ruining Christmas. She could be unpleasant.

By the time I had the tree upstairs, my mom arrived and my sister and niece arrived shortly thereafter. Right before my eyes, the tree was assembled and the stockings were hung by the chimney with care (I'm not kidding). Alexander carried our ornaments upstairs from the basement and soon my three kids and their sweet little cousin were decorating. We played Christmas music. It was completely spontaneous. I hadn't planned for any of it to happen (like Anna of yesteryear might have). It could not have been more perfect.

Thinking about my ghosts of Christmas past makes me cringe. I was a 5'10" tower of stress. I wanted everything to be perfect. But because I didn't know what perfect looked like, I drove myself crazy striving to attain the unattainable. It was a vicious cycle because no matter how hard I tried, or how much I bought, or how much I donated, or what I baked, or how pretty I made the package, it wasn't good enough. I always fell short of my own unrealistic expectations. Nothing I did ever was or could be enough. I was never good enough.

I had visions of what our Christmas should look like. We should take a long drive out to a beautiful,snow-covered Christmas tree farm singing Over the River and through the Woods as we drove. We should take a hayride to a delectable Evergreen forest and select a fragrant fir for our home. We should enjoy hot cocoa by the fire afterward... The last time we went to the Christmas tree farm, we walked around for what seemed like hours. We were about to give up on finding our perfect tree, then spotted one at the last second. We were freezing, the kids were crying, and Dan's arms were aching from carrying our little one. It was not picture perfect. I will give Anna of yesteryear credit because she was able to go with the flow in situations like that one. She saw the humor in how unpredictable life could be. She even had fun when things weren't picture perfect. She adapted her visions of perfection and knew that what was perfect one time, might not be perfect the next time. I still think she might have filed away all that was imperfect somewhere in her heart or in her head. I think she used it as motivation to make everything else even more perfect.

Now I know that nothing is perfect, but those sweet, special, spontaneous moments that happen, not because I wait for someone else to create them or because I create them, but because those perfect moments occur naturally, all around me. I like that kind of perfection. Sometimes it is messy. Sometimes it means that all the ornaments end up on the lowest branches of the tree because that is as high as a kid can reach. Sometimes it means that not everyone is there as I would like them to be, and sometimes it means that people I never expected to be there, show up. Appreciating this kind of perfection requires me to let go of expectations or visions or yearnings for that other kind of perfection - the elusive kind.

I feel liberated. I still have my moments and it is only December 7th so there is a lot of time left to go crazy, but my motivation is completely different now than it has been in the past. I'm having lots of fun wandering around town admiring twinkle lights and listening to my kids laugh when Alvin and the Chipmunks sing their Christmas songs on the radio. I'm not attached to the outcome of Christmas. There is no voice in my head saying, "you should have bought this instead...she will hate that...he already has one of those...those cookies are burnt...that bow isn't straight...those ornaments are too low...oh screw it, next year we're going to Mexico for Christmas." Nope, none of that. I'm doing the best I can. I know Dan is doing his best. I know my mom and my sister, while dreading another Christmas without my dad as I am, are doing their best. I'm not going crazy because I know that everything, in all its chaotic Christmas splendor is absolutely, positively perfect just as it is. My wish for you is that you know it too.

Don't Be Afraid to Sparkle

It was never my intention to be preachy or sanctimonious while blogging. My only intention was to share some of the highlights from my journey toward a deeper connection between my mind, my body, and my spirit. To be clear, this is an ongoing journey. I have wondered if sharing my thoughts is a worthy pursuit and I have decided that it is only my job to share because sharing is what I do best. Determining the worth of what I share is your job. Today, it may be worth nothing to you. Another time, maybe I made you laugh, or think, or cry. It might be different every time. Once, when I shared my doubts with a very sweet friend of mine, she said, "If you can touch just one person with your words, isn't that worth it?" To touch just one person would mean a lot to me, so I will continue sharing. But this time, I'm putting on my preacher's robe so please forgive me if I sound sanctimonious.

Here is my sermon: Don't be afraid to sparkle. I stole that from the Brave Girls at http://bravegirlsclub.com/. A lot of different people have said it in a lot of different ways. One of my favorite ways comes from a print that hung in Your Heart's Home, a place I stayed while visiting Sedona, Arizona in January. It is attributed to Nelson Mandela and it goes like this:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our Light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

You are a child of God.

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We were born to make manifest the Glory of God that is within us.

It is not just in some of us, it is in everyone.

And as we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our own fear, Our Presence automatically liberates others.

When I first read this, from the print, it sort-of took my breath away. I had spent most of my life feeling as if I didn't measure up and that I wasn't good enough. The idea that my deepest fear was not that I actually was inadequate, but rather, that I might be powerful beyond measure startled me. Could it be true? Well, the print said it was true and according to everything I had been taught, prints, books, authors, teachers, parents, coaches, talking heads on television, and any and all "experts" don't lie. I, like just about everyone else I know, was trained to look outward - beyond myself, to look to other people and to look to other things to see if I measured up. What I have learned is that if I look outward, I am sure to find that I am inadequate. There is always someone who appears to be better, smarter, stronger, faster, thinner, prettier, and more clever than I.

So there I was, looking outward, at the print, and all I saw was "...who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented and fabulous?" And I thought, "Right. Exactly." Then I saw, "Actually, who are you not to be?" And the first thought that came to me was, "Fuck yeah! Who am I not to be?"

And a new Anna was born. Well, really, that little Anna, that little seven year-old Anna as Ken the Angel Life Coach calls her, came into her own. She was there all along, but over time, her light grew dim and eventually went out altogether. Instead of skipping down aisles in the grocery store like my little Sophia does now, singing her own songs, and twirling to her own tune, instead of sparkling, little Anna went still. She was silent. I grew so comfortable waiting for other people to speak and listening to what they said, that I lost the ability to hear my own voice.

But here's the twist: my light was shining all along, I just didn't know it. I couldn't see what everyone else saw. I saw a big gray blob where others saw kindness and warmth and well, light. If I did see the light, or even had a little glimmer of hope that it was still there, I squelched it immediately. When I heard a compliment, I blew it off. I said things like, "Oh no, that messed up pumpkin cheesecake with the crack down the middle? It didn't turn out right (even though it took the extreme skills of a domestic goddess like myself to extract it from the special spring form cheesecake baking pan)." Or "No, no, my house isn't spotless (because I got up before the sun to clean it), it's a mess." Or, "Oh yeah, thanks, but you must be losing your eyesight because I look fat (despite the fact that I did just receive the "I LOST TEN POUNDS" ribbon at Weight Watchers and I had to work like hell  to do that).

I wonder, when you give someone a compliment, like "Oh my God! This cheesecake is to die for! Did you make it? Can I have the recipe?" and her response is "Uh, yeah, well, you can, and hopefully yours won't have a crack down the middle..." how do you feel? When that happens to me, I feel a little like shit. On the other hand, when I give a compliment to someone and she accepts it graciously with a smile and a thank you, it warms my heart. This is a small example of what I think it means for this person to let her light shine, thereby giving me permission to do the same.

Try it.

Oddly, giving compliments isn't nearly as hard as accepting them. So try both. In this time of giving thanks and getting ready for all the winter holidays and traditions that come with them, try both. In this time of what sometimes seems to be never ending to-do lists and no matter how hard you try or how late you stay up, you still feel like you'll never finish all there is to do (both imagined and real), try both. In this time of minimizing Herculean efforts to make magic and memories that will last a lifetime, try both. Give compliments and accept them. Play around a little. See what feels good. Try it because if you close your eyes for a minute and imagine a world where we all let our lights shine, where each of us was liberated from our darkest fears, and where we celebrated and honored one another's grace, wit, and charm, I think you would see an incredibly beautiful, colorful, wonderful, super sparkly place. Complete with picture perfect cheesecake.

I will meet you there.

from the Brave Girls Club

www.bravegirlsclub.com

New Beginnings and Miracles All Around!

When I walk into Staples, I am instantly aroused. The pencils, the pens, blank notebooks, sticky notes, whew! I love all of it. So, naturally, going back to school, or now getting my kids ready to return to school, is a very exciting time of year for me. I love making resolutions at the start of the New Year and I am a sucker for the promise of new blooms in Spring, but Autumn rings true as a time of new beginnings for me. I feel most invigorated and most inspired as the leaves begin to show signs of turning colors and the crisp scent of fall wafts through the air. This year, I am wide open, eager to welcome whatever this fresh start brings.

