She Believed

When I got home yesterday, there was a package waiting for me inside my back porch. I hadn't ordered anything, so I wondered what it could be. It turned out to be a bracelet... a thin black leather band attached to a slender silver bar, engraved with the words she believed she could, so she did.

She believed she could, so she did.

The bracelet turned out to be a gift from the Red-haired Bestie, who always, always believes I can, even when I don't believe myself.

Everyone needs a friend (or 10) like that - a friend who stands behind you shouting, "You can do this," especially when you don't believe it yourself.

I'm one of the lucky ones. I have several friends, in addition to the Red-haired Bestie, who do that - who believe in me, and for me, even when (especially when) I'm struggling.

There have been lots of things in my life I haven't been sure I could do. There have been lots of things I haven't been able to do. There are lots of things I don't know that I'll be able to do.

But here's what I do know:

When you have people who love you, people who stand behind you, people who walk alongside you, people who believe in you...

You owe it to those people - and to yourself - to believe you can. 

And to do the things.

This Is What I'm Talking 'Bout...

The other day, I did a post about giving. You can read it right here, if you'd like. In it, I talked about a lesson I learned (one I thought I knew) about how, when I give a gift (any sort of gift), I have to do it without expectation of any sort of reward. The gift should be -- no, the gift is -- in the giving.

Today, I had lunch with my friend, Loren. Loren is pretty much the best person I know. He rescues animals and people, usually at some ridiculous cost to himself (in money, time, energy, possibility of jail-time, etc). And when you tell him what a nice guy you think he is, he just shrugs it off, head hanging in embarrassment, all aw shucks-like. I love that about him.

I love him.

He has given me more gifts than I can count -- some of the best I've ever received -- and more than I can ever repay. But he doesn't keep score. He can't, otherwise, he'd have stopped giving a long time ago (because he won, that's why). That, or he's expecting a whopper for his next birthday!

Uh oh.

Anyway, at lunch, he told me a story that I had to relay. He won't tell it himself because he doesn't want it to appear as thought he's looking for the 'attaboy' pat on the back. He never is. I told him that I wrestle with that, too, but here is what I know for sure: When I read or hear about someone doing something nice for someone, it makes me want to do something nice, too. So I figure that when I tell about something nice I've done, it might make another person want to do something nice for someone else. We're all connected like that.

Back to the story...

First, you should know that Loren's lunch stories often extend into dinner... and the weekend. He's... wordy. (And the fact that I interrupt with snarky comments every other word doesn't help). But he got it out today before our enchiladas were even finished (it was a Christmas miracle!).

Anyhoo... just before Christmas, he was in that big store I won't go to, picking up some last minute things. The lines at the registers were long and he was tired and cranky, ready to just be done. Then he saw a tiny old lady in a tiny old wheelchair, eyeing the candy in the impulse section (also known as the 'Here comes Diane, we'll get her now' section). Because he's helpful and because he's never met a stranger, he asked if he could reach something for her. She lamented that she couldn't find the Mounds candy bar she was looking for. Indeed there were no Mounds in the display, not even next to the Almond Joys (at this point in the story, I broke into the 'Sometimes you feel like a nut, sometimes you don't' refrain... I told you, I'm obnoxious. I don't know why we're still friends). Loren looked in the display in another aisle for her, but still no Mounds. She explained to him that every Christmas, she gets herself one... because for 50 years, her husband always put one in her stocking.

For 50 years, her husband always put one in her stocking.

Well, that did it.

Loren said his good-byes, left her to check out, and sprinted (as fast as a short man laden with gifts can sprint) to the back of the store and the big candy aisle. He located the Mounds bars, packaged in sleeves, and picked up about $10 worth -- enough Mounds bars to see that sweet old lady to the end of days. Then he sprinted back to the front of the store, plowing a blonde lady down in the process, and got back in line. A long line. A long, slow line. But, as luck would have it, the heroine of our story was sat at the front of the store, waiting for a ride. Finally through the line, Loren made it to her and said,

"A fat man in a red suit said I should give these to you," and handed over the Mounds bars.

I don't know for sure how that little old lady felt, but I can imagine. I'm sure you can, too.

And Loren? He got all choked up when he told me it was the very best part of his holiday. The very best part.

Yup.

The gift...

It's in the giving.

Cray to the Z...

I work with a woman I really like a lot. She's older than I am, but I can't tell how much so. She has this odd air of agelessness about her and gorgeous skin that makes it very difficult to tell just what decade she might have been born in (she also never, ever tells anyone her age). But her youngest turned 30 today, and I know she didn't have her kids right out of high school, so I'm guessing she has a few years on me. But that's neither here nor there, really.

