In my writing class we were given a challenge where we all wrote the first paragraph of a story and then gave that paragraph to someone else to finish the story. This is what I wrote from the paragraph that my friend Pat gave to me.

                                   Tasmanian Devil

Anne Marie described her 2½-year-old granddaughter, Betsy, as a Tasmanian devil. I started laughing at her on the phone and told her that was quite an interesting description. “Why do you call her that?” I asked.

“For starters,” Anne Marie began, “Whenever Betsy is up to something and sees her mother coming, she automatically starts saying, ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.’

“Last week my daughter-in-law, Angie and Betsy went to the grocery store. When they got home, Angie took Betsy out of her car seat, carried her into the house and started unloading bags from the car. She was bringing in her third load of groceries when she heard ‘sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.’ Looking at where the ‘sorries’ were coming from, she saw Betsy sitting with an empty egg carton and 18 broken eggs splattered all around the kitchen.”

I couldn’t contain my laughter as I pictured this mess. And . . . I was thrilled that the scene wasn’t unfolding in my kitchen.

“That’s not all,” Anne Marie continued, “later, that same day, Angie put Betsy down for a nap. Two hours later when Angie went to check on her, Betsy was sitting in the middle of a massive pile of toys dumped on a blanket in the middle of the room. With a huge grin on her face she declared, ‘I made a boat!’ It took Angie and Betsy over half an hour to return every last Lego and piece of play food back to its proper place.”

“I remember when my kids used to do things like that. The playroom looked like a bomb blew up in Toys R Us,” I teased back.

“Then to top it all off, less than a week later, Angie was reading the kids a bedtime story. Betsy got bored and started wandering. Even though her mother called her back she kept going, ending up in the kitchen where she found a strange yellow object on the counter. It turned out to be a 10-pound kettlebell that Angie uses as part of her exercise routine. Thirty-five-inches of Betsy couldn’t reach it very well, but through sheer determination and persistence she maneuvered it to the edge of the counter where it promptly fell on Betsy’s big toe. Blood and tears infused the peaceful bedtime ritual. The rest of the evening was spent at Urgent Care getting x-rays and bandages.

“We thought maybe the run-in with the kettlebell would teach her a lesson about being obedient, but the very next day when Angie went into Betsy’s room she heard ‘sorry, sorry, sorry.’ Betsy was putting the finishing touches on her latest piece of art – scribbled on the bedroom wall. Angie was fit to be tied.”

By this time I was laughing hysterically. “I like that kind of kid.” I said, “I love to be entertained by them, but I’m always glad when they go home in someone else’s car! Good luck, Grandma!” 

~Anita Wiggins November 2014

Kitchen Gremlins

 I remember liking everything my mom cooked except liver & onions and stuffed zucchini. You’ll likely never find liver & onions on the list of options to eat at my house (for obvious reasons), and it wasn’t until after thirty-six years of cooking for my family and a love for gardening that I even attempted to make stuffed zucchini (which, by the way was delicious).

I, like most gardeners, have experienced the bittersweet dilemma of what to do with a plethora of summer squash. Zucchini bread is delicious with its sweet taste and little flecks of green, but that only takes care of one or two squash.

 

A dish my children named “Gremlin” was a favorite at our house. I make it by taking the summer squash and grating it fine in the food processor. Next I stir-fry it with a little olive oil and garlic; then top it off with grated cheese. It got the name Gremlin from a popular eighties movie with the same name. In this movie the little monster-like gremlin gets chopped up in the food processor where it is hiding. Watching me make this side dish reminded the kids of that scene from the movie – hence, the name Gremlin for zucchini smothered in cheese.

I make something else that has no name but delights my taste buds every time I eat it. I start with an onion cut length wise into slivers (toe nails, according to my kids, but I won’t go there), sautéed in a little coconut oil and garlic. Once the onion is translucent and starts to brown, I add sliced yellow and green summer squash. Next come fresh mushrooms and the whole thing cooks just until the squash is tender and the mushrooms are soft. The final touch is a sprinkle of fresh Parmesan cheese to top it all off.

It’s a mystery to me why every time I eat this I’m so thrilled with my creation and why it never seems to get old or boring. I don’t know if it’s the fact that the majority of the ingredients I have nurtured from seed, or if I just like how it all tastes together, but I do love it.

It’s amazing how delicious simple ingredients can taste when put together with love, humor, and fond memories.

The Naked Truth

He was little (3 years old, 35 pounds). She was big (85 years old, 225 pounds). He was with his baby sitter (he called her Sitter). She was taking a bath in her personal space (she called it home). He was helping dust in the hall. She was dashing naked from the bathroom to her bedroom. He saw her. She didn’t see him. He was devastated. She was oblivious. She got into bed. He cried, and said, “Sitter, I didn’t want to see that bum.”

How many times in life do we see things we don’t want to see, or do things we wish we hadn’t done? It seems like the more we try to forget them and push them away, the deeper they become tattooed in our brains. Let me explain.  

