#choosingtochange

[divinelydivorced]

Hope

Sometimes I struggle with the happiness of others. It’s not that I’m unhappy for them or frustrated by their success.  In fact, it’s the opposite.  I’m overjoyed for them to the point of jealousy.  Babies and boyfriends, vacations and career success, homes and more. It doesn’t matter the area, if someone obtains something on my wish list I find my happiness for them quickly accompanied by a sadness for myself.  A pity party indeed.

At times, it’s hard for me to remember how far I’ve come and instead focus on how far I feel I have left to go.  Stopping for even a moment to take count of all the changes over the last seven years or even simply the last two years, I should be walking around with a slew of adult girl scout badges.  Looking back, it seems as if I was dumped in the wilderness of life all alone and left with nothing but survival instincts to make it back to civilization.  

Yet despite becoming more self-assured each day, moments of insecurity always find their way in.  Lately my sensitive area has been babies.  I’ve said it before and will say it again, I don’t even know if I want one but I want to be able to make the choice myself.  Instead it seems with each passing year the choice is being taken away from me.  Thus, the mention of a baby gets me all anxious.  Even as I write this, my hair dresser (MY HAIR DRESSER!) asked, while blow drying my hair, “what about you?  You ever thought about having kids?”  

With the birth of so many new babies it’s inescapable these days…and trust me, I’ve tried.  I find myself crossing to the other side of the street when a stroller is being pushed my direction.  At restaurants, I request the booth away from families or opt to sit at the bar.  In grocery stores, I’ve abandoned half-full carts when I quickly realize Sunday is family shopping day.

When I overhear moms complaining about a lack of sleep or time to themselves, I have to resist saying aloud, “I’d lose any amount of sleep and time at the gym if it meant I could finally have a child.  Want to trade places?”  Of course, that’s not fair.  They are two very separate female woes, and I realize neither is worse or better than the other.

A couple weeks ago I was feeling particularly low and couldn’t quite handle more baby news when, you guessed it, more baby news flooded my phone.  There I was going home where I’d go to bed alone and wake up alone, aside from the adorable eight-pound poodle who, lucky for me, sleeps through the night.  As I washed my face, I felt an incredible sense of guilt. Why can’t I simply be happy with what I have?  I have so much, more than most.  Why do I feel I need more?  My friends and family have such great kids they will gladly share with me at a moment’s notice.  Why can’t that be enough?  Scrubbing my face over and over, these thoughts pelted me.  My hope was if I said them loud enough and long enough, they’d take effect.

But as I came up for air, I realized this is how God made me.  These are the desires He gave me.  He may grant my wish someday.  Or He may not.  He may have placed them there only to be left unfulfilled so that I may learn what it is like to always long for something.  I don’t know the end result, only that it is okay to have those feelings.

As I dried off my face I looked in the mirror and for the first time all day, noticed what shirt I was wearing.  In big bold letters, staring back at me, was the word “Hope.”  That’s what I am.  Hopeful but not expectant.  Hopeful but not naïve.  Hopeful but grateful…with or without.

[choosingtochange-blog]

Whelp...here it goes.

So. I have just finished my first year of college. And let me tell ya, it’s a war zone out there. For the purpose of my sanity and keeping my identity, I chose not to join a sorority; I have gone back and forth as to whether this was a good idea or not. Either way can’t go back and change it now. 

As you would expect I experienced a lot my freshmen year, among them, frat parties, weight gain (ugh), and mountains of stress. Now that I’m home, my mom jokes that I have post-traumatic stress disorder from having such an insane year. Although I think this is a little dramatic, I do believe I have changed negatively. I have noticed feeling very lethargic, unmotivated, and unsocial. I went to the doctor and was diagnosed with depression. 

Long story long, I don't feel like myself. I feel as though this body isn't mine because of the additional weight and the foreign personality. This blog is a cathartic way to track the change I believe I can accomplish. Over the next several weeks I plan on writing down my struggles and achievements through getting my body back, both with execrise and taking anti-depressants. This is my story.

[divinelydivorced]

The Difficult Path

For a year, I’ve been helping a man work on yoga.  When we first met, he was what you would describe as active and healthy, with a positive disposition.  Therefore, I wasn’t surprised when he expressed an interest in yoga.  After all, he seemed like someone who often took up the newest health craze.  

About six months ago he told me that, prior to our meeting, he had been diagnosed with a severe blood disease.  Apparently, he was overweight, had a very unhealthy diet, and led a life of overindulgence in every area.  It wasn’t until he was headed to a yearly trip to Hawaii when he gained a new perspective.  The morning of the trip he awoke in severe pain.  He couldn’t lift his arms up from his side without the intensity increasing to an unbearable degree.  His Hawaii trip was canceled and replaced with a visit to the Mayo Clinic.  The doctor’s plan involved a lot of medication and chemical-based treatments.  But he decided to go another route.

He immediately changed his diet, now living off of bone broth and natural, unprocessed foods.  He began a regular exercise routine, something he’d never done before.  About halfway through his road to recovery, he sought out yoga as a way to increase flexibility and strength.

Looking at this man before me, I would have never imagined only a year and a half ago he had been so sick.   He is literally one of the healthiest people I know.  His muscles are well-defined, he always has an apple and bottle of water in his hands, and there’s a literal twinkle in his eyes.  Even though we often get together at seven a.m., he greets me with enthusiasm and an energy that is catching.

When we are together, it’s so easy to get caught up in the present that I forget to reflect on how far he has come.  I love when he does a forward fold and continues to hold it long after I tell him he can release his grip.  He’ll look up at me with a childish awe and say, “I can touch my toes, Lisa.  Isn’t that incredible?”  Or he’ll lift his arms up to the sky, interlace his palms, and stretch.  Then, almost to himself, he’ll whisper, “I couldn’t do this a year and a half ago. I couldn’t even lift them away from my side.  Who’d have thought…”

He has such an appreciation for the second chance he’s been given.  I tell him what an inspiration he is.  Most of us when faced with a difficult future, choose to cower and hide or take the easy way out.  It would have been much simpler to pop a few pills or allow chemicals to be pumped into his system.  Instead, at almost sixty years old, he chose to take control of his future, to fight through the pain, and literally re-create himself.  

How many of us consistently choose to eat the second donut (or the third or the fourth), despite wanting to lose weight?  To lay on the couch instead of taking a thirty-minute walk?  Pour another glass of wine with the intent to cut back tomorrow? The future is coming faster than we know.  We can choose the easier, more fun path that has consequences that we may not bounce back from.  Or we can choose to take the more difficult road, investing in the work now in order to reap the eternal benefits later.

This doesn’t mean you have to always be on an extreme diet or spend two hours at the gym every day. A healthy lifestyle looks different for all of us.  I read in a book that we all know what we need to do in order to get back on track. It’s an inherent knowledge we each have built within us.  This applies to the physical, as well as the mental and emotional.  The only thing holding us back is ourselves.

This morning, as we went through our usual routine, he stopped and smiled, staring at me.  Running short on time, I encouraged him to move forward, to begin on the other side, but he continued to stand there, the grin on his face getting bigger.  When I asked if he was okay, he said, “Isn’t life great, Lisa?  This is my life.  My. Life.  It doesn’t get any better than this.”

[divinelydivorced]

An Accidental Date with a Republican

I’m very honest in my Bumble profile when I come out and immediately say I’m Christian and vegan.  These are two things many people take issue with and I’d rather not waste anyone’s time by leaving them out.  I assumed men offered a similar respect when they mention they have kids or aren’t looking for something serious.  I’d equally assumed someone with extreme right wing ideals might make mention of that as well, until I recently found myself on a date with such a narrow-minded human being who offended me in more ways than I thought possible in such a small window of time.  The problem, I suppose, is when you believe your way of thinking is right, you don’t assume anyone else will disagree.  Censorship, in addition, goes way out the window.  So, how did I get there?  Well…to begin at the beginning…

His profile included a lot of my check list items. Religious, nature enthusiast, animal lover.  Turns out he and I have very different definitions of those adjectives.  For example, I, as an animal lover, never want to see any harm come to them, let alone be responsible for it.  Thirty minutes into our date, he was telling me how he had two pet turkeys but when one got annoying, he sold it to slaughter. When he saw my mouth-wide-open, appalled, vegan face staring back at him, he shrugged and said, “I tried warning him, but he wouldn’t shut up.”

