Of Humanity

When I was a young teenager, I noticed that every other house on my block had a divorced family. It was a pattern. Not a happy pattern. Not a striped or polka-dotted pattern. Just a pattern.
Divorced.
Not divorced.
Divorced.
Not divorced.
We lived in the not-divorced house. We had ideals and our family seemed to be shinier than most. It felt good. It felt better than the not-divorced families. We didn't have police officers lining the street as the husband screamed at the wife while she took stuff out of the house. We didn't have the kids crying in the yard like our neighbors did. We caught minnows and crayfish in the creek behind our house while the other neighbors sorted out their family problems.

We heard divorce statistics and each time the statistics told two stories: They are unlucky and pitiful. And you are fortunate and happy. It was all very black and white. And then divorce came and life was murky. The statistics didn't feel satisfying anymore. They stung a lot. I was humbled. I used to like statistics until their numbers pointed at me, lumping me in a percentage.

When I was young I thought that humility was reserved for saints carved in stone in European cathedrals, heads hung down. I no longer think that way. Humility is just humans recognizing other humans as humans. Seeing that we're all weak in some ways. That none of us are God.

I was speaking to an older woman about divorce. She didn't come from a divorced family but her son-in-law did and she felt the need to tell me that I needed to get over my parents' divorce and just get on with life. She told me that my parents would remarry and that I would have to accept that as well. That's just the way the world is. Divorce happens to people. Now get over it. My son-in-law got over it and you should, too. And I found that piece of information funny coming from her because her family was all snugly together, living within a few miles of each other. I remember wanting to hurt her in some way with my words. Maybe tell her she her hair was ugly or that she smelled bad. Very juvenile stuff. Hurt people like other people to hurt as well. But I let her stand there smiling to herself.

On more than one occasion I have also glossed over the hemorrhaging of another person and wanted to slap a bandaid solution on a much bigger problem. I have done that. More than I want to admit. There are parts of my life where I want to push a rewind button and say something different. Maybe nothing at all. Or maybe something as simple as, "I can see that you are (in a hurt or awkward situation which I have never experienced) and I love you so much. How can I be your friend right now?"

I don't know much about suicide or child abuse. But I do know a little about miscarriage and depression and unemployment. The circumstances are horrible, no argument there. Horrible. Here's the thing: there is redemption. And one redemptive angle about all of these difficulties is that with love and forgiveness and healing and pressing on we can become people who are more enlightened about weakness. We are not defined by our losses. We are made new. We might become quieter and softer and slower at the end of it all, but somehow we're stronger. More focused. We choose our words better. We throw awesome parties. We give tighter hugs and shed purer tears. We're truer.

But what about the losses? What about the dreams of an unbroken life? What about the Eden we all carry in our souls? What of the parents we lost to cancer and the babies we never held? What of the child we bore who has learning disabilities and all communication is a hardship?

I don't have an answer in myself. I've tried to be God, but I'm not God. I have no power and no amount of positive thinking will make me think differently. I need bigger power than me.

I believe in a redemptive God who takes all the loss, names it, weaps over it and brings new life. He doesn't gloss over the pain. He directs his gaze at it and holds it with all of its prickles. I'm not sure how God redeems. It's kind of a mystery to me. Sometimes it's a process. One day something is killing me and then with prayer and truth and a bit of wrestling, I find healing. True healing. Another puzzle piece clicks in place. I am made more humble, more human.

I have a friend who is amazing at entering the stories of people. She is my dot on the horizon, the person I want to be in ten years. Her life hasn't had the same struggles as another, but she stands by you and lets you weap on her shoulder and cry ugly and she just stays there. She has figured out humanity, I swear. She doesn't have answers, she just has a shoulder. And ears. And warm eyes. And I think that something must have happened in life to make her that way because she is so truly kind that no child comes out of the womb that way. She is also fantastic at making chili and laughing and reading books. She's the whole package.

The older I get, the easier it is becoming for me to approach a hurting person and just say, "I know nothing of your hurt." It's so liberating. And then I try to gauge if they are the hugging type. Some people are not.