I have also  been feeling nostalgic as my son Alexander prepared for kindergarten with great anticipation of joining his older brother, James, at "his" school. We do drop-off, as opposed to riding the bus, and today, when he leaped out of the car, I don't think he could have been any happier. He was thrilled this morning when I confirmed that he would be going back to school today. So anyway, the other day my mom came over and we listened to some of her saved voice mail messages from the past (please tell me we are not the only saps who do crazy things like save old messages). With her summer tan aglow and her blue eyes sparkling, she said, "oh, this is one of my favorites." I listened as my very own voice began to speak. I was crying. I said something like, "Hi Mom, this is Anna (sniff). James started kindergarten today. He got on the bus and he didn't even look back (sniff, sniff)..." So many things came to mind. First, the image of my husband Dan and I coming home from the bus stop that day and literally sobbing together on our love seat. Second, disbelief that that little kindergartner would be entering fourth (say it with me, FOURTH!!!) grade this year. And third, both disbelief and disappointment that my dad wouldn't be here to share in Alexander's first day of kindergarten as he was for James. I pictured my mom sharing the message with my dad and both of them reflecting on the fact that their first grandchild was ready for kindergarten. That he got on the bus and didn't even look back.

I know, I know - my dad is still with me. I do know that, I swear. But even with that knowledge, I yearn to hear the enthusiasm in his voice when I share these bits and pieces of my life with him. I want confirmation of his pride in Alexander, and frankly, in me. He was a great cheerleader, my dad. He would be (is) so proud.

With all my anticipation of a new beginning at the start of the school year - for my kids and for me, I find myself feeling sad too. And as with so many things I've experienced since losing my dad, I find that this is a time where bittersweet is about the best we can do. Do I sound like I'm whining?

Enter miracles. Yesterday was the first day of school and the morning was filled with miracles. I got up, showered, and made a delicious, nutritious breakfast for my little ones (as opposed to throwing a granola bar and string cheese at them with five minutes left before we have to run out the door). Then, I marched them outside for a First Day of School photo shoot. Nobody complained (I began to think something strange was afoot, bud didn't dare question it). Everybody smiled. Everybody posed. I was in Mom Heaven.

We got in the car and Somewhere Over the Rainbow was playing on the radio. This has to be one of my all-time favorite songs. I was a somewhere over the rainbow kind-of girl as a child. The Coffee House version, by Israel Kamakawiwo'ole' has become one of the songs that remind me that my dad is always here with me and it has come on the radio at the most opportune times. As we pulled out of the driveway, we stopped to talk to our new neighbors. They were sweet and smiling and my heart was simply singing with joy. Then I heard my dad's voice singing. My daughter had found my husband's iPad on the floor of the car and somehow found her way to my dad's recordings. AND, he was singing Summertime, which was my lullaby when I was a little girl. Let's not even get into the fact that I have no idea how the iPad got left in the car, or how Sophia could have possibly found Summertime, especially since she usually goes right for Beyonce's "I'm a Singlet" video. At that point, I knew my dad was speaking to me.

Sophia said, "This is a Papaw song!" Putting to rest my fears that my little girl, who wasn't quite two when my dad died, would have no memories of her Papaw. Then she said, "Mama, my butt is shaking and my legs are swinging!" I look back to see her moving to the music, Alexander glowing, and James clapping his hands and swaying his head back and forth. I was in awe. There was no doubt in my mind that my dad was with us. I so much as heard him say, "I'm here. And I'm proud."

Later, I told Alexander that I wanted to tell him something very special. He looked up at me with his big, blue eyes and I said, "I have been really sad that Papaw isn't here to see you start kindergarten because I know he would have been so proud of you." He nodded and I continued, "And today, when we heard his song, I knew he was with us and I know that he is very proud of you." Heart-melting smile from ear to ear on that kid. God, I love him. There must be so much wisdom in that little five year-old head. And even later, when we got in the car to attend his orientation, These Are Days was on the radio! This was the song that Dan and I danced to at our wedding. And through the years, it too has come on the radio when I've needed comfort the most.

So that is my morning of miracles. Later, when I was feeling extremely disgruntled, along with my tired out, over-stimulated children, and trying to get dinner together, a penny from heaven appeared out of nowhere in the middle of the counter. Nope, we didn't save a life or cure a disease yesterday morning, but we were definitely in the midst of miracles. I spoke out and someone "up there" was listening. This all reminds me that we are always surrounded by miracles. Big or little, there are messages for all of us, everywhere, saying "you are never alone. I am here with you." And all of that makes me even more excited for this new time of new beginnings...what's next?!

The Possibilities are Endless!

I've never been much of a "Let go, let God" kind of girl. In fact, it seems that as soon as I sense that I have no control in a matter, I bear down, gripping more tightly than ever. I am not one to gracefully release it. I squeeze it, I hold it, I try with all my might to mold it into something I can control. My lack of control transforms into worry, to fear, to anxiety, and even to obsession. I sometimes lose sleep and I drive a lot of people crazy. You might ask, "How is that working out for you?" And, well, to be honest, it's not.

As I stood in the shower this morning, obsessing over whether or not our recent move to a new home was a good idea, I decided that this obsession was something I needed to release to the Universe. We moved, there is someone living in our previous home, and there is no turning back. I can't worry about whether my son will make new neighbor friends, or whether I will make new neighbor friends. I can't worry about anything like that because what is done is done and only time will tell what kind of friends we will make or not make as a result of this move.

So then I started thinking about the move in general (I know I'm not the only one who does her best thinking in the shower). It all happened really fast and it truly wasn't part of the "plan". It went something like this: Husband comes home from work and trips over kids' shoes in the doorway. Husband tries to put his bag down, but can't because all flat surfaces are covered with laundry (in the doorway). Husband says, "I hate that our laundry room is in the doorway! I can't wait to get out of this house!" I smile sweetly and agree that someday we might consider moving to a new house. Husband shares other examples of why he hates our home. I smile sweetly, and nod for good measure. Husband decides to "research the market" and begins work with a realtor. I stop smiling. Dan, my husband, isn't the kind of guy who spends a lot of time doing research. When Dan wants something, he goes for it. Sometimes he moves so fast, it frightens me.

We thought we might move in 2-5 years. We considered buying land and building a home. We looked at land (meaning we all piled in the car, met the realtor at the land and Dan got out and looked at it while I tried to keep the kids from driving off without him). Dan got serious. We actually asked our babysitter to watch our children so we could attend an Open House for a promising new home. It was a wonderful home. All it took was one deep breath with space to do so and I was hooked on the idea of moving. I was ready to make an offer.

Dan hopped online as soon as we got home to look at the house again (he was not ready to make an offer). After weeks (months?) of looking at houses and prioritizing our needs and desires, and coming to terms with the fact that the "perfect" house wasn't out there and that a compromise or two may be necessary, a new listing appeared on the screen. There was an Open House there that day and it ended one hour from the time we saw the house online. From the virtual tour on the screen before me, it looked as if it was built for us. From the tile work on the back splash to the incredible timber framing on the ceiling. My dad was a timber framer. It felt like he had a hand in this, like maybe he had found the house for us. 

I fully expected Dan to come home to tell me he just bought a new house. We all know, in the world of real estate, especially in Michigan, things don't usually happen that quickly. So began the agonizing process...would it work out? I began to bear down in fear, in anxiety, and then I remembered that I was evolving and the new and improved Anna would recognize that there were many variables that she could not control. So, I took a plunge - I let it go. I waited. And in the end, it did work out and we all love our new home (I especially love the shower).

And the funny thing is, this wasn't part of "the plan." We took a detour. I love Emily Dickinson's gentle invitation to "dwell in possibility" and each time I see this quote (which is often), it is like someone, Emily perhaps, is giving me permission to let go. To step. Away. From the plan. To open right up, throw my head back and my arms in the air, and look out at all the possibilities.

There are dreams buried deep inside me that I have long forgotten or given up on, and why? Because I'm not sure where to fit them in. Because I can't figure out where they go in the plan. Because I've been so busy trying to control every little detail of my life from when I will get pregnant to when my last child will leave home, that I don't allow space for things to simply unfold. From this moment forward, I am scrapping the plan. Who really knows what the future holds? Since my dad died, seven women I love and care very much about have lost a parent. Death isn't planned. It sometimes comes when we least expect it. It jolts us. It breaks our hearts. Sometimes we have to start over.

