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Putting a Lasso On Life

I am putting a lasso on life. I don’t mean that in a controlling way, but only in the wild cowboy way.

The weather is getting nicer and I’ve decided I am going to make my life go the same way. I am chasing the things that make me feel alive. First, my husband and I just bought paddle boards. We have a beautiful lake near our home, and we’ve been riding out on our walk-on-water boards, frequenting private tree-lined nooks and crannies where we can laugh at each other as we try to balance doing yoga or just lay back and look at the open sky. We have been running, laughing, eating healthier, and trying to work less. We have been cuddling with our dog.

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Some days this is easier than others. It’s crazy to me that relaxing can be hard. But, it is something I am getting better at doing. I’ve become a truly independent consultant at work which made me feel surprisingly more relaxed than I thought I would. Sometimes we carry around burdens we don’t even know are so heavy on our backs. My husband and I also have been church hopping, and I think we’ve found one where we can breathe deeply and connect to others easily. There isn’t much – or maybe anything – better in life than that.

Another thing I did for myself lately was visit two of my closest friends (one being my sister) in the Pacific Northwest. They spoiled me with love and companionship. Among the hikes, spa treatments, beach campfires, reading of stories to my nephew and niece, shopping, red wine, and solving the world’s problems, my heart began to become light again. The trip gave me a new, positive energy for doing this work of lassoing that was so needed in my life. Sometimes spending time with those that cherish your soul can heal you beyond what anything else in this world can offer.

So, if you need me, I will be lassoing life. Whether or not life decides to cooperate with the things I cannot control, I will be spreading my wings and breathing deeply. I will be taking in the sun, or the moon, and counting the stars at night. I will be rejuvenating my spirit, infusing it with the best things I can reach.

Be a Parrot in a Teacup

“The most important thing I can tell you about aging is this: If you really feel that you want to have an off-the-shoulder blouse and some big beads and thong sandals and a dirndl skirt and a magnolia in your hair, do it. Even if you’re wrinkled.” -Maya Angelou
 
There are few writers that can touch the soul like Maya Angelou. As the world mourns her passing, we need to remember to celebrate life – hers and our own. On this earth, she had found her spirit voice – the voice that pierces through all the noise of this world and reminds us what the core of our being already knows to be true. 
 
To tap into our brilliance, like Maya, has to be the ultimate goal. If we can listen for God’s tiny whispers in our life, and figure out how to follow his sweet voice, we will be more talented; more loving; and better teachers and companions. I don’t know the purpose of my life yet, but I do feel I am getting closer to knowing where God’s essence resides. 
 
Sweet Maya, if you are reading this, know that our hearts are with you. Receive our love and thanksgiving for the color and light you’ve brought to this world. Please keep passing your gifts down to us. And, like you, I will keep trying to be a parrot in a teacup – unapologetically vibrant, but acting with grace and gentleness.

Waiting at Heaven’s Gates

When my grandpa died two weeks ago, I didn’t want to tell my mom I was suffering another miscarriage. What a cruel downer to rest upon her already grieving heart. But, when the tears started coming, I had no choice but to share with her all the grief in my heart, too. Such a beautiful, practical woman…she just replied, “Well, don’t you think your three little angels might be waiting for grandpa at heaven’s gates? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

To imagine my grandpa’s surprise to meet family he never knew existed, is a sweet vision. I am sure he spent his first few hours in heaven in delighted surprise, being awakened to new truths and companionship at every moment. I also gain peace from imagining him, not only with the love of his life (my grandma), but also taking care of those babies I never got a chance to take care of myself. It makes me feel a little steadier knowing he is up there, with all his kindness and wisdom, making their worlds a little brighter and more comforting.