When my parents first separated I noticed that people became really uncomfortable and didn't quite know what to do with it. Some well-meaning people gave me books about how to not divorce. They wanted me to give the books to my parents. There were two books. And honestly, I never gave them to my parents. I kept the sentiment of the people but not the books. Some other people called me with their advice or their opinions. Some people spoke vehemently and some spoke quietly. Some people talked as fast as they could about the weather and nothing else so they wouldn't have to talk about divorce. But at the end of the day, each person was trying to communicate this: "I hate that this is happening. I love you. I want to stop this hurt." I recognize that. It took many years, but I see that now.

Our human condition is appreciated in the flattening times of life. We are not know-it-alls. We are just people who inhale oxygen and exhale carbon-dioxide.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
And then when we have strength to sit up from our flattened condition, our movements are slow and simple. We take delight in the smallest of achievements, like wiggling our toes or blinking our eyelids. Eventually we stand, frail, like a newborn doe. We take a few wobbily steps and thank God for the simple gift of walking. One step and then another. And when we begin to run, our old rhythm is gone. We run differently. And when we speak, our cadence and vocabulary is changed as well.

We're not the same. We are reborn into humanity. Into humility.

Becoming

You were wet and new and helpless. The hospital staff laid you on my chest and I held you gingerly. You screamed, still blue from birth. I was unprepared for your perfection or the gooeyness of birth. I stared in awe at the fuzzy face of new life and how I had very little to do with your existence. I greeted you. I said hello. I introduced myself. "I'm your Mommy."

You are newly born. I have you sleep in the nursery of the hospital. In the early hours of the morning, I slip on my robe and walk to the nursery. I smile at you in the clear plastic bed. I show the nurse my identity bracelet so she can verify that you are mine. I wait for her to pick you up. I see you right in front of me. And then she goes to another bed and gives me that baby. I realize that I have been adoring the wrong child. I am sad because I thought I knew you. I feel ashamed. I take you back to the room, rolling the baby cart-bed and never stop staring at you. I'm still your mom.

I stood afar as people came to see you. They marveled at you, newborn you. They kissed the top of your head and slipped their pointer finger under your entire hands, coiled like a seashell. I was imbalanced from the mayhem of postpartum hormones, entertaining guilt that I didn't adore you more. But I introduced you as my daughter.

You were a mere 2 weeks old. I wondered if I loved you. Just because two people are thrust into each other's lives and labeled "family" doesn't mean they love each other.

We were on a walk. A dog began to bark and tore across the yard. It was gnashing its teeth. It was angry. But I was strong. I decided that I would throw my body over the stroller and shield you from the dog. I even decided that I would give the dog my left leg to chew on so that I could protect you as long as possible. The dog met the end of the chain and jerked backwards, forgetting its boundaries. The dog faced me, a mere few feet away, thrashing. My heart beat wildly. I realized that I did love you. I AM your mom.

You were two years old and screaming. Screaming everywhere. Everywhere was screaming. There was only sleeping and screaming. I kissed your wet curls at night and fell to sleep.

I went back to work when you were two. The reasons were many. Your father was in graduate school. We were tired. But I wanted to go to work. I didn't understand you. I dropped you off at daycare. You liked it there. The teachers told me you tucked in all the other children at naptime. This made my heart swell. There was one time where a child irritated you and you bit him. I had to come pick you up and sign papers. You have always been expressive. I accepted you, the whole package. The biting you and the tuck-in-bed you. You are mine and I love you.

You picked out your outfit for the first day of kindergarten weeks in advance. A pink skirt with a tiger print on it and a pink shirt with an image of ice cream. And a pink backpack. Everything was pink. You walked to school as if you had been going there for years. I held your baby sister in my arms as I watched you confidently join the other students.

I was sitting in the church pew, waiting for the Christmas program to begin. It's your turn to deliver your lines and I am stunned. I just didn't know you had a theatrical bent. You were marvelous. People are laughing at your jokes and mannerisms. I looked at your father and he is proud because he taught you how to say your lines with meaning. After the program people say such nice things about you and I shrug my shoulders in awe, proud to be your mother.