Recently I had a school assignment to go through my whole life and make peace with my past. As I dug around in my storage of memories and heartache, I found myself finding things I wished had never happened.

My baby brother died when I was two years old. Watching my parents deal with death was confusing and left me with many misunderstandings about how to relate to the world.

I had a terrible time learning how to spell, read and do math. This set me up with a habit of learned helplessness and a view of myself as having no talents.

My teachers didn’t know how to deal with my learning style. Some of my schoolmates teased me, were unkind and made fun of me. This left me feeling unworthy and worthless.

As a mother, I yelled at my kids when I should have held them close. Sometimes I held them close when I should have yelled at them. I got into their business when I should have stayed out. I stayed out of things that I should have paid attention to.

I took my husband for granted, wasn’t always nice, and didn’t acknowledge he even had needs. I spent money carelessly and blamed him for not controlling money –  or me –  better.

I spent more time than I want to admit caught in a vortex of depression spiraling down as I fought to get out.

I don’t like to have gone through these things; to have had these things done to me, and to have done these things to others. I wonder why I had to go through all that?

Having come through those experiences, I am now beginning to understand their purposes and the valuable lessons they provide. 

For example, I experienced the death of my baby brother at a very early age. I didn’t understand it, nor did I have the maturity to deal with it at the time, so I built up a defense of arrogance and hiding my light. This arrogance and hiding has been keeping a very tender and sweet part of my life and has kept me safe until I grew and matured to a point where I could let down my defenses and process the death of a loved one.

Early on I recognized that things are never as bad as they seem. As a result, I have been blessed to be calm in the midst of chaos.

I have discovered that there are many ways to learn. The human mind is amazing at adapting and finding ways around obstacles and challenges. By being patient and not giving up, I have seen miracles unfold. Giving a person the love and space to develop at their own rate and in their own timing is one of the most loving gifts anyone can receive. 

Although being a wife and mother has been a very painful experience for me at times, it has been a necessary experience for me to understand choice, taking authority over my life, and connecting to God. These difficult times are what made me know that I wanted something different and gave me the motivation to find a new way of doing things.

When I take my view and my truth as the only truth, I have no options. When I see my truth as the truth according to me, then I can change “my truth” and try something I like better. When I project my insecurities onto other people, I am a victim of them and I live a life that is lonely and separate. Not taking personal responsibility for my thoughts, my beliefs, my actions, and my life creates unnecessary pain and suffering.  A life with no place to turn and no God, is Hell on earth.

As I take the time and effort to see the blessings and lessons that are available to me in the seemingly unbearable incidences of life, my perspective changes. The seemingly bitter becomes important and a valuable part of life.

I think this must be true for everyone. Making a shift in attitude and perspective transforms distressing experiences into valuable memories.

With that understanding, a little boy  who saw a fat, old, naked lady, instead of being devastated, might laugh and say, “Holy Cow, Sitter, did you see that bum!?”  

Anorexic?

 

Today God told me I was anorexic-like.

He said He sees a magnificent, powerful being who is scared to death of own her power. “You’re like an anorexic that wants to be healthy, but refuses to look in the mirror and see the truth. You are like someone who is dying to feel good, vibrant, and healthy, but only sees fat and refuses to eat food – the very thing that would bring her what she wants.”

So, I ask myself, what would someone with anorexia need to hear? Eat! Can’t you see you are killing yourself? With you in control of your life, your body will die. What would the anorexic person answer back? If I eat and let you control me by living my life the way you want me to live it, my body will live, but my spirit will die.

No, what the anorexic person needs to hear is: You can choose for yourself. If you choose to continue controlling by refusing to eat, you will get the consequences that come with that choice, and I will love you. If you choose to do what you are told and let the outside world make your decisions, you will get the consequences that come with that choice, and I will love you.

Your freedom lies somewhere between control and being controlled.

Right now, you are at a point where you are beginning to see the choice. The choice is yours – Do you want to be in control and have your body die? Do you want to be controlled and have your spirit die? There is another way – stepping into faith and trust, co-creating, with God, radiant health, vitality and peace.

Be patient with yourself. Don’t worry if you volley back and forth for a while; you have never been here like this before. I love you. You are brave. You are strong. However you do this is just right for you. I am with you. Trust, have faith and let your spirit come alive through your beautiful body.

Truly, choice is before me as I have never seen it before. I am free to have faith and to trust God and myself as I dream and plan, making choices that make me feel powerful and magnificent. Or I can continue to refuse to deal with myself patiently as I wade through the mountain of resistance and pain I may face whenever I commit to a plan of action or structure that is the foundation for what I want.

Seen this way, the choice is easy. There is nothing I want more than to co-create with God a joyful, powerful and magnificent life.  And there is nothing I want more than to develop the attributes that are mine as I let go of fears and old hurt and stop insisting that I am broken.

