Gracias, Amigas

 I walked through the crowded tables, feeling a pit in my stomach. I looked at all the women in their conversations, wondering where to insert myself. The scenario was familiar, but ancient to me. Apparently the insecurity of entering a crowded lunchroom on the first day of school is easily recalled if all the circumstances are similar enough, even when one is 34 years old.

Eventually I came to a table and instantly felt relief as I walked around to where there was an empty chair. I interrupted the enthusiastic conversing of six lovely, dark-haired women, who from the way they interacted, had been friends for a long time.

“ ¿Puedo sentar aqui?” I asked, and than instantly corrected my improper Spanish grammar in my head.

Looks of surprise but welcoming greeted me with a chorus of “ ¡Sí!”s.

When the one who told the stories finished with the colorful one she was telling, which was a little too fast for me to pick up on, they turned to me to ask me my name and get acquainted with the newcomer. The gringa.

They seemed impressed by my Spanish as I started to share how I know their forgiving and easy-going language. The connection was rápido as I gave the full disclosure that I wasn’t understanding everything— that sometimes they were going too fast and so I just ate my lunch and stopped paying attention for a moment. Their looks in response to that were understanding. I suddenly thought of how it would be to be in an English-speaking environment with unfamiliar words, rules, vowels. They understood what I felt when I was tired of trying to understand. Except their world was much harsher than mine. They were coming to a place where English was expected, even demanded, and negative stereotypes were rampant. I was there to practice my Spanish and have a good time. In my experience, making a new Spanish-speaking friend is always a good time.

My confidence increased with their smiles and positive words. I caught some of the stories, but mostly sat back and people-watched a bit. In that time, which flew, but was perhaps 30 minutes, there was banter, connection, vulnerability, love, teasing, stories, and so much of it punctuated with laughter. I was the tiniest bit frustrated at what I was missing, but mostly just felt joy at hearing this language that I love, so beautifully shared in a chorus almost like a song. At seeing each personality shine through — some very quiet, some calmer, some animated. At feeling like I was instantly accepted, just by existing. Just by my tiny bit of courage to ask if I could sit with them. It seemed almost unfair that that tiny bit of courage had such a generous outcome.

When I left the table, I hadn’t learned most of their names. But they all learned mine. And I felt connection and love. I cried a little later, about the quick connection that I sometimes feel for people but don’t always maintain. About people I care about who I most likely will never see again. It happened in Guatemala and Honduras more than ten years ago, and it still happens occasionally today. But then I thought of the future and I felt great esperanza. I truly believe there will be time to sit with friends and talk and laugh and know each other— and this time, when they tell their stories, I will catch every word. I really look forward to that.

How lucky are we to be allowed to have the relationships we have in this life?

Oh, child. Can’t you see?

“I don't know how God is going to help me," Sammy groaned, doubtfully. It was 1:24 a.m. He was experiencing a rough night on a sea of coughs and gasps. I was awakened by his broken voice a few minutes earlier when he came in, requesting a handkercheif. After the initial pang of annoyance at having my own sleepy voyage interrupted, I stood at the head of his bunkbed, stroking his hair, and stifled a small laugh at his statement. Honest, but oblivious. "Oh, sweetie, He is helping you. I'm here. Let me see if I can give you some more medicine.” I returned to my bedside in a fuzzy yet familiar way to get my glasses. I felt amused at his doubtful little attitude. It was fuzzily familiar… It reminded me of something that happened once…

When I was the sufferer. It was a little more than 12 years ago and 2,900 miles away. My memory is pretty foggy of that time, with most of my swirling thoughts being terribly, negatively self-critical. I was in deep depression in the heart of Central America, "failing" in a role I'd wanted to play all my life. No pressure.

 "I just wish I could have a break. A little vacation. A chance to get better and catch up,” I muttered, desperately. I sat in our comfortable, clean apartment, perhaps the only one in the mission with its own washer and drier, perhaps the only one with a warm shower. Looking back at the experience, I wonder if Hermana Story felt that slightly-annoyed-amusement I felt in my 1:24 a.m. interaction with Sammy. 

"This is your break. This is your vacation. It's happening right now. You can get better. Can't you see?' 