Of course, this was around the same time he told me, “I need to pee” and demanded I produce a toilet immediately.  Annoyed with my Walgreens suggestion, he said he’d pee in an alley (ah, a nature enthusiast), and only when I insisted that public urination wasn’t an option, did he continue walking saying, “If Chicago doesn’t want you to pee in the alley, they should have more Porta Potties.” This was followed by a ten-minute monologue he performed on the erosion effects urine has on brick and mortar.  

After we found a bathroom and continued our walk towards downtown, he proceeded to play with his new tech savvy watch non-stop, which included checking his never ending incoming text messages.  He soon showed me a pic on his phone of a new “prospect,” a client sent him.  A dating prospect…blonde and adorable.  He asked my opinion, and at this point, I knew we weren’t going to be seeing one another again, so I encouraged him to give her a shot.  (Why do guys think showing us or talking to us about other women interested in them will make us more attracted to them?  IT DOES NOT.)

He then dropped a homophobic slur that blew my mind to the point I convinced myself I must have misheard him.  When, ten minutes later, he followed it up with an unbelievably racist “joke,” I stopped in my tracks.  He then began bumping my shoulder with his hand as he threw his head back and laughed, saying “Do you get it?  Come on!  You’re not laughing?  What’s the matter?”  To which I responded, “I’m not laughing because it’s not funny.  It’s incredibly offensive.”  Still laughing he said, “What?  Was it going too far?”  When I came back, quite angry, with, “You know, maybe you should try running your ‘jokes’ by people rather than your dog and turkey.    Because anyone with common decency would have told you how inappropriate that was,” he shrugged.  I guess he missed the church sermon on “love thy neighbor.”

For some dumb reason, which I can only chalk up to being dazed and confused-assuming a Punk’d hidden camera would pop out at any moment, I kept going.  After making another potty stop for him, I found the closest and fastest restaurant to eat at.  I ordered fries, shoving them in my mouth in fist fulls to expedite the process.  Not that it mattered anyway because he was so busy dominating the conversation with how wealthy he was.  “I spent $30,000 on my new pond.  I loaned my brother $400,000 for a house.”  (Why do guys think talking about how much money they have makes us more attracted to them?  Not with this girl.)  When I offered him cash for my portion (because there was no way I was going out with him again-and wasn’t going to give him anything to hold over me), he scoffed and said, “I have more money than I know what to do with.  I don’t need ten bucks for fries.”

At this point I realized this was not a joke set up by Ashton Kutcher (old school Punk’d-yeah) or my friends.  I stood up, said I was tired, and that it was time to go. I power walked us back towards my neighborhood.  “Wait-I thought we were going to hang out at Navy Pier or walk along the lake,” he said. “No.  Nope.  Not going to be doing that,” I said, walking a few steps ahead.

We continued the walk home in near absolute silence, only interrupted when we would pass a bar and he’d ask, “Want to grab a drink there?” and I’d say, “Nope.”  You may be wondering why I didn’t hop in a cab and leave him behind.  I stayed with him because there was no way I was going to take any chance he might stay in the city.  No, sir…I was going to make sure he got in his over-sized, pimped out truck and drove far, far away-back to his thirty-acre plot of land before I closed my eyes that night.

When we got to his vehicle I gave him a pat on the back and said, “Well…this was…well.  Thanks for the fries.”  He stared at me, silent and unmoving.  He continued to stare at me with wide, hopeful eyes.  I raised my hand and said, “Bye.”  He stood there, and I wasn’t leaving until he was in that truck.  “Okay…so long,” I said.  Still staring.  “So…alright then.  That’s about it I guess.”  Now backing up, watching him continue to stare.  “Yep.”  Another wave. “You should go.”  Ah, he needed specific instructions.  He lifted himself into his truck, started it, and I watched as he drove away.

The next afternoon I was stunned to get a wordless text from him, containing only a photo of his hand holding nearly wilted wild flowers.  I kept opening it, thinking there was a message there.  Not wanting to risk uncertainty, I replied and let him know things weren’t going to work out.  His response? “Yeah, I got that (“DID YOU?” – I wondered).  Can I ask why?  Is it because of my looks?”  

WHAT IS HAPPENING.  Ignorance is running rampant in this country…and it’s looking for a wife to breed with.  

[divinelydivorced]

Resisting Gravity

After a week of struggling to find motivation, I tucked myself into bed around nine Friday night.  As hoped, I awoke bright and early Saturday morning, excited to head to ballet.  The hour long walk there was invigorating, even offering the joy of being able to Facetime with a hard-to-reach friend.  Even though we were states apart, it was as if he was there on the walk with me.  Meeting my other friend at class, we both giggled and caught up on each other’s lives while stretching.

The class was smaller than usual this week, with only one newbie.  Our teacher seemed to take advantage of this opportunity, moving us along a little faster than usual.  We were up on our toes soon after the start of class, showing no signs of it decreasing. Rather, quite the opposite. Normally she gives us time to work on our leg work first, before throwing us into balancing high up on our feet or doing deep leg extensions.  But today, we jumped right in.

The tendency when you are so focused on the footwork or on balancing, is to let the upper body sink.  It’s as if the brain disregards everything above the waist, allowing the top part to become heavy and weigh you down more.  As long as you’re doing part of it, you consider it a job well done.  Our teacher thought the opposite.  She kept shouting over the music, “Lift!  Lift your upper body!  Lengthen!” Sequence after sequence, we’d all rise to our toes, being proud of this small feat, as she’d quickly squash our pride by shouting, “You’re not lifting!  Lift! Ballet is about resisting gravity! Resist!”  Her instruction then causing many of us to lose our balance and topple.

At one point, she stood directly in front of me as she led the next sequence.  I tried to avoid eye contact, keeping my gazed firmly fixed on the wall behind her. As we rose to our toes, I tried to lengthen my body, and was surprised at how it quickly followed the instructions my brain was giving.  But before I could enjoy this moment, she pushed further, “Now try letting go!” as we all stood on our toes.  She continued, “I said ‘let go.’  (Pause) If you haven’t let go, let go. (Pause, then directly at me) You really must let go.”  Her intensity willing me to look her in the eyes as she nodded at my hand gripping the bar. I let go for a half a second, before collapsing.  “Wonderful!” she proclaimed.  I never quite get over how much success they see in our failure.

Halfway through class, our teacher stopped us all. She instructed us to watch her, asking, “How much would you pay to see this…” then stood on her tippy toes, arms saggy, a small arch in her back.  She held it for several counts, then lowered, throwing her arms out to her side as she proclaimed, “Nothing!  You’d pay nothing because it’s boring!”  She rose again, chest and back lifted high, arms perfectly pronounced, chin turned slightly upward.  “That is what people pay to see.  Ballet is art.  It’s art, people!  Art. We must remind our audience what they’ve come to see and why.”  As she walked back to the front of the room, she continued, “Even if you don’t know what you’re doing, fake it.  If you believe it, so will they.”

Then, as a sort of punishment, she made us rise up into the same proud prose she’d just demonstrated.  She’d yell, “Turn!” and we’d turn on our toes, struggling to maintain the same strong posture.  “Turn! Turn!  Turn!” she yelled over and over, willing our bodies into submission. “We could do this all day!” she warned, then laughed.  

The last ten minutes of class are normally reserved for learning moving sequences.  This is my weakness, and shamefully, my fear of those last ten minutes has prevented me from going to class some days.  It’s a ridiculous worry because by the time she demonstrates and we practice, there is barely enough time for all of us to do the routine twice. Plus, we do it in groups of four, so you’re never alone.  But I loathe the movement portion.  Being able to stand still and memorize the bar sequences is one thing, adding the traveling component feels as if it should be its own separate class.  This week, of course, since we were moving faster than usual, we had twenty minutes to dedicate to this.  My heart sunk.