As I say, I like her a lot. And she likes me. She's not the sort who has a lot of close friends or who confides in many people but she's said she feels comfortable talking to me. I say it's because, along with my 'retail face,' I also have a 'therapist face.' It makes people tell me stuff. Lots of stuff. Sometimes they tell me things I really oughtn't know. It's cool, though. I like finding out about people. But that's neither here nor there either.

Anyway, she told me today that she feels so comfortable with me because I always seem so 'together'.

...

Me.

...

'Together'.

...

Um... er...

First, I snorted. As I do. Then I guffawed. Then I looked at her to see if she was lying or pulling my leg. She wasn't. Then I looked at her like she was certifiable. I waved a hand over my desk -- my desk that looks like, as my mother says, 'who flung it and ran' -- and I said, "See this? See this mess? This is what every area of my life looks and feels like. This, my friend, is so very much NOT 'together', unless by 'together', you mean, 'a friggin' disaster'."

She smiled and shook her head. "No. I think you're more together than you think you are."

As I say, I really like her.

But girlfriend? Is cray-cray.

Good-byes Suck

Tomorrow I will say good-bye to someone I care about a great deal. It's not a permanent good-bye... he's simply leaving town. But it still feels bad.

There are people who enter your life and affect it profoundly in a short period of time. Through them, you learn lessons -- about Life, about people, about relationships, about yourself. Sometimes the lessons are gentle; sometimes they are uncomfortable; sometimes they're just plain hard. (They are always valuable.)

There are people who enter your life and change your perspective, forcing you to view things you know to be so from alternate angles, making them look different and unfamiliar.

There are people who enter your life and with whom you connect quickly and completely and you know, immediately, that you will be friends for a long, long time.

I've been fortunate in my life to know several friends like that -- people who quickly became (and have remained) incredibly important to me. They are my inner circle -- the people I go to when I need support and when I don't want to feel all alone in the world.

This friend is such a friend.

But inner circle or not, good-bye is still on the agenda.

I have gotten used to my inner circle widening to encompass different states... it covers oceans and islands and continents.

Missing people I love is not new to me. I do it all the time.

But it's never easy.

Good-byes suck.

Damage

We are all damaged in some way.

Life, while beautiful and amazing in so many ways, can be hard and cruel. People hurt us – people we love and people we don’t even know. Situations and events can tear us down.

 

And cruelty and pain and being torn down all leave marks, wounds, and scars.

We are all damaged.

For some of us, the damage is simply dents and dings; for some, the wounds are jagged and open, hearts and souls hanging out in a bloody, pulpy mess; others bear scars and aches from long-past stabs and kicks to the heart; for others still, the damage is more like a cancer or a tumor, unseen, growing and poisoning from the inside.

We are all damaged.

When I married my ex-husband, I could see, very clearly, his damage. And I believed I could heal him. Because that’s what I do. I fix what’s broken. Or I try to. And when I fail, I take on all the responsibility for, not only the failure, but for the other person’s brokenness, too. Somehow, because I cannot fix it, I become the keeper of the pain, even when it’s not mine to take.

We are all damaged.

What I have come to realize is that a person has to believe that they need healing in order to heal. That was a hard lesson learned, over 16 years with a man who believed he was whole and the rest of the world was broken; a lesson learned by holding on tightly to someone whose shattering could not be glued back together -- whose jagged edges cut me to the bone and left me wounded and reeling.

And I have learned that even when we can clearly see our own damage and feel our own pain and understand that we need healing, it is incredibly difficult to heal ourselves.

 

But sometimes we encounter someone who makes us believe that healing is possible.

 

 

~ A person whose damage is so much like our own…

~ A person who struggles in the same ways… whose damage has manifested in mirror images to our own… whose personality has been shaped in disconcertingly similar (and sometimes identical) ways to our own…

~ A person who needs and wants to heal, too…

I recently met such a person…

 

~ A person who, maybe for the first time ever, has made me really and truly understand that fixing someone else is not my responsibility, no matter how strong the desire... but what I can do is allow another person to draw from my strength without weakening myself…

~ A person who has made me realize, maybe for the first time ever, that I do not need to define and label a relationship or know exactly what it’s going to eventually be; that it really is OK to simply give up that control and allow myself to simply be present – to love and accept without expectation, on a level that is deep at the heart of a friendship that feels… boundless…

~ A person who has made me see that in accepting and loving a person whose damage and flaws and failings – and positive qualities as well – are so very much like my own, I am actually giving myself permission to accept and love myself.

And that?

Is huge.