We walk hand in hand. You and your best friend needed to work out some differences. You're only five years old. We talk about apologies. We talk about telling the truth. You're nervous and I'm nervous as well. But we did it. We said the things we needed to say. And we were forgiven. And I'm still your mother.

Years of reports cards are piling in the office. They all say the say thing. That you are smart and kind and inclusive and witty and artistic. Every year. The same words.

You are eleven years old and you want to run for office in your class. You prepare a speech. You memorize your lines. Your father helps you. And then you come home. You were not selected for the seat you wanted. But you are brave and you tried. And I am so proud. I hug you, glad to be your mom.

Someone is sick. It's your teacher. She has been sick with a sore throat for a long time. I didn't know that she was sick until the email came telling me that you had sewn a tiny purse out of scraps of fabric and filled it with cough drops. The teacher was thankful. I gave you the sewing machine and a few scant lessons but that was all. You were the one who flew with it. I love being your mom.

You are hot with a fever. You have the flu. We are in the car coming home from the doctor. I have bought medicine to reduce your fever and lots of juice. I picked up a movie for you and try to crack jokes with you. And then you are sleeping in the car.

An overwhelming feeling rises in me. In my head I say this: "I am the mom." It's a simple statement which took me years to embrace, but I am doing it. I am in my yoga pants and a hoodie which I have worn too-many days in a row. I cancelled my hair appointment because I could see how sick you were. The car smells like french fries. I want a shower so badly. But even in the midst of all the situations of the day, I feel deeply happy. I own it all. The bad hair, the greasy fries, the sound of you sleeping and the doctor office co-pay. I own it all.

Because it means I have you.
You didn't make me.
But you made me "Mom."

I am the Mom.

Pergolas

I was a teenager when I fell in love with my first pergola. Probably fifteen.

I worked at a hotel at the beach. Calling it a beach house would be more accurate. A hotel leads one to think of a staff wearing uniforms and coordinating colors. This was a beach house in a beach town. The beach town was the real deal. Weathered wood shingles grayed in the sun. There was a deli down the street with ceilings which hung so low that I recall the owner tilting his head a little when he served up the sub sandwiches.

There was nothing about this town which was ostentatious. If you wanted to gamble or see something exotic, Atlantic City was ten miles north. There were Miss America pageants there. The morning after the contest, the beauty queen would take a dip in the ocean, the same ocean where this beach town was. The beach town and Atlantic City shared the same ocean, but that was all.

Everything about this town urged people to be real. No sense in doing your hair. Between the wind and the humidity, your hair would choose its own path. You might come prepared for a day at the beach with seventeen books, five magazines, a picnic basket and a lawn chair, but given time you would learn to prune it down to your favorite beach towel and flip flops. The beach wooed people into simplicity.

I worked at the beach house during a batch of eleven summers, starting with the one when I was thirteen and awkward, wore too much eye makeup and pretended to care about nothing. A few years later and with a great deal of love and patience by the owners of the hotel, I grew to care more about the state of the hotel and the comfort of the guests more than how much hair spray I had left.

I started planting flowers and herbs. The hotel was kind of landlocked by concrete sidewalks, so I bought a family of terra planters and an extra large bag of soil to start the seedlings. After my work hours, I would sit on the back deck and plant the seeds in large grids with a seed starter kit. My friend Robby would come to visit me and we would talk about nothing in particular. He was the big brother I never had and way cooler than my younger, squawky siblings. He had long hair and surfed a lot.

It was there on that back deck that I would sit and look into the yards behind the hotel, where I saw my first pergola. The structure of the pergola had nothing to offer, really. It was a house with no walls. It looked like a half-thought. It was open and breezy and I inexplicably fell in love with it. But at fifteen-some years of age, I took out my camera–the kind with film, mind you–and took a shot.

One day when I was in my twenties, the owner of the hotel wanted to talk to me about buying the place. I was deeply in college and had no business buying a property, but I agreed to talk so we did. He was kind and generous and offered many different ways for me to purchase it. He never tried to push me, he just provided options. I knew the timing wasn't right and had to leave the offer. I think he knew the timing wasn't right either.