But, I was determined.  I focused so hard, burning a hole into her legs as I watched her repeat the pattern over and over.  Volunteering to go in group two, so as not to forget the sequence, I stood poised and ready.  After weeks of attending, my brain somewhat understands the rhythm and can pick out the counts but, as seems to always be the case, my instincts are to do the opposite of what we are supposed to do.  My leg wanted to swing in front instead of back and I wanted to bend instead of straighten.  But, all in all, it really wasn’t that bad.  I wasn’t that bad.  We did several combinations and I didn’t just survive, I had fun.

Of course, this is also likely to the fact that I jumped in the group with two much, much, much older women.  A secret to life I’ve learned, no matter the scenario, is when in doubt, pair up with a woman twenty to thirty years older you. At that age, they have learned to not care what anyone thinks and, as a result, have far more self-confidence than any other species on the planet.  So, we all toppled about and when we reached the corner, we laughed and laughed, patting one another on the back.  We held our heads high the whole way, and eagerly jumped back in when it was our turn to try once more.

On the walk back home, the sun gleaming beautifully across the river, illuminating the city skyline, I was so happy.  I love ballet because so much of the discipline we learn can be readily applied to life outside the classroom.  Take the idea of resisting gravity.  All week I’d been weighed down by the future.  Future uncertainties, future deadlines, future choices.  Like gravity, their heaviness was pulling me down, forbidding me to stand tall.  Yet by resisting, refusing to give in to the fear of the unknown, I can hold myself high, gaining strength and moving closer into the light.  In addition, I may not know what is always going on but I make far more progress when I “fake it ‘till you make it.”  Looking back, I won more awards on the speech team, gained far more parts in plays, and had much stronger improve scenes when I let go of the fear of being unprepared and embraced my ability to simply let go and have fun.  When you believe in yourself, others will too.  

It’s easy to be proud of the things you do well, but life is most successful when you find success in your failure. Instead of chipping away at your self-esteem, you add a bit of confidence, no matter the end result. Can you imagine how different the world would be if we adopted this philosophy?  Failed task?  Good for you! Failed relationship? Wonderful!  Failed everything in the past ten years?  YES!  You showed up, you tried…and that is far better than giving in to gravity or admitting to the world you have no clue what you’re doing.

[divinelydivorced]

Starting Over

It’s so easy to compare ourselves to one another, our successes to other’s successes and our failures to their failures.  How many times has someone been sharing a personal story with you, and instead of focusing on them and their story, you say, “I totally get it.  In fact…,” finishing with how you also experienced something similar?  I have caught myself doing it quite often. Sometimes, I think we are trying to empathize but fail to realize that turning the focus on ourselves devalues the other person’s feelings and personal experience.

Yet, if we’re being honest, I think the bigger reason we do this is because we are trying to be equal.  Perhaps even in some cases, we are trying to have a contest between who has suffered worse.  “You think that’s bad?  Well, let me tell you…”    

This concept reminds me of the dangers of telling little white lies.  Ever noticed how often you exaggerate the truth or omit certain information when talking to someone?  We don’t think this is a big deal, but it is dangerously powerful.  Justifying these small untruths creates a grey area, making it easier to tell other medium-sized lies, and thus, bigger lies.  I read a statistic that stated we lie, on average, two hundred times per day.  That’s incredible!  Maybe you lie to 200 people once, 20 people 10 times, or 2 people 100 times.  However you break it down, that’s an insane amount of untruths being told.

Comparisons, to me, are as equally damaging.  So often throughout a day I’ll see a woman with better hair, cuter clothes, nicer make-up, more in shape, etc.  Whenever I see this, my mind immediately recognizes their strength, and at the same time, criticizes my weakness.  It happens so fast and so often, I don’t even recognize it anymore.  It has become a common way of viewing life: find who’s better than you.

Women, in particular, are quite guilty of this. That bad seed gets in your brain and grows, spreading like wild fire.  It overcomes us to the point where we are constantly criticizing ourselves because we never live up to the expectations we’ve set.  Because, often, we aren’t just comparing ourselves to just one woman but, rather, to hundreds.  We want a little of what each one has in order to make one super woman. But would we be satisfied? Probably not.

I know so many women, myself included, who suffer from “the grass is always greener” mentality.  Working women are jealous of women who stay home.  Yet women who stay home, especially those with children, feel a need to justify this choice, seeing working women as having freedom and independence they long for.  Those renting in the city feel less accomplished than those who own a house in the suburbs, while those in the burbs see city folks as having more of a social life.  Single women long for companionship and feel shameful if they haven’t found a spouse yet. Whereas married women often live vicariously through their single friends.  It’s a vicious circle, and one I’m guilty of participating in.

A lot of people would answer this problem with the following two solutions.  First, I often hear, “Things look different on the outside.”  True.  We tend to put our best foot forward.  We don’t go around wearing our problems on our sleeves.  Especially with the social media trend, we are quite guilty of portraying our lives as far better than they are.  Most people were shocked when I told them my ex and I were divorcing. No one saw it coming, except those closest to us.  Therefore, it’s safe to assume other people’s lives are similar.  Nothing is as good as it seems.

The other response I often get is, “Learn to love yourself.”  Well, that’s definitely easier said than done in many cases.  Also, I’m not completely sure the two are always connected.  I like who I’ve become, but it doesn’t mean I don’t feel a pang of sorrow when I see another friend having a baby or receive a wedding announcement.

So, I’d like to propose another solution.  A good friend of mine was over a few weeks ago and we were talking about our current lives.  We’re both thirty-five.  We’ve both recently left the career we’d worked so hard to rise up in so as to pursue something completely different.  We both have had to re-evaluate our circle of friends and have found ourselves rebuilding our support system.   My marriage ended in divorce and he has yet to ever have a long-term relationship.  Due to trials in our lives, both of us have struggled with our relationship with God and have had to take a step back to figure out what we believe. As a result of all the above, we both keep expressing the same struggle: no area in our lives is remotely stable. Everything is in a state of rebuilding. We wake up each morning not knowing what will be thrown at us next or what new problems we will need to trouble-shoot.  We are functioning at a constant state of high-anxiety.

As we talked through this, not comparing one another’s troubles, but, instead, finding solidarity, we expressed how hard it was to be going through this at the age of thirty-five.  “We aren’t twenty anymore,” my friend exclaimed.  All of our friends are much more settled than we are.  Most are married, several with kids.  Many own their own homes, too.  Those who are still single and renting, have strong careers. Some are blessed to “have it all.” In essence, everyone else we know in our age range has accomplished something lasting.  In comparison, we look like such failures.  We have nothing.  No relationship, no kids, no house, no job, and let’s be honest, no direction.  We are just out there grasping at straws, attempting to figure it out.

But then it hit us, what he said earlier: “We aren’t twenty anymore.”  Teaching college students, I see what twenty is on a daily basis.  What is twenty?  Twenty is being new to dating.  Twenty is making new friendships.  Twenty is not knowing what you are going to do with your life. Twenty is definitely not owning a home, and likely not having kids.  So, in a way, my friend and I are twenty.

We’ve chosen to start over.  My marriage was wrong.  I tried, but it didn’t work out.  So, I left.  Acting was no longer realistic.  It might be something I can pursue later, but not today.  So, I walked away.  The people I surrounded myself with were destructive, and I knew I needed people who would love and support me.  So, I said goodbye to those individuals.  Over and over, in every area of my life, I chose to believe I not only could do better but that I also deserved better.  That was not an easy choice, leaving everything, all at once.  But it was what I needed to do.

Therefore, comparing myself to everyone else in my age-range isn’t even applicable.  I’ve turned back the hands of time.  (I’ll think about this later when applying my face cream before bed!)  I’m, in many ways, a twenty-year-old.  I could look at it negatively, believing I wasted time and should be farther.  Or, I could choose to see the positive.  I get a chance to start all over again.   How many times do you wish you could go back and make new choices?  Well, I get to.  Nothing is holding me back.  That is nothing, except my addiction to comparisons.