At this juncture in my spiritual journey, I no longer believe in coincidence. I think every overlapping ideal has been set in our path purposely. I had a dream about my grandpa a few nights ago. He was at a family reunion here on earth, every bit his age, but with beautiful, rested, glowing skin, and a fluidity in his movements he hasn’t had in decades. He simply approached me – me knowing full well this was his goodbye – and gave me a giant, bear hug. No words were needed. I was bawling, yet knew he needed to get back to grandma on the other side. Peacefully, he let go of me and turned slowly to fade back into the other world. Not believing in coincidences, I believe that was his goodbye. I believe, because we were not very close, we didn’t need a long or wordy goodbye, but just an exchange of love and the proof to me that he is in good health and spirit in his new version of life. Maybe, with his new understanding of all I have been through lately, he just wanted to give me a hug because he knew that was something he could do to silently support me.

I will forever hold the vision of my three little ones bouncing excitedly at heaven’s gates, waiting impatiently to usher my grandpa into his next, best life. I will imagine him scooping them up in his arms, happy beyond belief to share his life with these great-grandkids that the continent would have separated him from here on earth. I will remember that I have oodles of family caring for each other in a dimension that is partially closed off to my soul currently. But they are there. Peaceful. In eternal vacation mode. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.

 

When More of Us Are in Heaven Than On Earth

If our spirits enter the body at conception, when do they leave? I am sadly, miserably, waiting for my third miscarriage to commence, and I am wondering when this little soul left or will leave my physical body (and his or her little mass of cells). Do we have to live – even for a day or two in our mothers’ wombs – in order to be granted everlasting life? What is the purpose of this short life that causes tears of sorrow here on earth? How do I process the fact that, while my husband and I are here on earth, we technically have three angel children in heaven to whom we’ve never even been granted a “hello”? When more of us are in heaven than on earth, is that our sign to stop pushing our agenda, our desire to care for and love a biological child in this world?

We are at a major crossroads. Do we do genetic testing and try to unpeel the mysterious layers of how our bodies are failing us again? Or, do we just take this as a sign that our journey does not include those blue eyes lined with my husband’s long, thick eyelashes and his easy grin I’ve imagined on our child’s face?

I don’t know the answer. But, both my husband and I are having trouble feeling in our gut that a biological child is in the cards for us. I think I always had this inkling – and the desire to adopt – so maybe that is as simple as answers get. Putting a dream as close to our hearts as this away forever is a cruel, likely possibility. 

Life was never promised to be easy. However, when will I be broken enough to warrant a change of life course? When will my soul be as ready (wise? pure? reflecting of God’s perfection?) as those three little angels I have – watching over me somewhere in an alternate reality – to permit a break from these heartaches I have been enduring for the last year and a half?

I would like to think I was the loving vessel for these souls to achieve everlasting life. To be born to die in order to live again. I have to believe this because it is the only way to endure something so painful and emptying. I will be holding – since not their hands – the moments of hope they each gave me. I will try to process and unattach from the subsequent afflictions. And, I will keep plopping one sad foot in front of the other, believing (or if not believing…hoping…) the best, surely, is yet to come.

Dancing Lines

For the first time since starting this blog over a year ago, I went through and read all my posts. It’s funny how life and ideas prepare you for the next step. One thing that stuck out to me is how I said – before being pregnant, losing our son, losing our opportunity to move back to our favorite city, almost losing our dog (twice – he went back to the emergency vet last week), and another job scare – “Rock bottom is a dancing line. It changes positions as you get stronger.”

Rock bottom is, indeed, a dancing line. I have told my husband recently that I feel I keep bouncing off this rock, thinking I will be leaving it for a good while only to return to the hard, hurtful surface much sooner than anticipated. This sounds dramatic. I know I have a lot for which to be thankful. Although, I have to recognize the pain centers when they present themselves. I have to acknowledge that my life seems to be slamming against this rock over and over again, even if it could (always) get much, much worse. 

I have been trying to transform my painful experiences into love. I believe the only way to create love out of pain is to share my empathy, my understanding, and even my strength. I have learned how vital it is to recognize loss in another’s life. Loss of ego, loss of love, loss of hope…I am learning how to accept those losses in my own life and how to recreate my reality, knowing now that – not only is rock bottom a dancing line – but reality itself is a dancing line. What we think we know to be true is always changing and reinventing itself, so we constantly need to strive for an admittedly painful, yet freeing, complete openness to life.