Those eleven summers are locked in the recesses of my mind as points on the horizon, as safe places to which I go when I need to be reminded of the "in-between" times in life. They serve as an anchor for my mind when I feel unmoored and drifting, like I've been sitting on a boat all afternoon and still can't get my sea legs.

I remember that place, the worn, weathered wood steps it offered me and the terra pots to substitute the lack of land. It gave me cheap flip-flops and a book and let me leave until evening when I'd return to find my people–all pergolas–offering structure and protection and loose, kind boundaries.

People Pleasing Self

This year I have battled many alter egos of myself. My favorite one to chase down and womp with a rubber bat is my People Pleasing Self.

She has never, not ever, built me up. She makes me crazy with giving me 10,000 scenarious about what people will think and how to work around that. She is ultimately trying to be a good girl but she makes me dizzy and then tired and then grumpy and then mean. And then she blames me for the cycle.

She is fired.

She makes me justify being a stay-at-home mother. When I'm talking with working moms, I play down anything which sounds good as a SAHM. And when I'm with stay-at-homies,  I commiserate about laundry. The truth is that my family has done some health and budget and career calculations and we have determined that this job is where I need to be. It is also one of the more tedious jobs I have ever had and so I am pursuing work with my boutique design company. Point is: I'm neither and both. I can't justify that.

When someone gives me a compliment, she likes me to justify more things:
- how I had the money for something
- why my hair looks good
- how I have artistic talent
- why I am a woman.
I'm learning instead to say a simple "thank you."

She is ridiculously inclusive. She makes me work a room more than I want to at a party. If I'm in a deep, beautiful conversation with someone, she wants me to stop and equally talk to everybody. Additionally, if I disagree with someone, she wants me to smile.
Instead, this: 
- There are no report cards at parties. There are people. Enjoy the people. 
- If you don't agree with someone, there are polite ways to disagree. Learn those ways.
- You don't have to engage every conversation.

She wants constant affirmation.
*Tiring*

She lets people say mean things. She doesn't know how to be kind and true.
Fail.

And most importantly of all: 
She is not love. 

She is about appearances and the wrong kind of acceptance. She is frail and finicky. She is perfect on the outside and miserable on the inside.

But love is not. Love is strong and forgiving and washes away imperfections, keeping the personality of a person and overlooking their prickles. Love keeps people warm and offers protection. Love sands the edges, but keeps the shape of a person. Love owns.

Recently, when I was redoing my kitchen, People Pleasing Self popped her head in to say that half my friends would be jealous and the other half would think it was a crappy job. She said I should invite them all over to see my kitchen. I got stomach cramps just thinking of it. And after the bulk of the work was done, she told me that it wasn't perfect. But I didn't listen to her.

So this is what I want to say to her:
You have never improved me. You have never loved me. You have never let me be me. You made me become as neutral as possible so I wouldn't offend. You didn't let me speak truth. You always knocked on my door after a big performance and reminded me of the mistakes.

And after that, I want to say:
I love my human-ness. I love my quirks and the places from where I have come. And I love the way my friends have improved me with their quirks and the places which they have called home. I don't want perfection– not the way you offer it. I want life to have texture and meaning and you strip all of that away.

You are a magazine to which I will not subscribe.

So go knock on another door. But please know that I have told everyone your secrets and they won't listen to you either.

Love will lead the way. I will follow Love.

The Fuss about Female Friendships

Friendships with females is weird.

If you want to get to the heart of any woman– I don't care how powerful she is or how important a role she plays in world politics– bring up the tea party she had with her best friend when she was 8 years old. Or the fact that she still wanted to play with Cabbage Patch Dolls when she was 10 while her best friend was experimenting with how high she could make her hair with Aqua Net. The joy and pain in female friendships is strong and deep and unforgettable.

My husband, Dan, says that this doesn't exist with men. He seems to think that men are less sensitive and that when they do get upset, they simply pound one another in a flurry of men-tosterone until they are exhausted. And then they help each other up and get burgers.

Weird.