But, now aware of this slippery slope, I refuse to allow myself to plant those seeds.  Instead, I’m starting to practice awareness.  Whenever I see another woman I admire, instead of the negative comparison to myself, I simply admire her for who she is-separate from me.  No longer is it, “I wish I had her body” but it is replaced with, “What great shape she is in.”  When a friend tells me she’s expecting, instead of thinking, “I’m so far behind,” I think, “Good for her!  She’s waited so long for a baby.”

I will never be anyone else, not even a small part.  It’s literally impossible.  In addition to offering a simple recognition of those other women and their attributes, I’m extending myself the same courtesy.  When another job falls through, I’m not beating myself up.  Instead, I choose to say, “Well, it just means God is sending something else my way.”  My solution is to simply recognize where I am and accept it, without judgement.  This doesn’t mean I’m walking around as a ray of sunshine all the time.  Restructuring our thoughts takes time.  We don’t transform overnight.  But the more I say or think it, the more I believe it, and the more likely it is to become real.  It’s a journey.  

In the meantime, I’m enjoying reliving my 20s. Perhaps I’ll get my belly button pierced or a butterfly tattoo.  Heaven knows I’m taking advantage of saving money by shopping at Forever 21 and American Eagle.  Some things never change really.  My mom still wants to know what time I get home at night, and I always wait too long to do laundry.  So, I guess it’s not that bad after all.  At the very least, it gives me a justification for mid-day naps…as if not having an excuse has ever stopped me.

[divinelydivorced]

There’s No Place Like Home

Ever since my family fell apart, going home has been hard.  I love seeing my mom and nephew, but there is so much anxiety wrapped up in the trip.  It’s easier to ignore reality sometimes when living my own life four hours away. However, going back home forces me to remember.  So much of my survival and emotional stability relies too much on being in control.  Yet control is taken from me when home.  I can’t guarantee whom I may run into or what might trigger a memory.  Nor can I control the emotions that may surface.  Because of this, for so many years, I’d hide at my mom’s house. Calling when I was just a few minutes away, instructing her to open the garage in time for me to drive straight in, closing it behind me.  If she wanted to go out, I’d cower in the front seat and refuse to go inside any buildings, always waiting in the car.  Even when we ventured a town or two away, a state of hyperawareness overcame me.

Sometimes the anxiety would hit me a week or two prior to heading there.  I’d become sick, irritated, unable to sleep.  This carried through while home, short-tempered and unable to sit still or relax.  At night, I’d often lie wide awake, staring at the ceiling, listening for any sounds that would indicate my safety may be infringed upon, always ready to flee or attack if needed.  If I’d hear someone up and stirring, I’d tiptoe around to make sure it was only my mom or nephew using the bathroom or getting a drink of water.  All around my mom’s former house were shrines to my sister. The oversized images or collages of angels haunted me, their presence felt even from rooms away.  Often, I’d arrive back to Chicago more exhausted than when I’d left, always taking a few days to get back to normal.

Last week as the trip home was approaching, I found myself filled with a new anxiety.  Not one of fear or worry but replaced by excitement. I literally couldn’t wait to get home, to see my mom and nephew, to get away from my busy life up here.  In fact, at one point I decided I’d leave after my Thursday night class, arriving after midnight-but being able to wake up there the next day.  Of course, I’d forgotten momentarily about my teaching responsibilities on Friday morning! Luckily, it came back to mind before heading out-but it was just proof of how much I was looking forward to being home.

The weather was perfect for a mini-road trip.  The sun shone brightly, warming the car.  The temperature was just right for the windows to be down, inviting the music to be turned up a few notches louder.  My sun-roof was open, welcoming the sun to drift even further inside.  As I drove further and further away from the city, my foot hit the pedal a bit more, unable to resist the desire to accelerate, guaranteeing a faster ETA.  Normally, I fight to keep myself alert.  Corn fields have a hypnotic effect, hard to resist, and the radio stations come in and out so much, you are forced to rely on your own set playlist.  But today, my eyes were wide and alert, a smile drifting upon my face.

About halfway home, my gaze was caught by an unusual site in the fields.   For as far as I could see there were flocks of gorgeous purple flowers. There were so many I convinced myself they’d been deliberately planted there by farmers in lieu of the standard corn and wheat.  This, of course, didn’t make sense so I brushed it aside, watching them disappear in the rearview mirror.  But it wasn’t too long before I came upon them again.  More this time, scattered in the fields on either side of the highway.

The view was like something from a postcard.  In fact, I’d purchased similar ones when visiting France of the lilac fields. These weren’t lilacs, that I knew. They were too short and currently just a whisper of the purple shown through.  Regardless, they seemed out of place in the central Illinois fields. But, on and on they went.  I kept telling myself, “If only mom could see these! I must remember to mention them.” Yet as I grew closer to home, they continued to pop up.  Even as I took the exit into town, there they stood.  

Soon after I was home, I mentioned this to my mom, talking in great excitement about the “overflowing fields with lavender flowers.”  She wasn’t surprised in the least and then told me, “They’re beautiful, aren’t they? And to think, they are only weeds!” The smile vanquished from my face and was replaced with confusion.  She explained how every spring for a very short period of time these weeds start to poke through, producing a purple flower of sorts.  But almost immediately after they appear, the farmers plow over them as it is a sign the fields are ready for planting.  She was glad I got to see them, noting since I normally don’t come home until May I miss them every year.

Throughout the weekend, each time we passed them, my mind turned the idea over and over in my head. It was such a beautiful symbol of how far I’d come.  Traditionally so much negativity consumes my body when traveling home that all I can see is fear and panic.  But slowly over time, I’ve begun to let go of those emotions, allowing them to become subdued-though still present on a small level.  As these feelings have dissipated, they’ve made room for the positive. I no longer hide inside my mom’s house but have learned to leave and embrace the town I once called home.  In fact, I’ve even started looking for opportunities to become reengaged with its occupants, whether teaching yoga classes, reconnecting with old friends, attending church, or taking part in events happening that weekend.  In fact, just this past Saturday I went on a walk with someone I hadn’t spoken to since high school.  When someone else I knew drove by and honked, I excitedly threw my hand up and waved in return.  

More encouraging, I slept soundly each night, waking fully rested and refreshed.  I’d even gone to bed without triple checking the locks and welcomed the fresh air from the open window, unworried about what or who else it could invite in.   Instead of heading right out after church, I lingered on my mom’s couch and then took my time in finally saying goodbye.  I didn’t want to leave; I’d felt safe and secure.

What a difference. The letting go had allowed for growth, a new awakening, and yes, something beautiful.  I’d been so scarred by my past I’d never have thought this place of so much undoing could give me reassurance.  Yet it was just like the weeds.  There’s a small window between the death winter brings and the new life of summer, where out grows from the death and destruction such beauty.  It happens so fast, I’d missed it for years. We often go through life focused on the bad and then, later, focused on our growth.  But we tend to forget that tiny window in our lives were the transformation begins.  

It reminded me of “The Wizard of Oz.”  It was my own yellow brick road, of sorts, in a different hue.  My sister’s favorite color was purple, so the irony of the lavender tint did not escape me.  It was a gentle reminder that from brokenness God can and will bring healing, if we are open to it.  But He cannot begin His work until I let go of the old, making room for the new.  I’m nowhere near where I need to be in this journey, but the transformation is beginning.  I am so anxious to live my new life but know it is this little window between death and birth that has the most value.  As I drove back to Chicago, watching the fields pass, knowing I may never see them again, I was grateful for the reminder, for opening my eyes, and for the road to follow, leading me back home.

[divinelydivorced]

Eggs

Ever since I was a child, I have always felt like I’m being torn in two very different directions.  Younger it seemed this outside force was always pulling me away from my small town.  Once when spending the night at my grandparent’s house, probably around age seven or eight, I snuck into the living room, unable to sleep, and crawled up next to them on the couch while they watched the news.  Behind the anchor desk was this breathtaking view of a city skyline.  I looked at it the same way most children looked at toy stores.  “Is it real?” I asked aloud.  They said they assumed it was a still shot photo but whatever it was taken of did indeed exist.    Ever since that moment I was fascinated with the big city lifestyle and all it had to offer.  But, after years of being away from home, there’s something inside that is calling me back to the stillness of a much simpler life.