For months, that woman reminded me to take my medication. She sacrificed her own comfort and pride to help me in ways you don’t expect to have to help an adult. We still did missionary work but she had the extra loads of doing all the contacting and teaching, and even making sure I crossed those busy Honduran streets safely— I didn't have the presence of mind to do so. She held me when I had panic attacks. I think perhaps the only positive thing I felt in that time was the compassion and love from her. I will be forever grateful for how she helped me when she was companions with me and my depression. 

As I brought Sammy’s rice bag warmed to perfection and a warm lemon-honey drink, he immediately proclaimed, "I don't think this is helping." Is this a taste of how Hermana Story felt? Is this how God feels? 

"On child. Can't you see? I am right here. I am helping you right now. I have a plan. You can trust me. I will not let you fall.” There are times I do not see his compassionate arm reached out to me. But He is still there. And sometimes He might be a little amused at my doubtful desperation.

Enabling

(for Lindsey)

A few months ago, I transplanted a sunflower plant from the front yard to the back garden. Within a day it was droopy and looking very sad. I gave it plenty of water and it had good soil and sunlight, but soon some of the leaves had turned brown and it was so bent over, I thought it was a goner.

I got the idea to put a little stick in the ground, and tie some twine around the top of the stem and the stick in an effort to straighten the plant. I hoped that if the leaves on the top, which hadn’t yet died, would be able to get some sun straight on, that it would get the necessary chlorophyll and be able to eventually become strong again.

I marveled when this worked. Within a week, life was literally coming back into the brown, dry leaves. It was one of the most amazing things I’ve ever seen in my garden.

When I’ve thought about the Atonement of Jesus Christ over the years, I think I had a basic grasp of the concept of the redemptive power it brings. I hoped that one day, if I did the very best I could do, He would “make up the difference”. What I am only now starting to understand is the beautiful enabling side of it. He gives us life, even now. All along the way He strengthens us and allows us to grow. The Atonement isn’t something that I hope will save me someday. It can save me today. And tomorrow. And every day.

You are that sunflower. Now there is time to turn inward and restore that relationship with yourself — the divine being that you are — and allow Christ to breathe life back into your leaves. Be gentle with the parts of you that feel bent and lifeless, and have hope for what is to come for you. God can cause a miracle in a sunflower, but more meaningfully, He is bringing about miracles in you. And you are worth it.

I no longer need to bottle it up

 When those moments come, where everyone is getting along and there’s no chaos at all — those golden and ever-so-rare moments — that’s when I intentionally memorize it. Try to bottle it up. This is how I can “enjoy it because it goes so fast”.

With four children under the age of 9, it feels like moments like this happen 1% of the time, if that. Our usual consists of breaking up the fights, cleaning up the spills, getting ground-in playdoh out of the carpet. It’s chaos between the kids, between me and them, between me and myself. The constant guilt-ridden thoughts of how I’m doing it all wrong, and how they are too, are absolutely exhausting.

If you have stopped reading, I don’t blame you. I would want to stop reading. I wanted to stop having this life.

And I am so glad I chose to stop. Enough was enough.

For years, I have had a victim mentality. I had no idea how much power over my own experience I actually held in my hands. My negative thoughts became so loud and bombarding, and I felt so miserable, that it was even affecting me physically. I thought, ‘if all of these thoughts can make me feel this bad, I bet if I could turn this around, I could fly’.

I’ve made a conscious choice that enough is enough in the self-loathing department. I now like myself, an awful lot. I am doing things I want to do, just because I want to (#Bostonwithoutkids). This lightness I feel has extended to my husband and kids and I am enjoying them, just as they are, way more.

Two nights ago, I just sat, watching my kids play duplos together, feeling waves of contentment wash over me and throughout my body. I watched, smiled, and sat there, amazed that I could feel so good and for so long. It was way past their bedtime, but they were enjoying each other, and I couldn’t stop watching.

The best part was, I didn’t feel this desperation of bottling up the feeling because of how rare it was. Because, you see, when I am looking for the good in me, I am also finding the good in them way more often. It seems they changed, but really, all I changed was my focus. I can’t believe how simple and yet absolutely life changing and profound it all is. The agency God gave me extends right down to how I choose to think about things, and how that makes me feel. And I’m glad to feel content much more often. I deserve it.