This year I went to a conference and participated in a brief, 5-minute meditation. During this meditation we had to go into an imagined house and talk to people from our life. One of the rooms was filled with people we had hurt. I was surprised that the host of our meditation decided to fill the room with people we had hurt rather than people who had hurt us. It was shocking to me. I didn't want to go in. It's so much easier to want to go in the room where people hurt us; I feel stronger and more superior there. Being a victim has a false way of making one feel mighty. I went in the room anyway but I didn't look at anyone in the eyes.

When I was in seventh grade, I had a best friend whose name started with "D." I'll call her "Darlene." I had at least one or two best friends since third grade. Darlene lasted a year.

Darlene and I spent a lot of time together. We laughed at each other's houses and read "Teen" magazine and kept notebooks which we exchanged between math class which had glued pictures of Kirk Cameron in it. This was before email. It was the way to be close with someone: glueing pictures of culture in a notebook and writing in it. Best friends did that. At the end of the school year, we signed yearbooks. A really popular girl asked Darlene to sign hers and so I watched my best friend go into a bathroom stall and spend a ridiculous amount of time writing about how much fun they had (standing in lunch line?) in big bubble letters. I don't know how Darlene would have any time for this girl because she was spending all her time with me.

Later, she signed my yearbook and she wrote something like this: "I don't really know you that well, but you're a really nice person." And then she probably added something like, "Keep Cool Cuz Keeping Cool Counts."

Decades later, a close friend of mine forgot to tell me that she became rich overnight. We were at the park with a bunch of friends and all snuggling our big-fat babies. She told me that she was looking at a house that was easily four times the price of our current homes. (We both had small homes.) And I said to her, "Whoa! Isn't that (price here)?" hoping to remind her that we were in the same middle class. We were both talking loudly so everyone could hear. It was a perfect setup. She smiled and said, "Is that all? I thought it was (ginormous price.)" And at that moment I knew that we would no longer be going to yard sales together anymore. I also knew that our friendship was over.

Every chick I know has these stories. How someone hurt them or shamed them or made them think they were insignificant. Heck, most of these stories helped form the kind of people we wanted to be or the careers we chose.

I also know that the women in my life who have shown tremendous vulnerability and strength and forgiveness to me are important; I'm not going to give up on friendships. Being a friend takes work but it is worth it.

When I had to go into the hospital to see if my in-utero baby had a heartbeat anymore, my friend Steph came with me. I tried to joke around because the pain was too heavy for me, but my friend wept so loudly that I broke down, too. We hugged. We both cried ugly and I stood in a hospital gown, feeling very exposed. It was good. I will never forget the bravery it took for her to accompany me.

I have another friend who is ten years older than me who I absolutely adore who has given me gobs of praise. One time, however, she needed to tell me something I did where I messed up and the funny is: I felt MORE loved by her. It pained her to tell me. I will never forget her grace and candor. We're closer as a result, I swear.

I need my friends.
One friend says "yes" to every event in life; she's unstoppable. I need that.
Another is resilient and kind. I need her laughter.
My neighbor friend is allergic to gossip. What a great person to know.
I need these women to shake up my view on being a woman, or being a "good girl" (gag), or being full of life. I need them to share music and food and books and grace. Oh, the grace. Yes.

If I don't have these friends, I will become small and generic and chalky. I need them.

I'm at an interesting intersection of life right now where I have changed so much in the past year that I'm not sure what my friendships hold. I'm afraid I might scare people; I think I already have scared a few.

I want to try new things and become an illustrator. I don't really care about recipes right now. I'm definitely *yawn* about women who tease stay-at-home moms. And talking about parenthood ONLY is very boring and kind of safe. I very much want people to tell success stories. I want to hear good things. Stories of bravery and silliness. I love when women say great things about their kids or their husbands or boyfriends or sisters.

So let's make a deal, people: Keep trying.
Do the forgiving and the moving past. Or draw boundaries... healthy ones. Or realize that you made a mistake and just keep moving forward. Develop the friendships right in front of you. Invest in them. Send your friends texts and cards. Invite them to monster truck rallies. If they're important to you, show it: Make time for them.