Little by little I am learning to let go in ways that I never would have imagined. I was okay letting go of some little stuff, but now I think it's time to let go of the big stuff. I'm sure Dan and I will still have to plan, but I'm playing it a little more loosey-goosey from now on. No more obsessing over the things I can't control. Years ago, when I first heard the Serenity Prayer, it made so much sense to me. God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change; courage to change the things I can; and wisdom to know the difference. It sounds so simple, really. But for me, especially as I get older, it's been really hard. 

I think in some way, my tight grip on life is born of love. It comes from good intention. Somewhere along the line, I began to believe that trying harder and holding tighter was a sign of my love, or of my commitment to someone or something. Reflecting on life and death and what it all means, thinking about moving when we had planned to stay, and even seeing so many of my friends suffer through the loss of beloved parents - all of this is teaching me that letting go, even a little, and opening to possibility, isn't a sign of loving less or caring less.  I think letting go may even open a pathway to loving more. When you let go, it's all out there. Rather than limiting myself by hanging on, I might actually find that I can love more deeply, more richly, and more truly by letting go. I'm still figuring this out. Maybe that in and of itself will take a lifetime. Maybe I'll never figure it out. But I feel pretty certain that when I do let go, the possibilities are endless.

Beautiful Days

I've had some really neat opportunities lately to gather with large groups of friends, family, and mostly strangers. These are opportunities that weave in and out of my life frequently, really, but for whatever reason (three kids, large dog, messy house, mounds of laundry...?), I don't always notice the magic contained within them. Thankfully though, I've been paying attention. I'm so excited about these miraculous little moments, that I had to share...

It all started at a U2 concert a few weeks ago. I was with my husband, Dan, and a group of our very dear friends. The concert was held in Spartan Stadium, which is, to be frank, sacred ground. Dan and I met at Michigan State University our sophomore year, so naturally MSU holds a special place in our hearts. It's where we fell in love and decided to take on the world together. Over the recent years we have made many memories tailgating with friends on campus and attending football games. We are MSU fans, yes, but first and foremost we are Spartans (there is a difference). And, we take that very seriously. And, we have lots and lots of fun.

I like U2, but I wasn't a huge U2 fan when we planned to attend the concert. For me, U2 was secondary to a night with great friends in East Lansing. I love music, but I don't usually remember lyrics or bands or any of the important details. I hear a song and I love it or hate it, and then each time I hear it after that, I remember what was happening when I first heard it, or when I heard it again and again, or the way I felt back then. A lot of U2 was played in college and hearing their songs reminds me of that time in my life. It was such a carefree and exciting time. I felt like an adult, but I was really still so sheltered from the rest of the world, from reality, from true responsibility. So anyway, there we were with our MSU friends in Spartan Stadium and life couldn't get much better than that.

I cannot remember which song Bono was singing when I looked around and felt something magical sprout from deep in my soul. I was surrounded by thousands of people and whether or not we were presidents of our local U2 fan clubs, we were all there in Spartan Stadium for the very same reason: to hear U2. We swayed together, we sang together, we came together as one for a few hours on a summer night, and it was beautiful. A Beautiful Day, according to U2.

I tucked that moment in my heart and life went on as usual until last weekend. For the last several years Dan and I have made the trek from wherever we are in Northern Michigan to Glen Arbor for the Independence Day parade. The first year we were in Glen Arbor for our family vacation. We liked it so much, we keep going back! In all fairness, I don't recall meeting a parade I didn't like, but this parade is special to me. I'm sure it has something to do with my kids going crazy about it, plotting their candy grabbing strategies, and talking about all the fun for days afterward. It's also something we've been lucky enough to share with my mom and we're all about making new traditions. There is also a Spartan float (truck) and well, we know how much it means to me to be a Sparty. As we stood there in the sun, my husband, my kids, my mom, and me, with hundreds of other people, watching the parade go by, my soul started to stir once again.

I didn't care much for history when I was younger, and I'm nowhere near a buff now, but somewhere in between lies a place of deep appreciation for the past, gratitude for the present, and trust in the future. I like that place. I love connecting the pieces of the past to the present and thinking about what is to come for me, my family, my community, my state, my country, my world...our world. The stories, people's stories of how they began, and what motivated them, and where they went with it all fascinate me. Standing on M-22 in Glen Arbor, Michigan on July 4, 2011, it felt as if all of it - past, present, and future merged into one single moment. A fantastic moment where all of these virtual strangers came together to celebrate independence. We weren't individuals or even parts of groups with which we typically identify. We were one. The military vehicles carrying Veterans and service men and women and their families, the flags waving in the wind, kids clad in red, white and blue, and my favorite - a young woman, stopping us all in our trackes, as she beautifully belted out the Spangled Banner from the Boon Doggies float, these are reminders of what it takes to gain independence and to keep it - they connect all of us to one another and to our shared history as Americans. Another beautiful day.

The third and final moment in this story occurred last night. This was more of a series of moments though. Dan's cousin, Michael, was set to marry his bride, Jennifer. Dan and I dropped the kids off with one of their beloved grandmas and headed to Saginaw for the ceremony. Already, the feeling of oneness began to set in as we rode and I thought about how wonderful it would be for Mike and Jenn to experience their wedding day surrounded by friends and family, just as Dan and I had almost 14 years ago. I don't know Mike that well and I had never met Jenn, but I was very excited for them. It was neat to think of myself, so many years ago, being welcomed to the Oginsky family with many of the same people around me, and to imagine Jenn having a similar experience.

Once the music started and the moms were escorted down the aisle, I was a little misty-eyed. I know I'm not the only sap who cries at weddings. When Jenn's dad delivered her at the end of the aisle, I saw her say, "I love you Dad." My eyes flooded. For a split second, I thought I was going to lose it and I knew I would probably be one of the few who completely loses it at a wedding, especially someone else's wedding. But then that a bit of warmth spread from deep in my soul and I was overcome with gratitude. I threw up a prayer of thanks, grateful for Jenn and her dad that they had that moment, and grateful that I too had had that moment with my dad, even though her declaration reminded me that the hug and "I love you" I yearn to give my own dad now isn't going to happen.

Jenn was beautiful, Mike looked handsome, and their bridal party, friends, and family sparkled in the radiant glow of the love shared by the bride and groom. It warms my heart thinking about all the different people who traveled to the wedding to share in the love and the beauty of the day. Again, separately, we were family, we were friends, we were the people who worked to make it all happen, but together we were one in Jenn and Mike's love. I am grateful to have been part of it, to have been touched by that love. Another beautiful day.

I trust that these profound moments of connectedness will continue for me, and I hope that I will recognize them. I hope that I will remain open to these moments - to being touched by something. To the little spark in my soul that comes from singing in unison with thousands of people in a place that I love, from standing with my family cheering for the Glen Arbor Kazoo Corps in the Independence Day parade, and from witnessing the marriage vows of two people in love. All in all, it makes for some truly beautiful days.

 Even with bags of candy, I can't convince my kiddos to pose in a picture with me.
They sure are cute though!

 I wasn't kidding - the one and only Glen Arbor Kazoo Corps

The Spartan float - an annual fave. Go GREEN!

Eureka!

Guess what?! I struck gold!

While maintaining that the main objective of this blog is to share some of my experiences on this journey through life, I will admit that I have been hoping that anyone who reads my blog finds something to take along on his or her own journey as well. We are all in this together! I only say this now because if you are reading this, you are someone I care about or someone who someone I care about cares about and I really want you to pay attention.

So today is all about sharing my gold. I am very new to this, so bear with me. I am no expert, I can't take credit for it, and I'm not even sure I fully understand it, but I think I am on to something HUGE! I am beginning to see that any journey worth taking (i.e., life) must begin with a healthy practice of self-compassion. Of course, like many things I've encountered lately, this is something I have read or heard about in the past and thought, "Well, of course! Duh!" while not putting it into practice.

My last post was about truth and how being authentic, or honest, might be painful, but can open the door to compassion for others, and for myself. I knew I was balancing on the very tippy top of the iceberg because I couldn't keep up with my thoughts on the matter. Since then I have learned a little more about self-compassion and how there is so much more to it than a simple acknowledgment that all is well.