(I give credit to this change in myself to: Jody Moore coaching, The Big Leap by Gay Hendricks, the enabling power of the Atonement of Jesus Christ, and myself for the work I’ve been doing to be wrong about my previous painful and terrible story, and for challenging my thoughts and choosing ones that serve me much better. And to Paul, who said, “Just try Be Bold for a month, and if you don’t like it, you can always cancel.” And who has had many discussions with me about all this along the way.)

Creating in amused curiosity

This past year, I took a drawing class in which I drew portraits. It had been more than half my life ago the last time I spent time sketching. Being the sentimental sucker that I am, I almost exclusively practiced on photos I had taken of people who I knew and who meant a lot to me. I sometimes would capture their essence, but often there would be several flaws, and often I would leave drawings unfinished, fueled by frustration or disappointment at their lack of perfection.

One day I sat down to work on a portrait of my sister, which I intended to give her for Christmas. My three year old bounded over and hopped up on the couch next to me. “Draw me, mommy!” She requested, unabashed. I chuckled and consented. Instead of working on my sister for yet another attempt, I found a photo of my daughter and started to sketch.

It came easily, as I had nothing to prove. I felt relaxed and had fun with it. I kept it simple, with lots of white space for the viewer to fill in with their own imagination.

Of all the drawings, this is the one that I find worthy of a frame. I captured her so beautifully.

This is what happens when the creator has nothing to prove. When the reason for the creation is not esteem or wealth or attention. The final product only exists because of an amused kind of curiosity. And instead of frustration, it is motivated by love.

I’ve learned this in other ways throughout my life, but with this drawing it’s a visual reminder when I see it every day. Success comes from putting time into something. Being willing to fail and fail a lot. Trying again. But success doesn’t have to be so strenuous and agonizing. It can also come when we don’t overthink things. When we just go for it, with amused curiosity. And the most sublime creations of all are born by love.

Deliverance

"Look at me. Look at me!", her sister insisted forcefully. Despite the volume of the request, it was pushed down, almost silenced by the chaos going on in her body and brain. At any moment she would succumb to the pain which surged through her; she was surprised she hadn't already. But then that nagging command to look subtly interrupted her thoughts, like a rock in the rapids, a rock which she perhaps could hold onto and keep herself from drowning. At last, drawing upon all the strength she had, and with a long, trembling breath, she willed her rolling eyes to stillness and they focused on her sister's intense stare.

"Keep looking. Don't look away. You can do this. You are doing this." She had a good grasp on the rock now. She was still very much affected by the rapids - they beat upon her as they had been for hours. But as long as she kept looking at those big eyes staring into hers, at least she wouldn't go under again. She could breathe. She began to breathe and breathe and breathe. She breathed hope and strength and love down throughout her body, surrounding the baby that would soon take a first breath on its own. She breathed the support of her sister into her mind, where it calmed the storm within if only for a moment. She breathed the grace of her Savior into her wings and soared until --

An entirely new sound pierced the air. A sound too beautiful to believe. The baby was finally here, making herself known to all within earshot.

"Mary has a sister!"

It was the first sentence I ever heard.

A writer who hasn't been writing

 Something made me think of this old blog tonight, and I went way back to read of happy college days. It was fun to remember how life was then: the friends I had, the things I was learning. It was fun to see the comments from those friends, and to feel validation from them even now. But the most fun, was to remember the days when I would write, and the joy I received when allowing myself to do so.

In 2009 I served a mission for The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. My blog became a place for my weekly emails. Those posts were the beginning of a long decrescendo as I lost myself in mental illness. Eventually I came home from my mission after serving for 10 months instead of the anticipated 18. It took years to recover, and in that time I wrote some blog posts, but I never look at those now. I was(/am?) ashamed of them. I thought they betrayed the real me. I have considered deleting them occasionally over the years. 

But now, I don't know if it's just that it's 3:11 AM or if I'm serious, but I think it's time to resurrect this little blog of mine. I don't expect the people who used to read it to rediscover it. Heck, I don't really expect anyone to read it. I know it will never be the same as it once was. I am not the same.

And I'll leave all those cringe-worthy posts which were written by a woman who was mentally unwell. Because though I consider myself recovered, that woman was still me.

Deep inside, I have felt out of sorts for some time now, and I believe the reason could be that I am a writer who hasn't been writing. It's time to try again.