I’ve always been one to compartmentalize, never liking my worlds to mix.  A big part of this was the fact that, admittedly, I was a very different person in each of those worlds.  As an actor, I was always trying to keep up.  It was a perfect balance of professionalism and entertaining.  You had to know when to shut up and disappear but also have enough personality that people looked forward to spending twelve hour days with you. With my college friends, it was easier to sort of be myself and let my walls down.  Church has always been a place where I’ve been on good behavior-or attempted to be-for fear of judgement and ridicule.  On and on it goes.  Different worlds, different me’s.  

While compartmentalizing kept things safer for me, it was exhausting.  Now, post-divorce, post-acting, post-everything really, I’ve strived to be more forth coming and more unified.  I guess I’m trying to break down walls instead of build more up.

In an effort to discover who I am, this lifelong struggle keeps reappearing-this desire for two different worlds. Motherhood is a perfect example, and one I think many women can relate to.  I see moms pushing strollers and holding little hands.  I pick up one of my friend’s children or the little girls I watch.  There’s so much of me that craves that life.  Curious to know what carrying my own child would be like or waking up to sticky fingers poking my face, my mind ponders this world as my heart longs. But then I’m not naïve to recognize how different life would be and how in many ways I’m selfish, like all single people are.  Do I really want to give up that freedom?  

Then there’s the torment of work.  Life can be a daily struggle right now between my many jobs.  That isn’t to discredit my love for them or how rewarding they are.  But not having covered benefits, working 65 hours a week, barely paying bills, and running all over the place, is draining on the mind, body, and soul.  There are days when I want nothing more than to be handed a mindless 9-5 job with the only expectation being I show up to sit in the desk I’ve been assigned each morning.  Paying bills, being able to put money into retirement, and build my savings back up seems like a luxury I’ll never experience again.  But then on beautiful days when I’m taking a leisurely walk at two in the afternoon, on rainy days when I can choose to stay inside, or when I’m having a mid-day midweek coffee with a friend, I think “nothing could be better than this.”  

When I’m running ragged, my head throbbing, and my eyes blurry from too much computer-time I long for a quiet night in. My students always say “Netflix and chill,” which in case you parents of teens don’t know, that’s the same as your generation’s “why don’t you come in for a cup off coffee.” All I can think when they laughingly say it and then hive five is, “why in the world would you want to ruin a night-in by having someone else there?”  Yet when I find myself with the unexpected night off, most of my work complete, I can sit for maybe twenty minutes before I’m up pacing and looking for some sort of work to accomplish.  

You might be thinking that most people have these similar struggles, that they aren’t uncommon in the least.  But for me, it goes beyond these lifelong woes. Very rarely do I have moments where I think “this is where I’m supposed to be.”  Rather, my mind is always processing and re-evaluating.  People ask me, now that I’m starting back over in the work force, what is it I want to do.  There’s no possible way for me to answer that question.  “Everything?”  

Repeatedly I hear myself saying I want to get out of Chicago, my time here is done and I’m anxious to start a life elsewhere.  But when I look at a map, the battle again begins. Part of me longs for simplicity. I’d love to be handed the keys to a tiny house and live off the grid.  Or, less drastic, find a little remote place somewhere warm and beachy where I could have a large garden and raise some rescue animals.  Yet just about the time I want to lock in that idea, I find myself sitting on the couch, eating take-out, icing my foot from ballet class before heading out to meet friends for dinner and a show.  That’s the city girl in me, and honestly, I don’t know how happy she’d be in the previously mentioned lifestyle.

All this is unbelievably frustrating. Because when you’re starting over, you want to do more than “survive,” you want to move forward.  But the latter requires direction, which requires a destination.  Sometimes it feels I’m just going through the very busy motions of my chaotic life without really going anywhere at all.

Thank goodness for movies with Richard Gere and Julia Roberts.  “Runaway Bride” was on and Julia’s character kept getting engaged to vastly different men. Richard’s character called her out on the fact that she didn’t really know who she was and that “you don’t even know how you like your eggs” because she always took her eggs the same way the man in her life took them.  This teeny tiny detail seems so irrelevant, yet speaks volumes.  She was so disconnected from who she was, finding herself only in how others perceived her, that she’d lost her identity all together.  This was a wake-up call and she spent the next few months (or the next sad song movie montage moments) to determine who she was, what she wanted to be, and, most importantly, how she liked her eggs.

A book I’m currently listening to reminded me you can only start at one.  Meaning, there’s a whole lot of steps in becoming the person we want to become, but often those steps are unknown to us.  We focus so much on the unknown that we forget to be present and often make excuses, quitting before we even started.  All we can do is begin with “one.”  Two will eventually reveal itself, as will three and four, and so on. But until one is complete, it really doesn’t matter what the following steps are.  

I don’t know very much about myself.  I mean, come on.  It’s taken me 35 and a half years to realize that fact alone. It is ridiculous to assume I’ll figure it all out in a few days, weeks, or even years.  Because life isn’t a sad song movie montage.  So, all that can be done is start at one.

Who knows if I’ll be a mom or not.  Who knows if one day I’ll be writing this from a tiny beach house or a city loft.  Who knows what my business card will eventually read.  But for now, today, in this moment, my “one” is to get up tomorrow, do all I can to make the world a little bit better, and be open and ready for “two” when it reveals itself.  At the very least, I know how I like my eggs.  Hatching with their mamas, safe on a no-kill farm somewhere.

[divinelydivorced]

To the Off-Duty Officer Whose Car I Hit

Sometimes I think God is bored and decides to use me as entertainment.  Such was the case when I rear-ended an off-duty police officer on my way to dinner.  We were only two blocks from my house when we proceeded through a green light.  The line of cars up ahead was still stopped, so we all proceeded to do the same.  Only my foot still had a piece of snow on it, slipped off the break, and even though I quickly tried to place it back on it, I bumped the car in front. We pulled over and while there was next to no damage from the slight fender-bender, there was a good scratch.

Now most people in Chicago had scratches everywhere on their cars.  In fact, I had so many I wouldn’t be able to tell you which were new and which were old.  But this man had the only immaculate car in Chicago.  It was a 2008 but unless you were a car expert, you’d never know.  Not a scratch in sight and even freshly washed, while everyone else’s cars were still covered in the grime of the muddy snow.  

He got out and was clearly upset but it subdued quickly when I immediately apologized profusely, taking full blame and explaining what had happened.  I said, “I saw it happening and couldn’t do anything to stop it.”  We both were at a loss as to how to proceed. You could see he didn’t want to deal with it but knew it needed to be reported.  So, off we went to the police station twenty minutes away.  

When we walked in and everyone greeted him, like Norm from Cheers, I realized he was an off-duty officer. We answered questions while his friend filled out the paperwork.  He kept telling me not to worry, that it wasn’t a big deal.  At some point I must have told him I was divorced because when he ran out of things to say to console me he said, “I’m sorry about your divorce.  Gotta keep moving forward, I suppose.”  It seems these days whenever I do something dumb or embarrassing the first words out of my mouth are “I’m divorced.”

To me, those words have the same impact as saying I’m an addict of some sort.  It’s not to offer an excuse for my behavior but rather to explain the reason I always look like I’m about to have an emotional breakdown. Why, mam, are you crying because you scratched my car?  -I’m divorced.  Why, mam, are you crying because your bill is a day late?  -I’m divorced.  Why, mam, are you crying because we’re out of walnuts?  -I’m divorced.

But tonight, it was more than that.  I’m trying to think how to describe it when the reality is some of you will be able to relate and many more of you will not quite understand.  As a small child and into my 20s, if ever anything went wrong I wanted to talk to my dad.  My mom would always tell me it would be alright and it wasn’t that I didn’t believe her.  But she was my mom.  When I hurt, she hurt.  So, when she said it would be alright, she was saying it because she so desperately wanted it to be true.