It started with this article that Ken the Angel Life coach asked me to read. And, of course, I didn't read it when he first suggested it. I was too busy (or, enter Twilight Zone theme music - this is something my parents always did when I was a kid - I was resisting it...). Anyway, here it is Self compassion may matter more than self-esteem. So, basically, this woman Kristin Neff, an associate professor at the University of Texas at Austin, researched self-compassion and found that (drum roll) it matters more than self-esteem. Sorry, I am feeling punchy. In all seriousness, there are elements of self-esteem that are desirable and those that are not. Cultivating self-compassion allows for all the desirable elements and none of the undesirable ones. This is really important for those of us raising children, and even more important for those of us shuttling said children from competitive sport to competitive (insert sport or other event) in hopes of instilling a strong sense of self in these children. We all want the best for our children and frankly, it seems to be a bit of a crap shoot as to whether or not we are achieving "the best" in our efforts. Only time will tell.

Cultivating self-compassion is not just for our children though, my friends. The article mentions Neff's recent book, Self-Compassion: Stop Beating Yourself Up and Leave Insecurity Behind (William Morrow, 2011). Being the book whore that I am (punchy!), I immediately searched for Neff's book on amazon.com. And this is where I think I found gold. As I poked around, I found a multitude of other books about self-compassion and...weight-loss, among other things. The funny thing is, I even remember writing about how my own desire to lose weight, or get fit, or however you want to say it, would need to come from a place of self-love, rather than self-loathing, in order to be put into action. I knew that then, but somehow I haven't incorporated it entirely into my journey. Just last week I was telling someone about my inner punk who keeps insisting on french fries. Um, call me crazy, but I don't think calling myself a punk is very compassionate?!

According to Neff, compassion entails recognizing suffering and feelings of kindness for those who are suffering, so that eventually we feel an urge to help or stop the suffering. Compassion also means understanding that we all suffer, that suffering is part of the human experience. Read: when you are suffering, YOU ARE NOT ALONE (I am yelling for my own benefit). Self-compassion involves all the same things.

I think one of our challenges is to show the very same compassion we show toward others to ourselves. And, I think this is what I really meant in my last post...that by virtue of practicing compassion toward others, I learn to practice self-compassion. It sounds so simple, but if we're being honest, we know it is not that simple. I know not a single soul who lets herself off the hook with the same gracious spirit in which she would let me off the hook. Or her children, or her mother, or the grocery attendant at VG's. We are all so hard on ourselves. We come by it naturally though. We live in a very competitive society. We grew up competing in sports, competing for good grades, competing to get into college, competing for jobs, competing to raise perfect children...we are competing all the time. Have you ever told someone what a bad day you are having only to have them respond with the details of their own much worse, much more complicated, much more trying bad day? We even compete for compassion! I'm not saying that participating in healthy competition doesn't have value, of course it does. It is worth mentioning, however, that a competitive culture such as ours encourages us to feel as if we don't measure up to others when we fail at something. Perhaps recognizing that sense of failure as "suffering," instead of proof that we aren't good enough, opens our hearts right up to understanding that as humans we all suffer, we all fail, and we are all worthy of compassion.

Speaking of suffering, I have to say that celebrating Father's Day without a father sucks. There is no way around it. As I practiced self-compassion this weekend, I first recognized how lucky I am to have had a dad worth missing. He was such a great guy. I thought about all the little kiddos out there who don't have dads and I realized just how blessed I am to have had my dad for 37 years. I started to think that maybe it was time to suck it up, you know, that this was my second Father's Day without a father so I should be really good at it by now. But then I thought of myself as a little girl. I know that no matter how old I am, there will always be a little Anna inside me, longing to run to the solace of her daddy's arms. He had the biggest, strongest arms. He gave the best hugs. I miss those hugs...

That little girl will never be expected to suck it up. That little girl is suffering still. That little girl has my utmost compassion. And that too, is golden.

My sister, my dad, and me - 2005

Take Kristin Neff's Self-Compassion Quiz!

Liar, Liar Pants on Fire

I haven't been much of a blogger lately. I can't seem stick with one idea long enough to see it through. But since this is my travel journal (on my hat trick - mind, body, spirit journey), I decided to just write something. Anything is better than nothing, right?

The one thing I keep coming back to is truth. We receive a lot of different messages about truth, like the truth hurts, honesty is the best policy, and the truth will set you free - just to name a few. In yoga there is satya, a commitment to speaking the truth. On this quest of mine, toward a deeper connection between my mind, body, and spirit, I think the truth is very important. Plus, "truth" keeps creeping up on me, and that means it needs some attention.

As I've thought about truth, I've mostly been thinking about if and when and how I share my truth with others. Will it really matter if I speak up in a situation where my truth is pounding on the door of my throat to get out? Is it worth it? Will it make a difference? I've been thinking about how being honest, or authentic, might impact the people around me. Recently though, I discovered that the most powerful, and maybe even the most important, thing I can do with truth right now, is to be honest with myself.

At some point, in the last ten years or so, I went to my mom with a dilemma. I think I was complaining about someone. She said something like, "You know Anna, they say, that when you have a complaint about someone, it is usually because they remind you of something you don't like about yourself." (By the way, who is they anyway?) All I really wanted was for my mom to agree that whomever I was talking about sucked and that I was awesome. But no, like any good mother, she challenged me to reconsider the situation. I vowed never to complain to her about someone else again.

In the back of my mind, anytime someone irritates me, I can hear my mother's voice and I wonder, what does it say about me, that I am bothered by this person, or by his or her behavior? And then I wonder whether I really want to know what it says about me? Typically, my answer was no. This reminds me of the court scene in A Few Good Men where Jack Nicholson's character screams on the stand, "YOU WANT THE TRUTH? YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE TRUTH!" I didn't think I could handle the truth, or maybe I just didn't want to deal with the truth.

No matter what my mom says, I decided that some people can be just plain irritating. But when I raised something similar with Ken the Angel Life Coach he said, "you spot it, you got it," meaning, once again, that if something someone did triggered an emotional reaction in me, it was likely because I saw myself in them, or in their behavior. Then I was in a pickle. It was time to dig deeper. I will save you the heartache of the details of my digging. Again with Ken's help, this little gem of wisdom is what I found: rather than stomp away angry or hurt, or spend hours of therapy or sleepless nights trying to figure out exactly what it says about me that this behavior bothers me, if I were to show compassion toward the person behaving badly, so to speak, I might just open myself up to having deeper compassion for myself.

More relevant than what it says about me to be bothered by punk-ass behavior (just off the top of my head), is the idea that in having compassion for the punk, I open myself to compassion for myself. I'm sure this can work in a lot of different ways, but on the simplest level, for me, it means that I choose not to let the punk bother me, to maybe think, "Wow, I bet he is having a hard day, poor guy..." or whatever, then move on, letting myself off the hook for anything I (think I) may have done to deserve being bullied by a punk. His choices are not about me.

On a deeper level, this might mean that my own inner punk needs to be let off the hook. I recognize punk-like behavior because I know I can be a bully and I don't feel great about it. Instead of leaving the punk thinking, "what an ass," (therefore, I must be an ass), I might just recognize that he is what he is in that moment, as am I. Whew, I'm getting a headache. I think I need to stop before it gets too complicated...

Along the same line, today I read something about how forgiveness opens space once held by hurt in our hearts. Space for what? Love? Fun? Compassion? I think this is really powerful stuff. I know there are a lot of things, hurtful experiences, that I have been holding in my heart for a very long time. I guess I have been protecting them there. And while I've been able to move on in my life, I am finding that any little bit of grudge I hold toward someone else, or something else, is a waste of energy. My precious life energy. And I need that energy for my three crazy kids and our big yellow dog. I need it for myself!

So, now I see that the truth, whether it be about me or someone else, really does hurt sometimes. But I don't have to hang on to the hurt. Feeling that hurt and being honest about it, rather than denying it or questioning it or saving it for later, really, truly sets me free.

I Want My Mommy

My mom and I held each other, crying, when she looked at me and said, You girls think I'm so strong. I'm not strong. I got all my strength from your dad. I couldn't believe my ears. It was the night my dad died and we were understandably shocked. I wondered when I would wake up from the horrible nightmare I was having. We were both terrified as the coroner did his thing with my dad and we waited for someone to tell us what to do next. We hoped someone could tell us what to do next. I panicked, briefly, but I knew she was wrong. I knew she was strong. Maybe she did draw some, maybe even a lot of strength from my dad, but I also knew that deep inside her lived a wellspring of strength that pumped up and through her veins like blood. Strength is in her nature.

During my grandmother's funeral (this was my mom's mom or Mumma, as my mom and her siblings called her), I remember noticing something similar in each of my cousins. I'm not sure exactly what to call it, but it basically says, "Don't fuck with me." It's not a total tough guy kind of thing, but more of a strong and silent confidence. I watched my cousins closely for a while as I considered the fact that each of us had my grandmother's blood pumping through our veins. I was so proud of all of us. We came from a long line of strength and we carried it with us, we kept it going, and now we pass it on to our children.