It might just allow me to fix what’s broken in me.

And I’m not sure I have ever truly believed that possible.

We are all damaged.

But there is a path to healing…

 

We simply have to be ready to see it…

Be Brave, Little Girl -- Part II

So, yesterday I wrote about being askeerd when I go to the cancer center.

Legitimate fear.

No?

Yes.

But a day out and I feel better. Not completely back to normal (whatever the hell that is), but better.

As such, I've decided to go ahead a scare the full bejeebies out of myself tonight.

I'm going to watch a scary movie.

I am. Me. The proverbial scaredy-cat. The weeniest weenie of them all.

'Cause I'm a glutton for punishment, that's why.

I haven't seen a scary movie since I watched one with my friend Todd, several years ago, during a visit to London. It was The Grudge. And it was horrifying! And I was so scared, I spent the rest of the night huddled under a down sleeping bag, in an already overly-warm flat, sweating to death. But draining all my fluids through sweat kept me from weeping and peeing in fear, so it was all good.

I wasn't always this way, you know. When I was little, I got hooked on Dark Shadows. It was deliciously gothic and mysterious and scary. And it gave me nightmares. But still, I had to get my Barnabus Collins fix every afternoon. Until my dad made me stop watching. 'Cause he got tired of chasing the monsters out of my room every night, that's why.

There's no one to chase the monsters for me now (well, except for Sundance... and though that fuzzy boy barks pretty loudly, he's kind of a weenie, too [ask the goose that pecked me in the head because my pitiful dog ran in the other direction after chasing it]). And since there's no one to chase my monsters, I think it was pretty brave of me to decide to do this tonight (please note that, in this situation, 'brave' totally equals 'stupid').

See, I mentioned being askeerd of creeper flicks to a friend. And he laughed at me.

Now, if he'd laughed with me, I probably could have gone on being askeerd and unashamed.

But he didn't. It was at me. Definitely at me.

So, here I sit. Steeling myself for The Conjuring.

I've got a friend. And a blanket. And my Depends undergarments. And wine.

Lots of wine.

'Cause if the monsters get you when you're drunk, it doesn't hurt so much, that's why.

Lessons Before Dying

Yesterday, on December 28, a beautiful man died.

I didn't know him personally. He was the friend of a friend. He was actually, from what I can gather, the friend of an entire city -- a well-loved television news personality in San Diego, CA.

His name was Loren Nancarrow.

And he was beautiful -- physically, and in his heart and soul. And even though I did not know him personally, I know this for sure.

Less than a year ago, he was diagnosed with terminal brain cancer. He decided to share this experience with the people who knew and loved him -- and with those who would come to wish they knew him and loved him from afar -- via his blog, The Nancarrow Project, and his Facebook page. Through is postings, and those of his lovely wife and children, he shared the experience of living with -- and dying from -- this terrible, cruel cancer.

He was, through it all, beautiful... and brave and funny and matter-of-fact and real.

His words -- every post -- affected me. Full of honesty and humor and compassion, they made me smile or cry or resolve to do more and better... and always, wish I knew personally the man who wrote them.

I read a lovely tribute to this beautiful, very real man this morning (you can read it in its entirety here). In it, the author listed five lessons Loren Nancarrow imparted to the people he touched:

1. Find reasons to rejoice.
2. Anticipate "the possibilities of tomorrow."
3. Remain in awe of sunsets.
4. "Wherever they are, whatever they may be, seek out your passions and cultivate them” while also being mindful "that it is far better to do good for others, than to do good for oneself."
5. Be curious.

Beautiful.

My heart aches for a life cut short... for his family, who clearly adored him and will miss him beyond comprehension... for his friends, whose lives he enriched beyond measure.

I will miss his words -- his insight, his courage, his humor. And I will take his lessons to heart, because they are damned good ones.

And I'll be thinking of the lessons I hope to leave behind one day.

What lessons would you like to leave?

Gifts

This week? A little bit crappy. It started out that way on Monday morning... and then Tuesday felt like Monday all over again... and then Wednesday felt like Tuesday, which felt like Monday all over again... and all I could do was wish it was Friday.

Work has been trying... and tiring. Christmas pressures are wearing on me... the gift-buying (I don't like shopping or crowds... and shopping in crowds gives me anxiety), the money-spending, the running-out-of-time thing. And the rest of Life seems, oftentimes, overwhelming, even when there's no big wallet-sucking holiday to contend with.

So today's Friday... and the day wasn't much better than any of the others earlier in the week. But it did mark the beginning of five days off in a row. That doesn't happen very often, so I'm pretty excited about it... though my last thought when I left the office was how much I was dreading Thursday morning.