But when I told my dad, if he was there with me, he’d put his big arms around me and hold me tight. If he wasn’t there, he’d say with utmost confidence, “Lisa, it’s going to be okay.”  Then, he’d reassure me that while he may not be able to do anything, he’d be right there by my side to make sure it worked out.  Girls need their dads.  Even bad dads, I guess.

When my father and I stopped speaking, I started depending on Dave for that reassurance.  It was different because it was usually out of necessity that he’d intervene.  But there was still a feeling of being “in it” with someone else.

Tonight was the first time in quite a while when something like this occurred and all I wanted was a man in my life to step in.  I wanted to pick up the phone, hear a man’s voice answer, and hear, “Lisa, it’s going to be okay.”  I wanted to walk in my door, see that man standing there waiting with arms wide open. I wanted to feel his arms around me, let me cry even though it really was such a minor problem in the grand scheme of things.  I wanted that reassurance that things were going to work out.  Because I wasn’t alone in this life.

I try to pretend to be a strong and independent woman.  In many ways, maybe I am.  But I still have these moments when I want to be able to be weak and let someone else, someone strong and masculine, rescue me.  Part of me hates that I have to admit that.  The other part of me really doesn’t care.

I can’t even screw anything into the wall because I have no clue how to properly use a drill. Nothing makes you feel crazier than crying with your head against the wall, surrounded by unusable holes.  

Like so many things in my life it has been like this car accident.  “I saw it happening and couldn’t do anything to stop it.”  I was forced to watch the crash before me and though I desperately tried to prevent it from happening, my attempts failed and I was forced to deal with the aftermath, though it was pure coincidence and bad luck that got me there.

So….to the off-duty officer whose car I hit, I’m sorry.  It really was an accident.  Thank you, though, for being nice about it.  For wanting to be mad but then stepping out of the car, not just glancing at me but really seeing me and thus, softening.  In that few seconds, it’s like you took in my whole story and realized who was standing before you.  You were kind and patient.  You even laughed a little.  When we stood at the desk and, in an effort not to cry, I fixated on the homemade cards made for your staff by school kids, thank you for recognizing that and repeatedly telling me it wasn’t a big deal as reassurance.  Thank you for asking my name and then using it often to make me realize you saw me as human, not a nuisance in your evening.  Thank you for telling me you were sorry about my divorce and meaning it.  I wanted to ask you to hold me but knew that was inappropriate…yet I honestly believe if I had, you would have without hesitation.  Part of me thinks you almost did out of instinct.  Thank you for seeing my breakdown approaching and telling me I didn’t need to wait, that you’d take care of the rest.  Thank you, though I said so little in our time together, for saying you really enjoyed meeting me.  But mostly, I thank you, as I walked out the door, for calling towards me and saying, “Lisa…it’s going to be okay.”

[divinelydivorced]

Moms

Last night I awoke, sweaty and sobbing, from a terrible dream.  In it, my mom had Alzheimer’s.  We were the age we are now and she was living with me.  There were times when she had these perfect moments of clarity and the sense of overwhelming relief to have her back for even just a few moments, was incredible.  She’d look at me, say my name, and follow it with something perfectly relevant.  I’d laugh and cry, hug her-all to her shock and dismay.  I’d say, “I didn’t think I’d ever get you back again.”  Then, moments later, she was gone once more.  

In the dream, time passed quickly and soon I’d see us months later.  At one point, she was roaming around the house while I was trying to get her attention. She turned and looked at me, this vacant gaze in her eyes.   She didn’t recognize me and looked so lost. She sunk onto the couch, taking it all in, and I knelt at her feet.  I held her hand and cried, “Please, please come back.  Don’t leave me.  Please, not yet.  You’re all I have left.  When you leave, I’ll be all alone.  Please, mom, please, come back.”  But she was so far gone at that point.  I felt such a sense of emptiness and longing.  How was this woman in front of me and I could hold her, yet she was so far away and would never return?  In the dream, I remember comparing it to losing my sister.  I’d never get to see my sister again.  Was it better that way?  Better to be gone all together than be physically present but no longer my sister, or in this case, my mother?

It was such a real dream that when I awoke, it took everything in me to keep repeating to myself that it was pretend, something my mind created.  As I lay there, soaked in sweat and tears, I tried to resist calling my mom.  It was 2:30 in the morning.  But all I could think is one day, hopefully decades from now, she would be gone-it wouldn’t be a dream.  And in that moment, I would always think back to this night, knowing I missed her, needed to hear her voice, and that I chose not to call her…and I would regret it.  Because it wouldn’t always be an option.  

So, I called.  She immediately answered, as all moms do.  She sounded so alert-as if it was 2:30 in the afternoon, not the morning. When she heard me crying, her voice softened, asking what was wrong.  I told her about the dream and how I just needed to hear her voice.  She assured me she was fine and then, as all moms do, got to the root of the problem by asking, “Now, honey, what’s really bothering you that made you have that dream?”  This made me cry more because my mom always knows me better than I know myself.  I told her about boys, about financial fears, and overall bad days.  She said everything a mom knows how to say to stop her daughter from crying and making sure she gets the good night’s sleep she needs.  I was glad I called and knew if I hadn’t, she would have reprimanded me when I told her about it the next day.  Because those twenty minutes are what my mom-and all moms-live for…to be needed by her child…to be the only one who can pick up the pieces.

It reminded me of struggling mothers everywhere. Single moms, married moms, divorced moms.  Lonely moms, busy moms.  Working office moms, working at home moms.  Moms everywhere.  The most selfless job you can have.

So, to all of you moms out there who are dealing with moody teenagers slamming doors, toddlers who scream and kick, kids who swear they don’t love you, babies who won’t sleep, and adult children who forget to call…I’m sorry we put you through all that.  But know, when you’re up all night crying and worrying, when you feel guilty for not doing more, and when you think you’ve failed us, you are and always will be our most favorite person.  And, even at age 36, at 2:30 in the morning, you will be the only person in the entire world who can make us feel better.  We will always call because we know you will always answer.

[divinelydivorced]

The Circus is in Town

As a child, I used to get so excited when the circus came to town, a rare event.  Of course, once inside, I was terrified.  Even back then, decades before becoming vegan, the idea of encaging animals, only to release them for our brief entertainment and then shove them back inside, seemed like a bad idea.  But each time I was drawn back in by the magic of the giant red and white striped tent.

Lately, my dating life has felt like a trip to the circus.  Only I can’t decide whether I’m the one being held captive or the one in the audience watching the organized chaos before me.  It all seems so magical from the outside.  The idea of meeting someone who very well MIGHT be the man of my dreams, that high you feel when you’re doing something new and exciting, getting dressed up, seeing new places, and even getting on planes to fly cross country to explore a new relationship.  But, like my former child-self at the circus, the minute I’m there, I realize this whole thing was a bad idea.

This is what I’ve learned in my recent round of dating:  1.  If a man constantly avoids answering the question “what do you do for a living?” and is only available to go out “last minute,” he’s doing something shady.  2. Just because he knows how to cook gourmet meals, doesn’t mean I want to eat what he’s serving.  3. A lot of men are starting new relationships when their old one hasn’t yet ended.  4.  Honesty can also mean they are lying to themselves. 5.  Large men love picking up small females, even if they’ve only just met.

All this gets old fast.  I’ve had a guy blame me for not trying hard enough to see him when he was the one who could only go out occasionally with an hour’s notice. Another guy, after sending me a text meant for another woman, said “You really are sick” when I said I was no longer interested.  I sent one guy packing after a few weeks.  He had potential…until he bit me.  You know what they say: bite me once, shame on you; bite me twice, shame on me; bite me three times, I’m going to call the police.  When I lost it after the third bite he said, “I can’t help it. I like biting people.  You need to give me a grey area to work with.”  Call me old fashioned, but I see biting as a very black and white area.

It used to seem my standards were too high and maybe that’s why finding Mr. Right was so impossible.  I lowered those standards and, well…I’ve been lifted off the ground, harassed, and left with bite marks.  I guess that’s what happens when you let a caged animal out and expect him to play nice.  