Be true and maybe, just maybe, it will come back to you.

List

Before the New Year, have a talk with yourself. I do. I mentally take myself out for coffee. Reflect on the things which happened which deserve a thumbs up. Remind self that the failures were wrong turns and can be avoided in the future. Operate from a place of grace. And then, when I've taken out the trash, I raise a glass of Martinellis with my family and welcome the new possibilities. Here's my brain dump:

1. I am not a supremely outgoing person. I have tried to be fun. I have thrown parties. They're okay, but I'm so nervous I feel like puking afterwards. However, I AM a one-on-one coffee drinking friend. Or tea drinking. Occasionally wine drinking. But throwing parties is for people far more extroverted, fun and flexible than I am.

1a. I do, however, like to be invited to parties. Where I am not in charge of the fun.

2. Watermelon flavored anything is outlawed. Says my mouth.

3. It's amazing that anyone can make friends in this world. What with all the syndromes and inclinations and mental health problems and personality disorders and owing to half the population suffering with depression... it's nothing short of a miracle to have a friend.

4. But making friends is way important. If you don't make friends you'll just stay inside your head all day and rehash. Best to make friends. As quickly as possible. Throw your genetic craziness into the stream of life and watch life smile upon you.

5. When it comes to athleticism I am not brave. But someone once told me that if you start running for one day in a row, then you are a runner. No badge needed. I'd like to try cross country skiing. I must be brave.

6. The days before New Years feel really odd to me. The sun shines too brightly for the frigid days. And I keep waiting for something exciting to happen. Today I bought my own excitement: Six different Jell-O flavors/colors for a rainbow Jell-O salad. It should take 5 hours to make and 37 seconds to eat. It will be pretty.

7. My trash cans are always full. Never do I say, "Oh good... the trash can is empty." Always full.

8. I'm learning to accept people who say crazy things. I used to try and change them but now I just let them be who they are. It's hardest when my six year old says things in public. I just want to hide.

9. I want to learn carpentry. Rephrase: I want to be a master cabinet maker.
*sigh* Like I have time.

10. I need to focus on illustration this year. Every other day my brain says, "You can do this." And then, alternately, "You can't do this." But artists who only work when they feel strong or inspired or pretty or enlightened are not brave. I plan to show up even when. Even when.

11. I purge my house regularly. I might be addicted to it. I don't know where this stuff is coming from b/c I'm not buying more stuff. (OH wait... Christmas.)

12. The man I married is very good to me. He is a gift and I hope I always treat him that way.

13. I have had a huge amount of friends tell me that they were pregnant this year and "not to tell anyone." To which I think two things: 1. Congratulations and 2. I want to tell someone.
Best not to tell me.

13a. I have had a lot of friends tell me they were pregnant who had been trying for, like, many, many years. It happens. I celebrate every time. Don't give up on reproduction or adoption or desiring of being a parent.

14. Someone said some crazy (negative) things about me this year and I am actually grateful for it BECAUSE it showed me the power of words and how I should be more careful with them when talking about human beings. I need to be extra careful with the words which come out of my mouth. Lesson accepted.

15. I had my hair cut and I opted for bangs. My stylist gave me a speech about bangs, about how I needed to do them every day and how they're not an easy style to have. I have bangs. They are currently pinned up but when I wear them down, I look very sassy.

16. In my parallel life, I do yoga everyday and hate sugar. I also wear breezy outfits from Banana Republic and always feel ready for every adventure my family brings my way.

17. I like my laugh. I went through a stage where my laugh was forced, but these days I find that my laugh likes to come and so I let it.

18. My best friends are scattered throughout the country. This is bad. They need to move next door to me.

19. I'd like it if I talk less in 2015 than I did in 2014. Blogging doesn't count.

20. If you found yourself on Facebook, would you like yourself? I don't mean "Facebook 'Like' button" yourself... I mean, would you say, "Hey, that is one beautiful person." Do you like yourself?

21. Fun statement to finish: I have never regretted _________________.

21a. Answers:
Being a parent.
Being a wife.
Being a sister.
Being a woman.
The hard work which becomes a very good design.