When my son James was born, nine years ago, my understanding of Mother's Day shifted. Now, I was the mom. I never abandoned an effort to celebrate my mom and my mother-in-law on Mother's Day, but I certainly felt the day was really more about me now. Me, my kids, my family, and what I wanted to do on this one day. But today was different. I didn't even see my mom today - we celebrated together with my sister and her family yesterday - but I couldn't stop thinking about her. I couldn't stop thinking about how even if she wasn't my mom, I would admire her. I would love her. I couldn't stop thinking about how, at age 38, my need for her presence in my life is more pressing than ever. I need her strength.

My mom is human, let's be clear about that. I even remember hating her at times when I was a teenager. I remember one time, I was bent over, looking for something in the car, and she was outside the car by my feet. She was on my case about something and I actually, albeit briefly, considered kicking her in the face. We did the typical mother-daughter thing. The thing I dread doing with my daughter.

In addition to being human, my mom is an angel. As I reconnected with girlfriends from the past over Facebook, many of them recalled how sweet my mom was as our Brownie leader. Keep in mind, we are well past old enough to have our own Brownies. When my class, the class of '91, entered high school none of the teachers would agree to be our class sponsor, as was tradition. My mom did it. She helped us build floats for Homecoming, she planned fundraisers with us, and she connected with a lot of the kids in my class. She still speaks of them fondly, with a smile and usually a funny memory.

She was always there for me. And she has always been there for a lot of people. Until a few years ago she was a school nurse at an alternative school in Flint. She taught childbirth education to pregnant teens. A job fit only for an angel and she did it with strength and grace and respect for those girls like I'm quite sure some of them had never experienced. I loved hearing stories about her students and their babies. They weren't always happy stories though. There were many, many stories that were tough to hear and many I'm sure I will never hear. I thought those girls were so lucky to have a woman like my mom on their side.

Just like me. I call my mom before I call the pediatrician. God only knows how many times I asked her questions through each of my pregnancies as I anticipated labor and delivery. And when those little bundles of need, and joy like I had never known arrived, my mom was by my side. She gave me the confidence to try new strategies for sleeping, eating, and cleaning up messes. She believed in me. She guided me gently, lovingly, and with compassion. She continues to parent me, even as I parent.

And without skipping a beat, she grandparents. Yesterday she and my two younger children were having a piano concert. Each of them took a turn playing their "piece" and then everyone clapped. The pianist bowed. I'm pretty sure my kids couldn't have been more into it if they were performing at Carnegie Hall. My mom has this way of engaging children. Somehow she makes it seem that whatever is happening, from cleaning toys up from the floor to picking rocks up from the beach, to looking up at the stars, is the most exciting thing that could be happening in that moment. She makes up songs and stories and my kids laugh and sing and really, simply, bask in her glow.

People love my mom. I love my mom. I am eternally grateful for all she is and all she does. She has been through so much in her life. She lost her husband, the love of her life. That kind of loss can break a person. But no matter what, she never fails to show up. She is always there. She may be late, but mostly she walks through the door with her sparkling blue eyes and a mischievous smile. I say something silly to greet her and she laughs out loud. She is steadfast in her love for her family, her garden, her home, and all her works of art. Like her mother and the many, many mothers before her, my mom is as strong and fierce as she is gentle and kind.

Now that I think I get it a little better, what it truly means to be a mother, and that it doesn't end, I feel a little dumb for ever thinking that Mother's Day was more about me in my first months of motherhood. Not that new mothers are not in their own category of angel, but I still had so much to learn...I still have so much to learn. Sitting at dinner today with my mother-in-law and two of her three sons and her grandchildren, I thought about how lucky I am to have such incredible role models. When I stop to think about it, I am blown away by the strength it takes to be a mother. It is a full mind and body experience. My dad may continue to be a source of strength for my mom, like we couldn't have known he would be on the night we lost him, but at her core, my mom is just as strong, in fact stronger, than her girls ever thought she was. She is the true source of her strength and I am so proud of her. I am honored to share this day with her. Happy Mother's Day Mom!

My mom and her grandchildren, July 4, 2010
Glen Arbor, Michigan

My mom with my sister and me, Easter 2011

A Royal Epiphany

To be completely honest, I didn't care much about Kate or William or their wedding. I was a little turned off by it all. I didn't have anything against Kate or William, it was the hype. The couple, their plans, their pasts, their futures, their choices, and then all the "controversies"...the guest list, the dress, the hairdo, the speculation about all of it and what it meant. And then the speculation about the speculation. I haven't even watched a lot of TV or paid much attention to current events lately, but somehow I knew all these things were brewing, and I decided I just didn't care. So, I didn't plan a Royal Wedding Viewing Party. I didn't set the DVR to record the wedding. I didn't set my alarm to wake up to watch the wedding. I didn't plan on regretting my lack of interest. Worst case scenario, I'd watch highlights on YouTube.

When I returned home from the morning drop-off routine yesterday, I had a very rare opportunity to enjoy a cup of hot coffee in front of the TV (alone). I turned on the TV and sat down with my coffee and within seconds, despite my best efforts to avoid the hype, I was watching Royal Wedding highlights. Before too long, I was sobbing.

I am laughing right now because it all seems so ridiculous. So there I was crying, and of course I couldn't just cry, I had to stop and analyze it. Why was I crying? I decided that there were two possibilities: 1) in a past life I had my own royal wedding and seeing William and Kate in HD triggered those cell memories; or, 2) I was uncontrollably, undeniably, and very unsurprisingly moved to tears. It was all very beautiful. That goes without saying, but what struck me, as I tried to figure out what was so moving, was the connection. Here were hundreds of thousands of people gathered outside Buckingham Palace to catch a glimpse of the Prince and his new Princess, maybe millions of viewers watching on TV, and then the actual couple and their true friends and family who were very clearly celebrating love and a new beginning for all involved. In every replay of each lovely moment of that day, we are connected. We are united. We are one in love.

So then I tuned in to the commentators...some British woman sharing her predictions for a dark, lonely, and difficult transformation from commoner to Princess for poor Kate. Sure William loves her, but her life is forever changed and it could get really ugly. She will need to surround herself with friends. Let's all hope she asks Pippa to serve as a Lady in Waiting... (I'm paraphrasing). This woman was turning a breathtaking moment into mush right before my eyes. And then something clicked.

I have had the privilege of working with a fantastic life coach for the past month or so (grief therapy was great, but a girl has to move on at some point). One of the references he has made over and over is to the question of whether I will stand in choice. I have heard it and theoretically, I get it. In fact, I constantly talk to my kids about choices. "It's okay to be angry, it's not okay to punch your brother in the gut when you are angry, what are some other ways to deal with your anger? You have a choice... Your choices have consequences... Nobody can hurt you without your permission (Eleanor Roosevelt)" and so on. I even knew at the beginning of this journey, that at some point, I would need to make a choice about whether or not I would spend the rest of my life wallowing in grief over the loss of my dad. I would always miss him, I might often be sad, but then what? Would I be bitter? Choices would need to be made.

It sounds very simple at first, but in that moment I had a choice too. I could either allow myself to get sucked in to Lady Buzzkill's analysis of all that laid ahead for the Royal couple, or continue to bask in the glow of the Radiant Kate and William on their wedding day. Simple. I went to the light. My epiphany though, was that this choice mirrored all the others I can make in every matter big and small. The jerk who cuts me off on the highway. Do I let him get me down? In the past I have. There have been days in my life where that careless jerk sent me on a downward spiral and I was stuck there for the rest of the day. I might have even gone as far as to blame him for everything else that wasn't going right in my life. And then I'd have to order pizza for dinner that night because nobody could really expect me to cook in my fragile state. I was shaken up and it was all the jerk's fault.

The jerk is just the beginning. Choices get complicated. I could go on for hours about all the injustices in the world. I am not a Saint, but I don't get hate. I get acceptance. That is who I am. We don't have to agree with each other, in fact it would be boring if we did, but because of that connection, that oneness that I feel with humanity, I do believe we need to treat each other kindly. And we don't. And that hurts. I often take it personally. I don't need to though. I can choose to let the hurt flow through me, or to be transformed by the hurt, and I can choose whether that transformation will be for better or for worse. Kate and I have at least one thing in common.

