Time for teens

Me and one of "my" kids

There are times in my life when I look at what I'm doing and think, "How in the hell did I get here?" Today was one of those times.


I've mentioned before on this blog that I lead the church youth group. Kids in the group are from grades 9 through 12. 


When I was in high school, I had zero sense of what "cool" was. When I thought I was doing something hip (something I worked at full-time) it was actually quite stupid and goofy. I was made fun of - or worse, ignored - by my peers for most of my teen years. It all changed in college, but high school was a living hell for me.


Ever since then I never knew how to talk to teens. I sort of reverted back to my old goofy self and stumbled over my words. Feeling again like I was that clueless teen trying not to be ignored or laughed at.


Leading this group has changed my perspective on what it is to be a teen. And I know now that I really was a typical teen. The only difference was I didn't wear the mask as well as the others. 


Spending Sunday mornings and some Sunday evenings mentoring teens has helped me resolve the anguish I had for all those earlier years. I finally feel like I can be myself around a group that, although no longer my peers, are the very age group with whom I struggled the most. 


Sounds crazy. Here I am in my early 50s and I'm just now feeling like I can put my teen angst behind me.


I look at the youth I work with - some of whom I have become very close to - and feel this huge burden lifted. Like it finally came full circle for me.


And when I sat with these amazing teens today, asking them some of the tough, soul-searching questions that no one asked me at that age, I feel like there was a reason for my square-peg status as a teen. 


How could I understand now just how hard it was to be a teen if it had been easy? How could I offer a knowing hug, an empathic ear, and a like war story if I had been one of those teens who wore their manufactured confidence like a shield? 


I tell the kids all the time that I get more out of my time with them than they do and that they will never know just now much sharing this time in their lives means to me.


Maybe they understand, maybe not. Maybe some of them will get to be 53, connect with teens in a meaningful way, say, "How in the hell did I get here?", and think of me.

Well alright then

I attended the Tenebrae Service at my church on Thursday night. This service isn’t the cheeriest of services because it reflects on the death of Jesus which precedes the celebration of rebirth that is Easter. 

People have asked me why the service is so important to me when it is such a “downer.” The answer is not as simple as I’d like but I think it has something to do with my philosophy on life.

There’s a scene in the movie Oklahoma when the main characters’ wedding night is marred by a murder. Wise Aunt Eller tells her heartbroken newlywed niece that as you age you come to an understanding that you’ve got to look at life as a complete picture. To quote Aunt Eller: “You gotta look at the good on one side and the bad on the other and say, ‘Well alright then, to BOTH of them.’”

That quote has gotten me through some pretty serious heartache in my life. I accept that when things are going great, they won’t always stay that way. But when things are not going well, I remember THAT will change too. 

Easter seems like the perfect time to connect with that truth. When winter is over and spring has arrived. When the ground softens and reveals its treasures - hidden, just beneath the long-frozen surface.

Family and fences

Tonight I went out to dinner with my cousin on my mother's side. She lost her mom, my Aunt Peggy, not long before I lost my mom. 


Cousin Jackie was amazing to my mom when mom was dying. She sent her a card daily for a very long time. Her cards were funny and chatty and just what my mom needed.


Mom always commented that one of the greatest joys at the end of her life was her relationship with her niece. Because she didn't have one for most of her life.

The Powers Girls

My mom and her siblings had drifted into two sides early on. One side was closer to my grandmother; the other to my grandfather. Jackie's mom and my mom were on opposite sides of this game for most of their adult lives. Disagreements between the siblings—and later their spouses—escalated hard feelings and the lines were drawn.


That affected not only the siblings relationships with each other, but their kids relationships with their cousins. Typical family stuff. But I remained loyal to the sides my parents had chosen and that was that.


My relationship with my aunt Peggy's kids started to open up more as we aged but was far from anything resembling friendship. Until recently.


My mom and Peggy (along with their sister, Muriel) started to find middle ground later in life. I was so happy for that since I didn't want my mom to end her life with regrets.


As the sisters passed away, their kids were left with the realization that we never had a chance to be friends. 


My cousin Jackie and I bonded as my mom failed. I found that I had a connection with her that was meaningful and helpful. She had lost her mom a couple of years before and knew what I was going through. I found a great comfort in our shared DNA even though we did not have shared childhoods. 


We met for dinner tonight. Something we swore we would do more often. We found ourselves sharing the good and the bad of our pasts, breaking down the walls of a family feud where negatives were hidden and only positives were played. 