Painful, yet freeing openness…as we try not to let our egos suffocate the truth (that we are, in each moment, always okay). Naked, taking deep breaths with everyone watching. I think, if I can master this, those dancing lines won’t scare me so much anymore.

Battling the “Blessed”

For a few years now, I’ve been privately battling the word “blessed.” If you’ve been following this blog, you know that I used to work for a firm with conservative, WASP-like men leading the charge. One of them insisted on having a Christian cross on his email signature and another (young and recently promoted) had committed his instant messenger tagline to indefinitely say, “Blessed.” I try not to be the type of person to announce my faith before the strength of my character (especially in a business email), but – after leaving the firm – I cringe every time I hear the word “blessed.”

Now, before I go any further, I would like to make it clear that I actually identify broadly with the Christian religion (Catholicism) and do not have an issue with anyone’s freedom of opinions outside of the work environment, but let me explain why these pronouncements cause me such discomfort.

Everything I really need to say about the “blessed” is summed up so eloquently here: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/scott-dannemiller/christians-should-stop-saying_b_4868963.html. Just like the author, Scott Dannemiller, I have made it a practice for the last couple of years to instead say I am “lucky” or “fortunate” instead. To make the correlation between one’s positive country of birth, monetary position, network of loved ones, etc., and God’s favor is to forget about all of those whom have been left behind. What about the victims of natural disasters, abandonment, or identity theft? I cannot imagine that God looks with any less favor, or blessings, on them. Like Dannemiller, I cannot believe our Great Creator of all things handpicks treats for only some of us, dropping perfect lawns and 6-figure jobs down to the chosen few. 

It is very dualistic (black and white) to believe that good comes to/from good and bad comes to/from bad. Most of the time, I just think that shit happens and all that really matters is how we try to put ourselves and our loved ones back together. We learn to be more sensitive, more kind, and less sure of certainties. And then we learn it all over again. We give people the benefit of the doubt even when they don’t deserve it. And, we know popularity, money, and power do not come to us because we are so darn blessed. If we have those things, most of us have had to work hard for them and – if hard work wasn’t involved – it’s not because God granted favor. It’s because that wasn’t part of the lesson one needed to learn…it’s because one tumbled out of the planets and are a lucky-ducky, speckle of dust that rolled and landed on more prosperous ground than some other speckles of dust. 

The New Okay

I’ve been noticing lately that I am…okay. I can get through the day – and maybe even the week – without grieving Adam. I miss him, I think about him, and I remember him lovingly, but that heavy sadness that has plagued me hangs around less often. This is the new okay. 

I am okay if we never have a biological child. I am okay if we do and our adoption plans get postponed. I am okay if we have to wait three years to bring a child home. I am learning not to make too many demands on life, but how to still remain hopeful. I think this was always the master plan for this stage of my life. I needed to let go of my resume – whether professional or personal. I needed to learn that deviations from the planned path are not failures. I needed to learn that strength and beauty come from great loss.

There is something else that I’ve noticed, too. Although I do not think I am a jealous person, it has been emotionally exhausting to expense joy and celebration for others. Don’t get me wrong; I have true joy that bubbles up and out of me, and I am so thrilled for my friends and family in their happiness and positive turn of events. But, after the celebrations, I have to retreat and find rejuvenation. I have to come to terms with the reality of my own path at this time and renew acceptance. Each joy celebrated gets easier (my breakdowns or “comedowns” get less dramatic), and I need less time to re-energize. I just never knew that was part of the process until I experienced core-trembling loss. I am doing important “soul work” as my aunt and spiritual mentor says…and it’s hard, yet refreshing at the same time.

I trust that, as the moon keeps fading in and out of the hours, the new okay will turn into the new fabulous/stupendous/couldn’t be happier. I am my mom’s “Life is Wonderful” child and I have faith that I am making small steps to regain my place on the kitchen counter, making chocolate chip cookies, and delivering that phrase to her and all my loved ones who know my joyful and mischievous spirit.