Needless to say, I’m heading back to the drawing board. It’s time to leave the circus once and for all, the noise from the crowd, the large light in the sky, the animals pacing.  Where to next?  Nobody knows. Hopefully there will be popcorn.

[divinelydivorced]

Embracing Death

The older lady I visit with weekly has had a rough few weeks.  At her age, when one thing hits, everything else seems to follow.  There was one point when I was convinced I’d get a text at any moment saying she’d passed.  But each week goes by and she’s still with us.  This past week when I showed up, she looked even more frail. But appearances can be deceiving because her sassy personality soon came to life.

She was debating with her son about the grocery list.  The main point of disagreement was he believed she needed groceries and she believed she needed none.  She kept saying, “I’m going to die any day now.  I don’t need food.”  Apparently, all morning she had been telling him today was the day she was going to die.  In fact, she’d refused to take a nap because she didn’t want to miss anything on her last day on earth.  But as the day drew on, she switched to, “Well, maybe not today.  But tomorrow or the next day for sure.”  

The remarkable part of the whole thing is how ready she is to die.  She’s been saying for weeks that she’s lived a good life and is ready to be done.  I wonder if I’d be able to say the same thing. If I’d be content with whatever last meal someone put in front of me, playing a game with whoever showed up, and closing my eyes knowing they may not open again.  No hoopla.  No big farewell party.  A simple last day---because there was nothing else left to do or say.

As it came time for me to leave, I felt very sad. What do you say to someone who may or may not be dying today?  Do I say my goodbye now in case it’s my last opportunity, or do I hold onto it and not risking having to repeat it in three weeks?  But, luckily, I didn’t have to choose.  She grabbed my hand and said, “I’ve been blessed to have many wonderful friends in my life, and I want you to know, that you are one of them.”  Holding back the tears, I told her I felt the exact same.

We took the slow walk to the door and I tried to soak in every last second.  The details of her very old couch that’s raised on furniture lifts.  The corner where we have decorated her Christmas tree. Her cane we’ve taken on many walks where I listened as she told me all the secrets to life.  Turning towards her, I said, “Well, tell it to me straight. Will you be here in three weeks when I get back or is the plan to take off before then?”  She laughed and said, “I’ll be gone soon.  But don’t worry.  I’m not sure what is in store for me next.  But whatever it is, I’m ready.”

[divinelydivorced]

Platza

“Now I hit you with broom.” I was lying naked, face up, in a sauna as a robust Russian woman in a bikini stood over me. “Excuse me?” I asked.  But, without answering, she quickly put a cold towel over my face.  The next thing I felt can only be described as someone taking large patches of leafy branches and pelting my body with it.  She started at the feet and worked her way up to my neck.  Smack. Smack. Smack.  Over and over the slimy foliage slammed against my bare skin.  

“Now we make it hotter.”  “Hotter or harder?” I asked.  I soon realized “both” was the correct answer to that question.  She had dipped the brooms in extremely hot water and was now, without apology, hitting my body with extreme intensity. Whap.  Whap.  Whap.   “This help with weight loss.  But you are fine.”  “Then back off,” I thought but couldn’t say because I was too busy trying to remember to breathe.  “But you have cold, you come here two days, I get it out of you.”  I believed her.

She then sat me up while simultaneously whipping the towel off my head, slipped my flip flops on my feet, and took my hand saying “Come.”  Getting a first glimpse at my body, I saw little pieces of a kelp-like substance stuck in all the wrong places.  I was too focused on picking it off, that I didn’t notice where she had led me.  “Hold your breath.”  “What-“ I barely got out as gallons of ice cold water rained down upon me.  

I started screaming while choking down water. As it was starting to finally slow up, I heard her pull the crank again and send a new batch of the chilling water upon me.  She laughed and laughed, squealing in delight at my shock.  I mean who could blame her.  Before her was a 100-pound, naked, screaming drowned rat praying for mercy. There was no question who held all the power in this relationship.  

As the water finally came to a stop, I opened my eyes to see her standing in front of me, holding a glass of water out for me to take.  “Drink.” So, I did.  “This is your first time, yes?”  “Yes,” I told her, sipping my water, grateful I had survived.  As I reached for my robe, she grabbed my hand and said, “No.  We go again.”

Rounds two and three involved even hotter water accompanied by stronger slaps and ended with longer amounts of time in the ice shower.  But I have to tell you by round three I started to get into it.  At the end as she started scrubbing my body with an abrasive sea salt scrub, it felt like a massage done with feathers.

When I met up with my friend afterwards, she said, “My facial was so intense.  I didn’t think I was going to be able to take much more of it.  It was so painful.”  I stared back at her for a moment, then said, “Sounds rough.  While you were doing that, I had a woman beat me with two brooms soaked in scolding water.”  The laughter following was so loud we’d have been asked to leave had we’d been in a library and not a naked Russian spa.  

It occurred to me later how much pain we are willing to take from people whose intentions we believe to be good.  It’s not only the physical.  We let friends and family rain cold water upon us or beat us with their “good intentions,” and we just stand there taking it as they giggle and squeal. We are told the pain makes it worth it. Perhaps it does or maybe, just maybe, we should tell those well-intended folks to knock it off.  

I don’t have the answer to that.  But what I do know, is waking up the next day, my skin never looked better.

[divinelydivorced]

Five Years Old Vs. College Students

This week I have the pleasure of teaching an afternoon theatre camp to four, five, and six year olds.  Spending most of the year in a classroom with college students, this week has been a fun examination of how similar and different the two age groups are.  The differences are perhaps the easiest to spot at first.  For example, college students these days seem more cynical. They aren’t afraid to voice their opinion on how love doesn’t exist or the world is headed for ruin.  Yet these young babes still believe in magic and mystery. They love playing unicorns and still want to believe in Santa Claus.  When we tell a story together, the small children laugh and awe, hanging on every word.  They take over the story, one at a time, and can’t wait to add a new twist.  Whereas my college students thrive on perfection, even when they are told we are only practicing and they should feel free to make mistakes.  But they tend to not let go.  If they venture outside the lines, they bring with them a stack of supporting material that justifies this rare choice in case they are challenged.

College students are more apt to point out my mistakes. This isn’t always meant to be hurtful but rather they have been trained to find error in all things.  Yet the four, five, and six year olds sometimes stop what they are doing simply to run over and throw their arms around my legs or kiss my hand.  They cannot contain the appreciation they feel, whereas the older students have been taught to guard their heart, to only give praise if absolutely deserved.  

My college students are distracted by lack of sleep and iPhones, whereas the little ones are distracted by the imaginary voices in their heads and the wonderment of all that is happening around them.  When I tell the younger ones to partner up, they immediately follow orders like a school of fish, grabbing a hand and lining up at the door.  My college students stare and wait for me to number them off or say two to three times more, “get in your groups…get in your groups now.”  Social grace is something most college students have learned and attempt to use. They tell one another the speech was great, even when it was not.  Whereas the kids will flat out say things like, “That’s a dog?  That’s the weirdest dog I’ve ever seen!”

No matter how much clean-up time I leave, I’m always rounding up the last young stragglers at the end of the day.  No amount of “five more minutes” will ever get all the books in bags and shoes on.  Yet college students start watching the clocks like hawks at quarter till, packing up before they have been dismissed.

College students saunter in late, often unapologetic. They believe time is their own to do what they wish with, while the children arrive teary eyed when only a minute or two behind, claiming, to their parents’ embarrassment, “My dad got pulled over by the police!”

But after some time, the similarities start to emerge.  Both groups like to use the phrase, “Well, my mom said…” whenever they need backed up on a debated issue and they, conveniently, know I cannot call said mom. Both groups claim to need to use the bathroom far more often than is true, and they are always thirsty and hungry. They love asking non-relevant questions and when directed to get back on track, ask a follow-up question that always begins with “Why…”

They always, always, always forget the one thing they were told to not forget.  When this is brought up, they suddenly lose the ability to hear and simply stare back. Resilient, I continue to question how they could have forgotten and eventually get a response like, “I don’t remember you telling me that.”  They are very good at passing blame.