So often we allow ourselves to get caught up in the hype. Most of it isn't even real, by the way. I am fighting the urge to run in several different directions here. There is so much to say about injustice, the media, the hype, and so on. I don't see that as part of this journey. Not now. This journey is about creating a sense of balance in my life. Thank you William and Kate for sharing your extraordinary day with the world. We all need a little more love and light in our lives. I completely understand now, thanks to a few highlights from the Royal Wedding and Ken the Angel Life Coach, that the love and light is always available. Truly. The choice is ours about whether or not to access it. Whether or not to spread it.

Lost and Found

When my dad passed away last year, I lost my mom too. I also lost my sister. My husband and my children lost me. Since then, we've all resurfaced for the most part. I had forgotten about these losses until today after a difficult conversation with my mom. When we were finished talking, I had a good cry. I thought a lot about what we had said and the way we had said it, and how I felt about all of it. The little girl Anna, who resides deep inside me, wanted so badly to crawl into her mother's lap. She longed for the safety she found there after a disagreement. She wished she could be comforted by her mom's hand stroking her little head as she sat there, releasing the hurt with every pass through her hair.

I, grown woman Anna, am slightly jealous of that little girl. It seems like life was so much easier when anything that ailed me could be cured in the arms of my mom or my dad. As I thought about what had transpired, I wondered why resolving conflict seemed so much more tenuous now, why it seemed so hard. And then I remembered that Wednesday is my dad's birthday. He would have been 64. I can't help but to think that no matter what we said or thought, in the depths of our hearts, we were feeling the weight of an upcoming birthday void of its bibirthday boy. First, I wanted my dad back. Then, I wanted my mom back.

I live within 30 minutes of my mom in one direction and my sister and her family in another. My dad, bless his heart, came to my house several times a week in the last year of his life. He helped me with my babies like only a Papaw could. I rewarded him with leftovers. When he died, I lost my number one go-to guy. In a pinch, I always knew I could call my dad and he would do whatever he could to help me get through the day. My husband, my mom, my dad, my sister, and her husband, each of them has talked me off the ledge. Each of them has rescued me from some degree of parenting disaster. They are my village. It took a long time for me to adjust to my dad's absence. At some point my husband, who was practically a saint from the moment my dad died, had to switch his focus from grieving wife back to his work. My village had disbanded. I wasn't always sure where to turn. Forget maternal disarray, I was a grieving mess. How could I call my sister to come and scoop me off the floor, when she had her own floor to tend to? It was hard.

Slowly but surely, my mom, my sister, and I came to life again. My husband and my sister's husband were no longer on their own. My children looked up to see tears in my eyes less frequently. In times of deficient coping, thank God, I was blessed with fabulous in-laws and superstar babysitters who saved the day on numerous occasions. As my mom and my sister and I came to life, we returned to each other. Since then, I had forgotten about those early days after my dad's death. Outside of simply being together, we didn't have a lot of energy to do much else for one another. We were in survival mode. When I turned to my mom, her body sat before me, but her mind was often elsewhere. I haven't mentioned my dad's birthday to my mom. I'm sure the fact that April 20 is coming this week is already on her mind. I don't know for sure that heavy hearts were involved in our conversation today, but rather than trying to analyze it, I am thanking the Universe for the gentle reminder that I am not the only hiker on the path.

Each and every human being on the planet is on a journey. Sometimes we travel together and sometimes we travel alone. We often travel together in silence. In the midst of giving voice to our stories, we can't be sure who is really listening. We are bound to lose each other along the way. I know that even when I lose my mom, when our paths part or our attention gets diverted, she will eventually come back to me. I may not fit in her lap anymore, but I'll always have a place in her heart. And her in mine.

Heavyhearted

It's the last day of Spring Break, 2011. As I was enjoying the peaceful promise of early Spring in Northern Michigan last week, two of my dear friends were facing life-changing losses. As I read books, snuggled with my children, and navigated road trips up and down M-22 and US-31, one of my friends had to say good-bye to her beloved grandmother, and another watched and waited as her father's battle against cancer came to its heartbreaking end. A grandmother, a father, two people my friends have known for as long as they can remember. These are two of the people who have helped to shape my friends' lives and to guide them into the beautiful, compassionate, intelligent women they are today. My heart is heavy for my friends.

As I waited for updates on my friend's dad, a little tornado of panic rumbled in my chest. It became clear that he might die, but I hoped along with her for some kind of miracle that would spare her and her family the pain of losing him, and keep him alive. I hated the thought of watching another friend lose a parent. This is an inevitable developmental milestone, but one that I think I could do without. Once I received the news of her father's death, I began to relate what my friend was going through to my own experience. Her dad had been fighting cancer and mine died suddenly, so the circumstances were very different, but the outcome was the same. In the end, we both lost our dads.

As my sense of panic gave way to sadness for my friend and elements of my own grief began to surface, I again began to think about death and how we relate to it. If you believe in a human spirit, you might also believe that the Spirit doesn't die. And even if you believe that everything dies when a body dies, there are parts of a person, anyone who is close to you, that stay. Like memories, I still have memories of my dad. I also have some of his personality traits. Some of his likenesses and traits have been passed on to my children. So, really, as long as we have our memories and each other, our loved ones stay alive in some way. It's just not in the way we came to know them. This is why, even though we may believe that they are still with us, we still miss them. We come to know everyone we meet as a physical being so we can't help but to miss that being when it no longer walks among us. And I think we miss them even more in every instant that we realize the finality of it all - that we will never see the being we loved again on Earth.

This all brings me right back to the issue of how to deal with losing someone you love and how to address grief that is triggered by another's loss. And, of course, I know there isn't a prescription for grief or guidelines to follow. I completely understand that. So the answer, as always, is just to let it be. To feel it, to express it, to let it flow through you. That sounds logical to me. I would tell anyone to do the same. But in my case, over the course of the week, I needed more guidance. I began to question what I knew to be true. I lost faith in the inner wisdom that told me to do nothing, to let it be. I needed more, like a flow-chart or something, mapping out how to proceed when I stumble on my path.

And then my five year-old son, Alexander, started screaming at his brother. His screams are ear-piercing and they usually scare the crap out of me. Beyond the screaming though, is an example of how to let it be. He is angry so he screams. And then he moves on. He doesn't hang on to his anger. He doesn't feel guilty about it later. He doesn't question whether it is okay to be angry. He screams and POOF! he is fine. Then my three year-old daughter walks right into a table and starts to cry. She is hurt so she cries. I pick her up, I give her a kiss and a squeeze, and she is fine. She gets back on her feet. She doesn't even try to avoid the table on the next run-around. Then my eight year-old son is told that it's time to stop playing Wii and he is not happy with that news because he wants to finish all 200 laps (uh, what?!?) so he throws the Wii remote thing. He is frustrated so he throws things. He may pout for a little longer, but within 20 minutes he is laughing with his dad. He is fine. No looking back.

I am left with two lessons: 1) Kids are geniuses at expressing their emotions. They serve as examples of how to let it be. I want to be more like my kids. I may even start screaming along with Alexander instead of wishing him out of his screaming phase. Heck, if it helps him to cope with whatever life throws his way, I hope he always screams. 2) I am beginning to imagine that the people I love are more like wind. In the same way that I don't need to see the wind to know that it is there, I will try to trust that I don't need to see my dad to know that he is with me. In quiet moments, I feel my dad, like wind. I do have one caveat though, and that is that when the knowledge I have that he is with me just doesn't seem like enough, I will go to lesson #1 and let whatever I am feeling flow through me. And looky there, I have my flow chart.

mind-BODY-spirit

In sharing my journey toward a deeper mind-body-spirit connection, I guess it was inevitable that I would need to address my body at some point. This is a little tricky for me. You know when girlfriends are hanging out together, pointing out perceived deficiencies on their bodies? Comparing muffin tops? I don't have a lot to say. Not because I am without muffin top, but having dealt with body-image issues for as long as I can remember, talking openly about my muffin top presents some problems for me. (Men, I imagine you do the same when you're hanging out with your buddies, right?).

As soon as I had a concept of "larger" and "smaller" I knew I was in the larger group. Sadly, I see in hindsight that this was probably because I was taller than most of my other friends. Of course I was larger, but I didn't know how to differentiate between larger-taller and larger-wider, and honestly, I'm not sure that would have made a difference anyway. I thought I was too large and I went with it (looking back, I feel so sad for that girl who thought she was too large because she was damn skinny!).