I felt myself freed from the constraints of family secrets. I could be honest and not feel that I was obligated to keep up a facade created by years of defensive posturing. And to prove what? That one side of the family was right and the other wrong?


Right, wrong. Better, best. All to prove one is loved more than another. 


Tonight I felt that Jackie and I took decades worth of fences our parents built and continued the work our mothers started several years ago. Our moms mended those fences; their daughters ripped them out of the ground, threw them on a pile, and lit them on fire. 


These fences were never ours yet they kept us apart for so long. Tonight I learned that the only baggage I should carry is my own. 


As I drove away from the restaurant I felt like I had peeled off all the layers of side-choosing that my mom lived with for years. Layers that weighed me down and kept me from being honest. What a gift to find a friend who was there all along. A friend who had to carry the hurt of her parents for fear of being disloyal. Just like me.

What we carry with us

Today I finally went for the polarity therapy session that I've needed. While there, my mind started to wander (as always). I started thinking about everything I carry with me in my purse. It's quite heavy and I continually receive comments about what the heck could be in there. I always respond that I have my whole life with me.


But today as I mentally began to empty my purse and investigate its contents, I realized I really do carry my whole life. And what does that say about me?


My wallet makes up the majority of the weight of my purse. Besides money and bank cards (mine and my dad's), I have a lot of business cards. Not just from people I've met and professionals I work with, but also the cards of friends. I like to help my friends network so whenever I hear a need being voiced, I rifle through my stack of cards and hand one out along with a hefty endorsement.


Also in my wallet are remembrance cards from friends and family who have passed. And old ticket stubs from concerts I've enjoyed. There's a section for pictures there too. I carry wallet-sized school pictures of my nieces and nephews so I can have friends put names to faces when I brag about them.


Since you never know what sort of situation you could end up in outside of your home, I carry travel-sized emergency supplies that would make a girl scout or a Walgreens manager proud. Hand cream, floss, anti-bacterial lotion, lip balm, eye drops, lint brush (it's small, more like a brushette), tissues (the ones my friend Moira gave me that are red and say "Keep Calm and Carry On", more an inspirational item than something I use for my nose, but still....), tape measure (don't laugh, I use this a lot, and so do others when we're out), aspirin, mini hair brush, comb. 


The inside pocket of my purse has my own business cards, note paper, tiny address book, mirror, and rocks. Yes, rocks. Special rocks. The kind a sweetheart like my friend Chris would have given you 8 years ago when he returned from a vacation by the sea to let you know that he thought of you when he was there and wanted to bring a piece of it back for you.


When I went through my mental inventory, I realized that I do carry my entire life with me. Not just in my purse but in my person. I have a hard time letting go of things and moving unencumbered in the world. I say it's who I am. My personality; my character. 


My birthday was yesterday, the first one without my mom. I had a very happy, fun day but did take some time to think about what my birthday was like when she was here. 


Mom didn't carry much in her purse. It was light and open, just like her. She lived her life very much in the present. No baggage.


So what's to be lost by losing the mini-CVS in my purse? Lint on my clothes, dry hands, and a hair or two out of place. Not so bad.


Maybe it's time I start letting go of the tangible evidences of my life, worrying always that I'll need something that I don't have but could if I had only been prepared. 


Because the things you carry around that matter are not tangible. Those concert tickets and old business cards are not replacements for the memories stored in my head. 


And the rocks. Carried with me for 8 years because I fear that, by taking them out, I am dishonoring a gesture of true friendship. A friendship that is stronger than those rocks, and deeper than any ocean they could lie beside. 

When the corn chips scream

I've been overweight for 47 of my 52 years. I've been a faithful follower of Diet Workshop and Weight Watchers in the past (the 5 years I was not overweight was thanks to WW and my speedier metabolism 20 years ago). 


Like most women, I compare myself to women who are not overweight and feel even more overweight than I already am. Much has been written about women's self-image and the media's Photoshopped, airbrushed marketing schemes.


I have to tell you that those pictures don't make me feel bad at all. Even if they aren't modified, I figure that if I had a job where looks were all that mattered, I'd spend a ton of time making sure I looked as good as I could too. 


Mostly I compare myself to where I was at in my 30s - the 5-year time span when I turned heads. I was blessed with a Marilyn Monroe figure and I wonder now what Marilyn would have looked like in her 50s. She wasn't always a size 8. For quite a while, she was a size 14 and was still considered sexy. I wonder if she would be considered sexy by today's standards.