Neither group is afraid to show their underwear. The little girls flip around in dresses while the little boys need constant reminders that the inside of their pants is not where their hands need to rest.  College girls wear yoga pants that are far too tight or thongs that stick out high above waist bands.  College boys wear their pants lower and lower each year, and I expect in another two or three years, they will simply leave them at home.

There are engaging similarities as well.  Such as they all have an innate need to be heard and seen.  They love having their moment to shine and thrive on positive feedback.  Whether showing me a drawing of their family or standing up in front of a classroom giving a speech, they all look at me, wide-eyed, waiting for praise.  When it is received, both smile and breathe a sigh of relief.  They especially love it when they are complimented when least expected. All of them love stickers, and in fact, the college students may love them more.

But, perhaps my favorite, is their ability to move forward.  They are so willing to express their emotions which are usually at a heightened state. I’ve had students of all ages say they won’t be back tomorrow.  An exhausted five-year-old boy screaming “this is the worst day of my life” and a deviant eighteen-year-old saying “I’m dropping your class and telling all my friends never to take you.”  But both still show up the next day.  They’ve either forgotten or they apologize.  Often the ones that seem the most upset in the beginning are the ones who love the class most in the end.

At the end of the day, they all go home.  To parents, to siblings, to friends, to roommates. They leave me so that they may go out into the world with a little more knowledge, a spark of inspiration, and the belief they have the tools to succeed and make the world a better place. They leave me behind, with a few memories, and awaiting the next arrivals.  

[divinelydivorced]

Walking Away

One area of noted personal growth has been knowing when to walk away.  Looking back over the last several years, this has been a major weakness.  Too many times I’d ignore the little voice in my head telling me to walk away from a certain situation or even a person.  At times, I even kept my mouth shut when I should have stood up for myself.  These are some of my biggest regrets.  Because by allowing myself to stay where I should not have been, I damaged myself, others, and lost a lot of precious time.

After my divorce and my time touring, I wanted to work on this.  But old habits are hard to break.  The only way to fix a flawed character trait is to practice what you preach in a sense. I’d tell my friends all the time to stand up for themselves or to remove themselves from harmful situations.  Yet in my personal life, I couldn’t seem to take my own advice.

It seems the hardest things to work on are the ones where there aren’t actual steps involved.  Especially in this area.  It wasn’t going to be as simple as setting a rule and sticking to it.  If I want to stop eating sugar, I don’t buy products possessing sugar and I say to myself, “No sugar.”  There’s a clear-cut line in abiding by or breaking this rule.  When it comes to not letting others mistreat me or take advantage, the lines get blurred.  It’s often a slow process, sometimes intentional or unintentional. Usually, somewhere along the lines, a system or relationship breaks down and leads to this lack of respect.  It’s not as easy to catch the problem before it begins.  

This is when I get frustrated.  Always having been a rule follower, I thrive when the line is clearly drawn in the sand.  When it’s not, I tend to panic and take cover.  Time and time again I continued to find myself ignoring that little voice. Looking back, once out of destructive situations, I would beat myself up for ending right back where I started.  “Why couldn’t I see that coming?  Why didn’t I leave sooner?  Why didn’t I say something?”  

But this past week, I noticed progress, when reflecting on a couple of current situations.  A casual friend had taken advantage of a few scenarios we’d been in and even got caught in a lie.  My eyes were immediately open and I found myself letting this person know we could no longer move forward with our friendship.  I ended it cold turkey and have yet to go back.  It’s not even a struggle…which reminds me the “bad” is a lot easier to walk away from when we put our mind to it.  Without time spent in that situation, I was able to invest more energy into good, strong friendships and found myself far more fulfilled than I had been in the one I’d just ended.

Additionally, I’ve noticed progress in dating relationships. Normally I’d tend to hold on to someone in hopes that feelings might grow or in an effort to avoid loneliness. But instead, I’ve recently been walking away without guilt or fear.  Several one-time dates were left as just that-no long explanation or apology given. When a few guys demonstrated disrespect or rudeness, I stood up for myself and bid them a kind, but direct, farewell.  Even someone I’d gone out with several times who I wanted to like but saw too many red flags, was sent packing.  In the latter situation, I’d normally have given him “one more chance” or made excuses for why he may be acting the way he was.  But time was up and I’d rather sit alone on a Saturday night than spend my time with someone I wasn’t meant to be with.

I don’t know when or how the light switched on. If I did, I’d throw out the easy five-step plan for other rule-followers like myself.  Despite not knowing, I’m grateful for the progress and chalk it up to overall growth and maturity.  Yet I’m also not discounting the impact of honest, supportive, strong friends and family.  I now have people who hold me accountable and who remind me to be kind to myself as well.  What a difference that makes.

[divinelydivorced]

Where I’m Supposed to Be

This weekend a friend and I were talking about receiving confirmation we are where we need to be.  For so long, both of our lives have been quite chaotic.  About the time things look like they are turning around, another problem arises.  We often see good news as bad news-having a hard time believing anything positive will do nothing but bring about a new set of consequences.

Yet, similar to her, lately we both have been noticing our lives stabilize in little ways.  For example, as mentioned before, I’ve moved almost every year of my life after high school.  I’ve called far too many places home and, as a result, they’ve never felt secure or safe. It was more like a temporary housing until yet again the boxes came out.  I’ve made the mistake of believing an apartment would be mine for years to come, buying furniture specifically for my current location, hanging light fixtures, painting walls.  This time around, no paint went up and only a few frames have been hung.  I was not going to be tricked into thinking I’d be here longer than one year.

Sure enough, a couple months ago, without warning, construction took over our building.  The management company purchased and tore down the house behind us. This demolition led to plans of reconfiguring my building and the one attached.  As is always the case, this construction, which was supposed to be quick and easy, has led to numerous problems.  The work is currently happening right outside my bedroom, and there have been times when the noise was so loud I truly believed a jackhammer would be coming through my wall at any second.  

One by one, tenants have been moving out. Many have refused to pay rent. Summer was supposed to be my time to relax and get refreshed, so I’ve let it all go.  When the noise got loud, I turned my music up.  When dust and water from a leaky pipe covered my bedroom floor, I got out the mop.  When another moving truck pulled up and boxes were carried down the stairs, I held the door. But as rumor went around management was going to need to take over our apartments for two to four weeks, I knew I could ignore the inevitable no longer.

Last week I sent an email inquiring about the construction and asking about the status of my lease that would soon be running out.  Politely I mentioned some of the ongoing issues and concerns and asked if it might be taken into consideration with my renewal.  Fully expecting to receive a response that explained I’d need to vacate or, in a less worse scenario, an email stating my rent would be increased as previously mentioned, I was shocked to read the management’s response before me.

They thanked me for my patience and the polite way in which I’d handled the ongoing issues.  They assured me construction near my apartment would be ending in the next few weeks, and hopefully, the unexpected problems as well.  They noted I always paid my rent a week early and have been an impeccable tenant.  As a result, they hoped I’d consider staying and as a way of showing their appreciation, they were taking $250 off of my current rent for the next twelve-month lease.

A reduction in rent is unheard of.  One of that magnitude caused me to reread the email about ten times.

I am where I need to be.  For the first time in such a long time, I hold tightly and proudly to this much-needed confirmation.  As my friend and I discussed this situation in my life, as well as the one in hers, I made note of a difference in both of us.  How we are no longer terrified by change.  A few years ago, all this little chaos happening outside my front door would have driven me to tears.  I’d see the $250 not as good but as something not to hold too tightly to.  My exact words would be, “This means some unforeseen cost is going to come up that’s going to take that away from me.”

Instead, I replied, “All I’ve been through has taught me to notice when God is moving the pieces of my life around.  That money will go somewhere.  Maybe savings or retirement.  Maybe a car payment or increased health insurance costs. Whatever it is, I don’t care. Because the pieces are moving to prepare for something new.  And I know I will be alright.”