While I've reconciled my body-image issues for the most part, I am still pretty sensitive to sharing, even with most of my beloved girlfriends. In the spirit of this journey, I think it is time to change all that. Please bear with me as I take a few steps outside my comfort zone.

In the midst of muffin top discussions, it never fails that I wonder: What exactly are we striving for? What are we comparing ourselves to when we decide our bodies are too much of one thing or not enough of another? Usually, it is some ideal or another, like when we think that someone we saw at the gym last week has a perfect body. Or we see some gorgeous mom breeze through the pick-up line at school. She is fit, stylish, friendly, and she smiles and hugs her children tightly when she sees them. She looks like she has it all. We want her body. Even worse, we want Gwyneth Paltrow's body or Jennifer Lopez's body - bodies we don't ever even see in their natural states. We can all dream, we can work-out, we can starve ourselves, or eat healthy, well-balanced meals, but at the end of the day we have only one body. Our very own, unique, individual one and only body. And we must work with it.

The body I'm working with is definitely in the larger group these days. I think my body and I have developed a relationship much like an older couple who has been married for many years. We've been through a lot together. We love each other, but we're not always in love with each other. Other than a gradual explosion in body size when I started college, and then again when I first started taking "the pill," my weight was never truly an issue. I could have lost 5-10 pounds here and there, but for the most part, I felt good in my body. Right before I became pregnant with my first son, I even felt great. I was in pretty good shape, I exercised regularly, and I ate well. Then I gained 15 pounds as soon as I found out I was pregnant. I'm not kidding. I have no idea how it happened, but it did, and then it happened again three more times. I have heard there are other women who have had the same experience. It is just another prenatal phenomenon, I suppose. I didn't over-indulge too frequently, but I ate whatever I wanted to whenever I wanted to while I was pregnant. I didn't obsess over weight gain and my doctors didn't either.

I enjoyed answering my crazy cravings (lots of citrus) and overall, I simply loved being pregnant. I was in complete awe of my body while I was pregnant. I loved knowing that while I sat watching a movie with my husband, someone was inside me growing ears. I loved watching my body grow and change. I thought it was fun to wear maternity clothes. I loved the butterfly flutters I felt in my belly as my baby grew and started to explore and I marveled at the punches and kicks I felt as he got bigger. I was not as fond of the sensation I had during the fully-reclined-with-foot-in-my-rib phase of pregnancy, but he came out soon after that so there are no hard feelings. I felt like I was a living, breathing miracle of life. If I hadn't developed a deeper love connection to my body and its capabilities by the end of my pregnancy, I fell head over heels in love with my body when I gave birth to my son. It was the most exhilarating, empowering experience I had ever had in my body. Once my sweet baby James was out safely and I held him close for the first time, I knew my body and I could do anything.

As life went on with my new son, I slowly got back into shape. I was almost to that major milestone in a new mom's career - pre-pregnancy weight - when I found out I was pregnant with our second child. I was elated! In keeping with tradition, I gained 15 pounds instantly. And then I had a miscarriage. I was devastated. One of my friends described her experience with miscarriage as feeling like a little girl whose balloon got loose and floated away into the sky. It's funny how my mind works. As soon as I saw that positive pregnancy test, I was flooded with hopes and dreams for our second child, and for James as a big brother. I asked my husband to meet us for ice cream at a diner near his office and dressed James in a "I'm the Big Brother" shirt I had been keeping for this special occasion. It was all so sweet and dreamy. Our family was growing...I was so confused when I realized none of those hopes and dreams would be realized for this baby. I became very depressed. As I reflect on that time in my life, I wouldn't be surprised if at some level I felt like my Superwoman Mama body had failed me. Maybe that is when I stopped taking such good care of it.

A year later, almost exactly a year later, we learned that I was pregnant again! I gained fifteen pounds instantly and many more pounds after that. Alexander the Great was born. And then, almost exactly two years after that, I found out I was pregnant again! Another 15 pounds instantly. I swear to God! And then Sophia Pearl, our baby girl was born. And somewhere in all of that, I completely lost track of my body. I distinctly remembering trying clothes on at a department store while I was pregnant with Sophia and noticing for the first time that I had back fat. I was mortified. I wondered how it got there.

When Sophia turned two I started training for my first 5K. Running was something I never ever thought I would do, but I loved it! It was liberating. I had a blast making playlists on my iPod and running with the wind. The night my dad died I was running on the treadmill. I felt this surge of energy, like I had never felt before around 8:30 p.m. I think that must have been when he died. A couple hours later my mom called and you know the rest of that story.

A few months after my dad died I stopped running. I became addicted to yummy coffee drinks. I tried to fill the hole in my heart with chocolate and pastries. I gained back all the weight I had lost since I started running and then some extra weight, just for good measure. When I realized that I had gained additional weight, I was really disappointed. I think I again felt as if my body had betrayed me. Who could blame it though? I had completely disengaged from everything I needed to be doing to care for myself in a sometimes desperate effort to care for my children. I cut-up apples for them and then ate cookies myself. It was ugly.

I started practicing yoga more regularly in an effort to reconnect with my body (and quiet my mind and lots of other things) and that has worked beautifully. I feel much more in tune with this vessel that carries me from playdates to pre-school pick-up and back again. Slowly, but surely, I've begun running again. We're on pretty good terms, but my body is asking more of me now. We both want to be as healthy as possible in the coming years of motherhood.

So, my body and I are starting a new "plan" next week. I've been thinking that this feels different. This is an effort born of love. I love my body, even though it's large. I love my muffin top and the stomach below it in all of its stretch marked glory. I am especially fond of my deformed belly button, compliments of Sophia. I love how the right side of my stomach sticks out a little farther than the left side because it reminds me how each of my children seemed to prefer snuggling up over there in utero (maybe the other two had no choice after James stretched it out for them). I love my large breasts even though, well I'll spare you the details, but let's just say that nursing three babies was a very transformative experience for me (and my breasts).

In Martha Whitmore Hickman's book, Healing After Loss, she says "I care for myself in honor of my life and all who have shared that life with me." It's really that simple. Out of love for myself, my body, my life, and all those who share it with me, I care for myself. This isn't about wishing I had a different body or making changes because I don't measure up to an ideal. For me, this is a journey about taking better care of my body because this body is truly a gift to be treasured. I hope, or I trust, that made in the spirit of love, this journey will take me right where I need to be.

Wish me luck!

Dan and I after running the

Heart of a Spartan 5K

(my first 5K) last May

Okay, So I Lied and I'm Not Making Anymore Promises

Something strange happened to me this week. I was thinking about this overwhelming desire I have to declare myself all better. All cried out. All finished grieving. This desire is so overwhelming that I keep mentioning it in these blog posts, as if everyone reading is waiting with bated breath for me to make this declaration. I'm like a little puppy when I see someone who knows how sad I've been and how my dad's big one-year-since-death anniversary just passed, I kind-of jump around wagging my tail, waiting for a pat on the head, hoping for a "Good girl!" because I followed directions and did what I was supposed to do and now I get a treat. Not a single person in my life has ever said, "Okay Anna, you're all done. It's time to move on." And yet, I assume that is what everyone is thinking. It's as if I've been deaf to what I'm really hearing which is "Take all the time you need." So, the strange thing that happened is I began to believe you. And boy does it feel good.

After my last post, a sweet friend of mine shared an article featuring two authors who had written books about how they dealt with loss (http://www.nytimes.com/2011/02/27/weekinreview/27grief.html?_r=1. One of the authors, Meghan O’Rourke, said the following:

In those first months, I quickly came to feel almost embarrassed by my sorrow. Most people are uncomfortable around loss. Friends talk to you about “getting through it” and “moving on” and “healing.” We shy away from talking about death, not out of cold-heartedness, but out of fear. No one wants to say the wrong thing; and death is scary. I think this is part of why there are so many memoirs and movies about loss: they create a public space where we can talk safely about grief.

I was so grateful for this insight because, to be perfectly honest, I can't quite explain why I wanted to share my journey via this blog, but I can tell you that I absolutely believe there is a need to create more space in our society to talk about loss, to support those in mourning, and to honor and remember those who have passed. I also appreciated receiving affirmation that death is scary. I think I told you that one of my first stops after losing my dad was the bookstore. So many of the stories written for children about death and dying emphasize how death is a natural part of life. I latched on to that, thinking that if I could incorporate that concept into my understanding of life and pass that on to my children, we'd all be better prepared for facing our next loss. God forbid. See? Even as I begin to accept that death is a part of a life, and let's face it, it is, I fear the loss of another loved one. Death is a scary part of life.