22. I love when people reject the title of "victim" and choose instead to move past a bad era of their life and do redemptive things. Own a balloon shop. Bake gluten free things for kids with allergies. Join a dance class. Start a business. Volunteer at a hospital.

23. I'm careful to not bemoan the age "40" because when thirty year olds complain about their age I feel totally annoyed. Also: Forty is truly a great age. I'm loving it.

24. I am starting to read. I am literate, but I haven't found the lure of books until (looking at watch)... late in life. I'm more of a do-er than a reader. That might change.

25. Coffee needs to be strong. And hot. And preferably creamy.

26. I would like to visit the following places: Ireland. The Redwood Forest. New York City in December.

27. Boredom can be a gift. Especially to children. This is why my kids are so creative.

28. All the things that I thought would be easy this year were hard and all the things that I thought would be hard were easy. Which shows me that I don't know how to anticipate anything and might as well strap into 2015 and thank God for life and breath.

29. When I treat my children with respect, they mirror that respect back to me. Not always, but enough that I want to treat them this way always.

30. New discovery: I love bragging about my children to their faces. I want them to know that I'm proud of them and HOW I'm proud of them. They seem to like this. It won't make them grow proud. It will make them grow secure.

31. New discovery #2: Learning to speak specific kind words to friends is important to me. Not just: "I love you" but "I love the way you (take care of homeless dogs) or (make me laugh.)" Specificity is important.

32. I have it in my mind to conquer my anxiety of dinner making this year. As in: Plan a month in advance. As in: Keep dinners simpler. This requires some organization and inventory.

33. Books I enjoyed:
Essentialism by Greg McKeown
Thrive by Arianna Huffington
Sacred Rhythms by Ruth Haley Barton
Calvin and Hobbes Complete Collection by Bill Watterson

34. I want to collect all the positive people of the world and put them in my pocket.

35. Best ad campaign: Kohl's "#FindYourYes" is sticking on my fridge. "Find Your Yes." Love it.

36. I have inherited 2 more siblings (in-law) this year. This is fun. I must have more.

37. There are 79 different ways to tell the same story. Everyone has their own angle. I tend to like storytellers who like redemption, humor, truth and subtlety. Sometimes it's not possible to get all those aspects in one story.

38. I went to a conference this year for the first time in a decade. My brain was so happy that I had to leave early because it wanted to burst.

39. Raising girls is interesting because I think women have to adapt more to life than men. Maybe I'm wrong. I'm not wrong.

40. New Year's Blessing: May you find joy in the simplest of things. May your heart and wallet and mind be full. But may your calendar be open and spare, allowing for unexpected joy and rest. May your hope be true. May you know The Way, The Truth and The Life.

41. I have never:
Been to a fancy schmancy New Year's party where I glam up and dance my bum off until midnight when I'm kissing, well, Dan. That would be fun.

Auld Lang Syne and all of that.

That Time I Turned Forty

When I clinked plastic SOLO cups of bubbly last New Year's Eve imagining the possibilities of the coming year, I couldn't have believed what a difference a mere 365 days could make.

I couldn't have imagined that the family from which I was raised was growing in such beautiful ways. While I was busy in Chicago trying to survive, they were busy in their homes making brave choices. Choosing to stay. Or choosing to be. Choosing to walk across a room and say hello. Marrying amazing people. I felt so wealthy when I saw them all this summer, realizing that I was related to such deep and strong and vibrant people.

I'm still battling the younger version of me who is Miss "I Can Handle This All By Myself." She is tenacious. I'm learning that controlling areas of my life doesn't bring lasting peace. I've caught up on my to-do lists approximately twice this year and it was satisfying for exactly seven seconds until the to-do list began again. Learning to let things be unfinished for a while.

When my children walked out the back door of our house and headed off to their first days of school, the house became immensely quiet. Something changed in me. I felt like my heart grew larger. I felt more peaceful. And most surprisingly, I began to pray. It has alluded me all these years. Prayer is seducing me.