Because of my CFS, I do watch what I eat. Too many white carbs make me overly tired as does refined sugar. Since I'm a vegetarian, I eat pretty well. Whole grains, steamed veggies, organic olive oil, avocados, and fresh fruit yogurt smoothies comprise a big chunk of my daily diet. But that's when I'm home and cooking for myself.


Once I'm out in temptation land, however, it's another story. When the ice cream stands are open, I go once a week. At a church pot luck dinner, I load up with the bad carbs and desserts. Since I don't have those things at home, I feel I can "splurge." And splurge I do. 


This past Sunday, I talked to the high school group about balance. Yin and Yang. The discussion was more about balancing personalities and strengths in a group environment than the Taoist concept itself. A group needs leaders, but it also needs those who can take direction. Group members need to be flexible, but not so flexible that no decisions are ever made. 


I'm a big fan of middle ground. Maybe because I'm the middle child in my family. Maybe because, even though I don't shy away from conflict, I don't enjoy it when it gets too emotional.


I thought about that balance when I was out grocery shopping today. It always surprises me that I have the greatest ideas when I'm shopping for food. (Note to self: Need more analysis here.)


I stocked up my cart with fruits, veggies, yogurt, meat (for Ron), spring water, spaghetti sauce, and soup. On my way to the check out counters, I passed a strategically placed display of all kinds of snack-sized chips. I walk past it every week and tune out the call to buy crap. 


Today, I decided that balance would win and my unbalanced view of my own self-image would lose. For this one time when the barbeque corn chips screamed out my name, I listened.


Keeping perspective is something I've always worked at and I think, most of the time, I keep it pretty well. When it comes to my weight, I lose my perspective. Maybe those corn chips will serve as a reminder to stop beating myself up all the time and I will remember that there is a place for the occasional junk in my diet. 


Maybe I'll be Marilyn Monroe at size 14 and remember that it's not what you weigh that makes you beautiful, but how comfortable you are in your weight. 


And if that doesn't work, I'll go out for ice cream - in May.

Quilt again, quilt again, stitchety stitch

I tend to go through phases where I'm passionate about something but then get bored once I've mastered it and immediately start looking for a new challenge. I've done that with pastimes and careers. 


When I stopped quilting over a year ago, I figured that was it. I hadn't quilted since my mom was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer in August of 2010. I started a quilt around that time and just lost interest with all of it when mom was sick.

My latest project

Last week, I picked up my quilting supplies again and have been hand-piecing. A job that most quilters do by machine these days since it's rather arduous and tedious. I also quilt the entire project by hand.


I refer to all this handwork as Zen quilting. It's amazing how much either deep thinking or lack of thinking I can do when sitting under my quilting lamp while making larger and larger callouses on my fingers.


A lot has been going on in my life that I am not ready to share here and it is in quilting that I'm finding an island in the storm. And all I need on that island is needle, thread, and fabric. Okay, and some pins and a straight chair, too.


I love to sit with Ron as he reads or watches a game. I look up from my quilt and ask the occasional Bruins question or give him an update of how many more blocks I have left to do (at the moment, tons. It's a queen-sized quilt.) It makes me think of Little House on the Prairie and how sewing and quilting was not just a pastime but a requirement. How lazy we've become. And so disconnected from the process of creating what we need.


Quilting has become a bit of a savior to me now. I look forward to my own personal nightly quilting bee. Choosing fabric, pinning, sewing. Letting my mind do whatever it wants to do while still focusing on the task at hand. 


It reminds me of wonderful memories of quilts past. The one I made for nephew Toby two years ago that he still talks about today. The quilt I made with a friend as both an outlet for the sadness from a mutual friend's cancer diagnosis, and the resulting product that now travels to comfort those in hospitals - my mother included.


This quilt will likely take me two years to complete. I won't give this one away. It will keep me and Ron warm while we sleep. It will hold me as I search for my mom in my dreams. It will remind me that you can make sense of things that seem random and disconnected, and create something that is whole.

Oh Christmas tree

Nature isn't perfect nor is it supposed to be, so of course there are holes in the Christmas tree. Big deep holes with nothing but whispy branches nearby - too weak to hold the lightest of ornaments.

Maybe I was meant to have that empty space - just there on the side of the tree closest to my favorite chair. With no bright distractions I can gaze into the space that leads to the trunk that holds up the branches that hold all the memories of Christmases past.

A piano plays a quiet "Oh Christmas Tree" on my CD player as I think about everyone I've known who has ever lost a parent - even my own parents. I feel a strong need to apologize to them for never fully understanding just how hard Christmas is when they're gone.

"I'm sorry," I whisper to the space without ornaments. "I just didn't know until now."