Adoption for Dummies

My husband and I have decided it is time to steal a little more nectar for our corner of this world. We have been actively trying to naturally make one of those precious joys people call babies, but we are still not pregnant again. I think I know the reason for this. I imagine our tiny cells screaming at each other, working hard not to merge because, in their magnificent memories – handed down millions of generations by now – they remember the horrific outcome of this summer with losing our sweet Adam Gabriel. As our patience dwindles with every confusing temperature charted, proactive pill swallowed, and guilt-laden glass of wine finished, we have committed ourselves to kicking patience and fate square in the nuts and moving right passed.

This move is called adoption. In our case it will be international, and will take place in Haiti. We don’t know when, we hardly know how, but we are diving anyway. We need Adoption for Dummies (and a quick Google search showed me that the book does exist – lucky us!), but we are quickly realizing, so do many of our friends. We all don’t know the right terminology or every detail of the process, but I still find myself a little defensive when I have to remind someone that there is quite a good chance my adopted child will NOT be a drug addict or serial killer, or that I don’t get to pick my child like I picked my designer dog, Hollywood. I am not going through glossy magazine photos and saying, “Oh that one looks cute! I think I will just surrender myself to months of paperwork, years of waiting, and heavy financial commitment because, you know – that little one will look PERFECT in the family holiday photo!” 

I could say a lot more, but this following article featured in the Huffington Post does a pretty good job summing up what I have been thinking about lately. Many of these don’t apply to me and my husband (yet), but – surprisingly – quite a few do. I don’t expect anyone to be perfect; I am certainly not. But, there seems to be so much confusion with international adoption that I thought it might help to provide this short article so that people stop forgetting we are not simply selecting a toothpaste or losing our minds (entirely). Loving questions welcome. Narrow-minded opinions, stories, or advice are not.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/wymsel-/dear-friends-of-waiting-adoptive-moms_b_3795132.html

 

 

When in Costa Rica…Don’t Forget Your Colombian Massage

It was anniversary #8 and my sweet husband surprised me on vacation saying, “5:00 – massage at the villa. Enjoy!” I was already quite relaxed from spending days on a mountain top with sun, wild toucans and monkeys, and an infinity pool overlooking an oceanview…but I know when to just say thank you and enjoy a treat.

Echoed many times, life – and massages – are not always what you expect. At 40 minutes after 5:00, a tiny Colombian woman found her way down the short path from the clubhouse to our jungle villa. With the help of my husband translating, we quickly realized she spoke little to no English and I spoke little to no Spanish…and then he left us, a little reluctantly, to start our session.

Stumbling through our communication as we got started, she signals that she wants to set up her table on the front porch instead of inside the more private doors of the villa. She simply pulls the veil of the mosquito netting to surround the area while I pray that people will pass by on the path below on their way to dinner while I am still clothed.

The masseuse – I’ve decided to call her Gloria since I don’t actually remember her real name – gives me a Colombian hard candy and puts the smell of lavender under my nose and, when I nod in approval, she strokes the oil onto my nose, cheek, and other cheek with her index finger, while looking into my eyes. Then, she lights her incense. As I awkwardly bite down on my candy, listening to it crunch in the silence between languages, she offers yet another layer of aromas: cocoa or chocolate spray massage oil (I choose the cocoa as it was the less acute of the two smells).

Now it’s time to undress: down to my underwear, she motions, as is normal. Not ordinarily, she stays right where she is as I shed my dress and bra, tucking them politely into a corner of the patio couch, and pseudo-confidently take my place on the massage table, burying my embarrassment under the provided sheet. Just as I’m trying to get my shoulders to shrink away from my ears, she ruffles my hair and – after more ruffles and half-words between the two of us – I realize she is insisting on the necessity of a hair tie. I obey, get off the table and proceed inside the villa without a robe or a protective sheet, pleading that the glaring lights over the front porch do not give me away to those on their way to the clubhouse.