Sigh.

Then I got home.

And someone sent me a gift.

A wonderful gift.

And I was overwhelmed.

And I felt loved.

And I realized that I often feel loved.

I am surrounded by people who love me... and who show me. All the time.

I receive gifts every day, in their words, their deeds, their friendship.

But I get so caught up in the crappy Mondays and Tuesdays that feel like Mondays and the dreaded Thursdays, that I forget... or I don't see the gifts, even when they're right in front of my face.

But tonight?

I see them.

I feel them.

And I am ever so grateful for them.

Ever so grateful.

Writer's Workshop: Gifty McGifterson

It's time for Mama Kat's Writer's Workshop and this week, I chose the prompt:

A Memorable Gift

Like most people, I suppose, I have been the recipient of many gifts in my life... some tangible, some intangible... some perfect, some not so much. 

Back in 2008, for one of Mama Kat's Writer's Workshops, I wrote a letter to Santa, which you can read right here, about how I was breaking up with him because of his gift-giving missteps (that fat guy does not know me at all).

But today? Today I'm writing about a different sort of gift. A gift that was most definitely not a misstep. And it wasn't from Mr. Claus, but from one of his elves -- an elf who lives right here in Pigsknuckle.

I have this friend, you see. His name is Loren... though for the purpose of this post, I will refer to him as 'Lorwyn' (as that's, you know, what I call him [well, it's the name I can write here and still stay PG-rated]). Anyway, Lorwyn is, quite possibly, the best gift-giver I have ever met.

Ever.

His gifts are epic. The thought and effort he puts into them is simply beyond my comprehension. And even when you want to be mad at him for spending too much or doing too much or very nearly getting himself arrested for skulking around your yard, planting 200 candy-filled eggs at dark o'clock on Easter morning, you can't.

(For the record, I'm still finding those damned eggs... every time I mow the lawn, another one miraculously appears.)

However, Lorwyn and I decided two Christmases ago that we weren't going to spend much on each other's gifts, as money was tight.

And I? Stuck to our agreement. To be honest, I don't really recall what I got him, though it was probably something like a bag of M&Ms and a 12-pack of toilet paper.

What? Toilet paper is practical, people.

So we met up for breakfast, as we hadn't seen each other in a while, and we exchanged gifts. I handed Lorwyn the TP and M&Ms...

And he called the crane operator to lift mine onto the table.

I kid you not, the package weighed approximately 3,647 pounds.

OK, hyperbole aside, it was freakin' heavy.

He heaved it over to me and I gingerly unwrapped it...

It was a binder. A 3-ring binder, to be specific. Blue. Thick. Like, 6 or 7 inches thick. Like, I didn't know they made binders that thick.

And in it...

Was...

My blog.

My entire blog.

All 400+ posts.

Printed... each sheet placed in its own plastic protector... all the posts and pictures in order, from newest to oldest.

My entire blog.

You see, I had once (just once, but that's all it takes with Lorwyn) mentioned that I was afraid Blogger was going to lose my blog one day (it had happened to someone I know)... and since many of my posts were written right here, I hadn't ever saved them anywhere. And if my blog somehow disappeared, big chunks of my life would be gone.

Gone.

And that? Would be awful. It worried me.

But I never imagined, not in a million years, that anyone would take the time, energy, effort, and money to print out every single post, protect every page, and then hand them to me in a binder that weighed 3,647 pounds.

It was overwhelming.

There were tears.

And not just from the hernia.

And it almost - almost - made up for the time Lorwyn called me a bitch.

Almost.

Right, Lorwyn?

Heh.

I Write Because... (Kathy tells me to!)

Yup... it's that time of the week. Kathy at Mama's Losin' It issued her writing prompts and I chose, 'I write because...'

I write because I believe in the infinite and unassailable power of words – to connect, to affect, to express, to entertain, to disturb, to discover, to educate, to enlighten, to excite, to incite, to soothe, to solve, to illuminate, to inspire.

I write because I have things to say and the words which flow from my brain to my fingers are usually more eloquent and clear than the words which flow from my brain to my mouth.

I write because I have an instinctive need to express myself creatively and writing is the only creative endeavor at which I have any inherent ability.

I write because I inherited the role of ‘storyteller’ from my father and my words are how I honor his memory.

I write because it keeps me connected to the people in my life.

I write because it keeps me connected to me.

I write because I love, because I loathe, because I’m joyful, because I’m angry, because I hurt, because I heal, because I’m confused, because I understand, because I think… because I live.

I write because I can.

I write because I must.

I write because I breathe.