My children are at an age where I think mostly fond thoughts of them. Apparently I am an "elementary children" mom. Some women go gaga for babies. I love other people's babies, but didn't enjoy the experience as much myself. I faked most of my smiles to them. That's like 5 years of lying. In any case, I have always loved them, but now I am enjoying them far more than I thought possible. They are wonderful humans.

I found myself in an interesting intersection of friendships this year. Most of my friends had gone different directions than I. (Not morally... I mean they have a lot of soccer practices to attend, etc.) So I began to reflect on friendships and what is important. Realizing that I could stay home all day and have a super clean house *cough, cough, rolling eyes* or make friends, I began to reach out to a few individuals. This was hard for me.

I am 100% happy when women own their choices in life. Their career. How they eat. If they exercise. If they choose to wear Calvin Klein clothes or shop at Goodwill. If they plan to stay home vs. work outside the home. I just love it when women encourage each other especially if their choice is different from someone else's. I'm amazed when women support each other in these decisions.

I remodeled my kitchen. Dan helped. It was harder than one would think, but easier than potty training a toddler. I gave myself mottos to keep me going, like: "Keep your eyes on the prize," which helps when you're ankle deep in debris. Also: The remodeling will never be done because we are creative, thrifty do-it-yourselfers. New remodeling word of the year: Phases. Own it.

My grandmother died this year. I was devastated by her leaving us here. No more pies. No more of her slowly-made cookies and casseroles. No more of her high pitched voice calling me, "Emmy." But after the grief, I began to dream about her and in my dreams she is holding many babies and she is very happy. I feel as though she is not dead and in a way she isn't. My thoughts of her keep me warm.

I turned forty. A lot happened. All my creative work came at once. All the weddings fell in one chunk of the year. All the new things came at once as well. Someone replaced my favorite chai tea with shots of estrogen. My friends who I thought were drifting to another realm came back to me and those who I thought were my backbone are being sent another direction. So I adjust my sails and wait for God to make sense of it all.

I'm reading. I have never called myself a reader. I read a heap of books about living more minimally and deliberately. Several of the books have probably changed me forever. By the way: I read books like I eat sandwich crust: all over the place. No order. Sometimes I read the last chapter first. Dan hates this.

I said "no" a lot. After realizing that I was becoming dangerously close to burning out in too many areas of my life, I said "no" to a ton of good things in my life. Or I politely declined invitations. It was weird to put down my people pleasing self and just listen to what my heart was saying. But so far, I'm glad I did. I used the time in more creative efforts in addition to taking excess things out of my house. Such an amazing feeling.

I cleaned house. Stuff that was in my house with no purpose got ushered to the front curb. Or the Epilepsy Foundation's second hand store. I'm purging things and allowing my eyes some breathing space which gives my mind some space, too. I approve of living with less though I'm not a shiny example of this. It's a journey.

I bought clothes that fit. And all the women said "Amen."
Colorful ones. *swoon*
I still have one maternity top which must leave the house; why the sam hill can't I get rid of it?
Small steps.

My body rejected dairy this year. I was very sick until I learned what it was. I learned a lot. I miss you, ice cream.

There are some people in my life who I care for but don't understand. So instead of rolling my eyes, God is prodding me to think kindly of them, to pray for them, to look forward to good things about them. No news yet, but I can say that my heart feels lighter.

And this non-new revelation: I love design. It's work. My back aches. My eyes dry out, but I love it. I want the designs to be useful to others. These designs sprang from a period of great sorrow in my life over 4 years ago and have proved to be so healing to me. I want the same for others. Some people believe in my work. Some just buy it because they're my friends and I bake them cookies. I'm just going to keep going and try to be mindful of what engages people. I'm hoping to study illustration this year because my drawings of people are– how do you say it– not good. Yet.

If you would have told me about all these changes at the beginning of the year, I would have hyperventilated. But the changes came just when I needed them, at just the right time. Which finds me grateful, tired and amazed.

My New Years Blessing for Friends:
"May your days be less like 'the mass of men leading lives of quiet desperation'* and more like the charming few who live with truth and inspiration."

___________________________

* "The mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation."
-Henry David Thoreau