The Stone

I’ve been asleep in the center of a hard stone.

Trying to be.

Trying to wake.

Living in the stone.

Pretending I’m alive, all the while trusting the death that is so evident.

I begin to awaken.

This stone is not a chip from a mountain,

But the center of a fruit!

I have grown!

I have become!

I am no longer a stone, but a tree!

A magnificent tree in full bloom.

EVERYONE LOOK!

LOOK AT ME.

SEE ME!

I LIVE!

I HAVE LIFE!

DON’T YOU SEE WHO I AM?

I am a fruit tree.

I can produce apricots, plums, cherries, peaches.

I have it all,

I can do it all.

I don’t want to miss being in one single pie or cobbler.

I can make the taste buds of any tongue squeal with delight and satisfaction.

Look at me!

See me!

Know who I am!

But – who am I?

Will my beautiful blossoms produce peaches, or apricots, or plums, or cherries?

Am I to make pies or jam?

What am I to do?

Shakespeare said,

To thine own self be true.

What does that mean?

That question feels like a stone buried deep inside my heart.

This stone holds the question.

This stone holds the answer.

Another tree,

Another season,

Another winter –

Beautiful, glorious, peaceful winter.

A winter infused with magic,

A spring infused with hope,

A summer infused with growth,

A fall infused with harvest.

That’s what I am to do:

Learn from the winter.

Enjoy the spring.        

Grow into the summer.

Partake of the fall.

Love my life!

Celebrate my life!

Dance in the harmony of all seasons expressing at once.

The Work Dance

In my life I have had a habit of putting other's needs before my own. This is something I saw my mother do, and I picked it up and embraced it like a thumb and a blanket. In the past I have looked at this as a noble vice—the kind of habit that only a very loving and giving person would have. And in some respects I still think that is true, but today I’m seeing a side of it that I haven’t chosen to look at until now. After watching myself the past few days, I see that I have been guilty of using this habit as an excuse for me to squirm out of my adult responsibilities.  I wasn’t expecting to stumble on this version of what I call the work dance—suddenly becoming helpless when one is asked to do work.

In the morning I’m tired and don’t want to get up. So, I drag myself out at the last minute feeling tired and a bit resentful at having to leave my cozy bed. I’m still in my pajamas late into the morning, even though I’ve been up for several hours. My routine is to exercise in the morning. Pretending that I am going to go out and exercise gives me a great excuse for not being dressed so late in the morning. My reason for this is I am putting Jamie’s and her kids’ needs first, so I don’t have time for me. (That’s the kind of mother I am, unselfish, never thinking of myself.)  The truth is, it’s cold out. I’m not naturally drawn to exercise, and, quite frankly, I don’t want to go running. I didn’t make and commit to a plan last night. And I’m still under the illusion that getting more sleep will make me feel better and give me the vitality that I’m looking for.

I have homework to do this month. If I stay on top of it and do what I have outlined, then I will be prepared and get the learning that I am going for. I haven’t done very much this week because I have been involved with Jamie and her kids. When the kids go to bed, I stay busy finishing things up with the needs of the family and visiting with my new grand-baby. The truth is that this family is so well put together that an excuse like that is just an excuse to justify not doing what I don’t want to do. My homework takes something of me. It takes focus. It takes discipline. It takes time. It is easy for me to say that I don’t have time to sit down and work on my homework because of all the demands of the children and household. But in reality, I do have plenty of time, to do it after the kids are in bed or in the morning before they wake up. The discipline, focus, and commitment are the things that are missing, not the opportunity.

I used to think that as long as I had an excuse for my behavior, then anything was permissible. I’m now learning that if I hang on to that belief, then most of my creative energy is spent on making up excuses.

Good Enough

It happened in fifth grade reading group. I hated reading out loud – each child taking turns standing up to read one at a time. I needed time to become familiar with what I had to read. It came my turn. I stood up and began reading. My best was to read slow and stumble over most of the words. Feeling extremely self-conscious standing in front of my reading group, I caught out of the corner of my eye one girl whisper to another, “listen to Anita read, pass it on.” She silently giggled, whispered the message to the next child in line, creating a chain connecting the group.

I was devastated. True to my ten-year-old pride, I swallowed the ball of fire and rage in my throat, quickly turning it into a ball of pain and self-punishment. The moment I swallowed that anger, I began an unattainable quest to become good enough. I believed if I could be a good enough reader, I would never be ostracized again. If I could be a good enough friend I would be included, despite my lack. If I could be good enough at anything, I would have no problems.  I would never experience pain again.

The pursuit to become good enough has been an obsession for most of my life. At age 53, I got new insight. Those were mean kids. It never was about me. My not being good enough was something I made up in my head. Those kids were dealing with their own insecurities and pain.

I forgive my classmates for not giving me the love and support I so desperately needed at that time. But more importantly, I forgive myself for buying into a big ugly lie and putting myself into a prison of my own making.