Death really doesn't make sense when you think about it. How could someone I saw several times a week just disappear, never to be seen again? Yet, that's how it happens. It's not like my dad and I made an agreement to stop seeing each other. Or, like one of us moved somewhere far away. I had no choice in the matter. One day he was here, in my doorway, talking, breathing, living, and laughing. And that night he died. Now there are no more opportunities to say the things we put off saying to each other. This is what we signed up for though, we may not like it, but death is just as much a part of the cycle of life as birth. And the pain I've felt, like my heart had literally broken open, like I couldn't breathe, like I couldn't imagine how any of us would go on, all of it, is just as much a part of my emotional range as joy. My pain has turned to emptiness and my disbelief has turned to sadness and as these changes occur, I begin to understand that death makes just as much sense as life. Death is part of life.

When I hear people talk about living life to its fullest I picture myself in the sunshine with wide open arms, a smile on my face, hair blowing in the wind, all but floating my way across a field of wildflowers to a pot of gold, or something. I picture my children and I laughing together and playing together. I picture my husband and I holding hands, walking along the Red Cedar River on MSU's campus. I never get an image representing the other end of the spectrum. I have never considered what it would mean to live life to its fullest when I'm sad. I never get a picture of myself stomping out of a room, slamming doors, and screaming in anger. I don't see myself falling apart. Grieving is teaching me that living life to its fullest means living every little bit of life. It means being free to feel every little thing from utter despair to boredom to sheer delight. I don't get to skip over the sad stuff. None of us do.

I love that I get to live life to its fullest. It is true that I would not appreciate the happiness in my life if I had never known sadness. I love a good cry. I love a good laugh, as long as I don't wet my pants. I'm finally listening to you. I'm finally listening to me. I think I get it. I'll take my time, I'll move through the ups and the downs, I'll breathe into the waves, and I'll begin to fill the empty holes in my heart with great memories of my dad. I'm not making another promise about what I will or will not write about the next time I write. I cannot predict how long it will take before a visit to my parents' house doesn't end in tears. I don't want to predict it. I don't even want to know. I just want to feel my way through, as I go. Wherever I go.

One Last Grief Blog (maybe?) Before I Become Whole

Right after my dad died I thought there would be a time where I would need to make a choice. I imagined that I would wake up one day and decide not to be sad anymore. As we approached the first anniversary of my dad's death, I thought that time would be right around Day 366. Despite my best judgment, what I've heard from others, and what I've read about grief, I thought I'd come back to My Hat Trick a brand-new, grief free woman.

Well, I was right. Sort-of. Day 367 and I felt lonelier and emptier than I had since the day my dad died (actually, the day after my dad died because I spent most of the day he died blissfully unaware of what that night had in store for me). I had spent the entire year looking ahead to the One Year Mark as a time when things would change and I would be all better. Things did change, but not how I anticipated. I think I spent most of the past year trying to comprehend the shock of my dad's death because it was completely unexpected and I was, to be perfectly honest, traumatized by what I experienced the night of his death. Once that shock wore off, I still couldn't believe he was gone. Now, I know that he is gone. I know because I've just gone through a year of birthdays, anniversaries, and holidays without him anywhere in sight. And he was never one to miss a good meal. On day 367 it was obvious that there would be no more Dad hanging around, looking for leftovers or making a pot of coffee. And on day 367 it dawned on me that for the foreseeable future, I would need to figure out what it truly means to live my life without my dad. Something I only speculated about in the past. I thought the choice I would be making would involve happiness over sadness, or something like that. This may come as a shock to you, but I can't control my feelings. Sometimes I feel sad, plain and simple, and other than recognizing my sadness there isn't much I can do to make it stop. I can choose what to do with that sadness though, so that is my choice.

As I typed away last week, I thought I'd never again focus so much of my writing on my grief. I now think I would be remiss not to share a little bit about the Memorial Service my family and I had for my dad last weekend. Looking back, even to just last week, I can see that all the energy I put into that service was just the beginning of my decision-making process. What could I do with my sadness? Honor the man who made it possible and celebrate those he left behind.

In January my sister, my mom, and I took a trip together to Sedona, Arizona. We were mostly going to celebrate my mom's 60th birthday, but while we were there we had the opportunity to perform a "Letting Go" ritual with a minister named Yana. We hiked through the red rocks of Sedona to a place where a stream flowed. We prayed, we meditated, we reflected on my dad and our memories, and we scattered some of his ashes. Just thinking about it, my heart skips a beat. It was the most extraordinary spiritual experience I have ever had (okay, to be fair, giving birth to three little beauties ranks pretty high on the extraordinary spiritual experience scale). More than anything though, our letting go ritual helped us to heal mending hearts.

 My mom releasing ashes in Sedona at the base of Cathedral Rock

The three of us after the ceremony

Before we headed back to Michigan, we discussed the possibility of sharing something similar with our children and the rest of our families. As the day approached, we began to make plans, thinking about what we wanted to be sure to include. I even became an ordained minister so that the ceremony would be legit (I'm not kidding!). I took excerpts from a few different books on blessings and rituals, including a book specifically about Living and Dying; I added my own words here and there, and came up with a ceremony where everyone was involved in honoring my dad and, I hoped, in celebrating each other and the lives we have left together. I didn't realize it when I was in the midst of it all last week, but all of the planning and crafting was very therapeutic for me. I was set with our service, our guests, dinner plans, and even programs. I wanted it to be a celebration. I wanted to honor my dad, as I said, but it was a lot like a birthday for the rest of us. We had made it through our first year, the hardest year according to everyone, and that was something to honor as well. I envisioned a beautiful, sunny, albeit cold, day on the beach at our family cottage in Northern Michigan.

Friday was gorgeous and Sunday was gorgeous. In between sat Saturday, the day of the ceremony, and the snowiest, coldest, most blustery day of the year (of the year might be a slight exaggeration). I kept asking if people wanted to stay inside, but nobody did. We all bundled up and headed outside. The beach was really way too windy, so we set up in sweet little spot under a tree. It was not what I had pictured, but in retrospect, the flying snow was a perfect touch. I couldn't have planned it better myself. We read our parts and shared memories of my dad. We made an offering of rocks to the land and a cup of coffee in honor of my dad (he was coffeaholic). My mom and my sister and I walked down to the beach, to a large rock that we've all come to know as my dad's rock, and scattered some ashes. This part was really special for me. We had my dad cremated so he doesn't have a grave site to visit and I have often felt like it would be nice to visit him somewhere specific every once in a while. We laid him to rest in a place where I can visit often. After that, we joined the others who had already gone inside. By the fire, we toasted my dad and each other with champagne and homemade macaroons (his favorite cookie). It was a beautiful service.

Our movable headstone, the coffee offering, rocks (offering to

the land) and flowers (to symbolize the memories we shared)

My mom with my dad on his rock - Labor Day Weekend 2009

I know there are a lot of ways that people honor and remember lost loved ones. I read a story about a family whose mother passed away right before her 70th birthday. They decided to have a "birthday" party for her and invited all her friends to share in a night of remembering and celebrating the woman they lost. I know there are all kinds of memorial services based in religion and in culture that provide a similar sense of honoring the lives of those we loved and lost. As individuals and in small groups, we do many beautiful things in remembrance. As a whole, though, I don't see a lot of place for grief in our society. It seems like we are more apt to suggest that the grieving "move on" or "get over it." I don't think this is necessarily a bad thing. It's hard to sit idly by as people we care about suffer. We feel helpless. Of course we want them to move on. 

In the year since my dad died, two of my very dear friends also lost parents. Even after losing my own dad and knowing everything I knew, I felt helpless. I hoped these two women could find the strength to keep going. I hated to see them so sad. Sometimes the wisest, most profound action I could take was just to sit there. So, I think I wanted to share this story about the memorial service because I am forever grateful to the people who have just sat there with me this year. And, I am so grateful for the opportunity I had to share last weekend with people I love and who love me. I want everyone to know, that in the absence of abiding by religious or cultural traditions, we can create our very own ceremonies that honor those we've lost and that celebrate each other and what is to come. I really didn't even need to become ordained, but the fact that I did makes me smile so I had to share that with you too. Finally, I just had to write one more losing-my-dad-related-blog-post because it feels so great to be making a choice that is rooted in celebrating the present and moving forward. I'm still sad and I miss my dad now more than ever, but I finally have the strength (at least for now) to choose to do something delightful with my sadness.