When I finally settle back into the massage table, hair securely on top of my head and face down, she begins. She kneads my back, my shoulders, and my neck. She contorts my limbs and laces my fingers with hers as she pulls me like her marionette. She rolls her arms down my body like a rolling pin, leaving ligaments and cartilage throbbing with pain and taking the breath out of me. Without hesitation, she yanks my underwear up to my hips, tucking it in my buttocks, and grabs and pounds the muscles, her skin on my skin. Replacing the sheet momentarily, Gloria takes her hand, aimed like a knife, and slides it between my lower cheeks. She locates a part of my tailbone no hands have ever touched, deep within the crevice of my buttocks, and rubs the bone in a circular motion with two fingers.

Gloria signals me to turn over after afflicting every part of my back side. She puts a cloth that smells like someone else’s sweat over my eyes which half keeps the bright lights above at bay and half nauseates me. Taking off the protective sheet that usually stays upright in massages while you lay on your back, she instead places it by my hips and lays a flimsy hand towel over my breasts. She kneads my stomach in a swirling motion, making suggestions I don’t understand when discovering different intestinal organs. Her cell phone rings and she quietly leaves my side to answer it five paces away, speaking her native language at an ordinary volume. After a 3 minute conversation, she returns to my side with no fanfare.

She grabs my ribs and reaches around and inside them. She takes one tiny hand and reaches between my breasts and under the hand towel, rubbing from my neck – passed my sternum – and down to my belly button in one swift, but repeated, motion. Gloria plays the piano on my face, rubs each molar outlining my jawline, and plucks-plucks-plucks at my eyelids with pinches of skin between her fingers. She massages my nose with such long strokes that I am anxiously deciding whether to keep holding my breath or succumb to open-mouthed breathing. She takes out the hair tie. She tousles my hair.

With my underwear still up around my hips and my hair wild, she communicates that we are all done. By this time, my husband has already wandered back into our villa, so I quickly dress in front of her and retrieve him to help close out the session. With no time to explain anything privately to my husband, he asks how it was and she beams with pride as I say how much more thorough it was then a typical American massage. He gives her a hefty tip and she packs up quickly and heads back to wherever she came from earlier tonight. I look at my husband with shock as I try to process and relay the details of the last hour of my life. If not a gift of relaxation, it was definitely a gift of amusement and life experience. As the saying goes…when in Costa Rica, do as the Costa Ricans do…and don’t forget your Colombian massage.

Dangling Carrots

Karma, dangling carrots, and the unlucky 2013. I have been wading through quick sand for what feels like a century, yet somehow it has only been a calendar year. My heart once again feels like a sponge being squeezed, oozing all my hopes like blood to a place never to be recovered.

If I wrote a memoir, this year would fill a vast number of pages. I started the year out jobless, scurrying anxiously to find swift employment. Then, right when I found my footing with my new career role, I found out I was pregnant. Fake-drinking at parties and re-cataloging what the next year would look like proved to be challenging, yet fun, actually. But, as soon as I mustered the courage to make the BIG announcement, reality quickly crumbled in front of me in the hospital. And now, after spending many years dreaming about how my family could settle back into the city we fell in love with almost a decade ago, we had to turn down an opportunity to do just that. (As the saying goes, not all opportunities are GOOD opportunities.)

I have learned a bit about staving off desperation. I have learned to only count hatched chickens. But, with that said, I can’t deny that is still hurts to have life reach inside, to the deepest parts, and kneed them frantically and haphazardly. Like dough, it has taken my dreams and twisted and turned them, making them unrecognizable. I have to believe this wet, gooey feeling will translate into nourishment and life-giving. I have to believe that all surprises aren’t destined to be slashed into nightmares. I have to believe in a good Creator, a wise Lover, whom is in ultimate control.

So if 2013 has taught me anything, it is that a) I am not in control and b) that’s all I know for sure.