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.

Reading with Mom

I loved books. I would lie in bed with my mother while she read story after story to my sisters and me. I loved the closeness this created, as we were entertained with adventures that written words painted in our imaginations. In my mind, the only way that I could access this magical world of story, was if someone else did the reading for me. I simply could not connect with the written word by myself.

At Polk School, we had reading groups that were numbered. Group One was the spot for the precocious children – the ones with promise and worthy of expecting futures as successful professionals. Group Two was for the filler kids, the ones who were good enough to do something with their lives, but definitely not the leaders or the ones destined for true success. The children in Group Three had no hope. They were the stupid kids.  They were the children that kids made fun of because of their lesser intelligence.

I didn’t fit in any group. I longed to be one of the chosen in Group One, but I was never one of them. Group Two was where I usually ended up, even though my reading skills lagged behind many in that group. I was put in Group Three once, but that only lasted a couple of days, because I understood the work, despite symptoms of dyslexia. I was frustrated with reading, spelling and anything that tested my ability to comprehend or communicate through written language.

Now, as an adult, I am a good reader and I love to read. My mother’s reading to me showed me what a high price I would pay if I quit trying and stepped into a box labeled Learning Disability.  I will always be grateful for the magnificent world her time and attention unlocked for me.

The Smell of School

There is an odor that is distinctly a school smell.  It is a mixture of old books, sweaty kids, industrial strength cleaner, and school lunch.  I actually like this smell. I went to elementary school in the 1960’s, the time of purple ditto copies.  Unlike the fresh warm Xerox copies of today, fresh ditto copies were cold. They had a sent that I can’t describe, but one I will never forget. I loved that smell, but I didn’t love the work it represented.  If a ditto copy ever got wet, the ink would run, leaving a purple trail of evidence of its existence. I cleaned many lingering purple marks with Dutch cleanser and a rag.

When I think of that smell and school, memories of our janitors, Bart and Morris, pop into my head. They were always there when we needed them. They were busy pushing long, gray rag mops down the halls of Polk School; dousing child vomit with sawdust and then sweeping it up as if nothing happened; filling the soap containers in the bathrooms with pink powdered soap, and then cleaning piles of it off the sink; and scraping wads of single folded squares of toilet paper, mixed with water and pink grainy soap off the ceiling in the 5^th and 6^th graders bathrooms. I would say “Hi, Morris” or “Hi, Bart” when I saw them. Bart would answer back in his strong Dutch accent. Morris would smile revealing his missing tooth. I find it odd that we were allowed to call these two adult men by their first names in a time when all adults were addressed by their last names preceded by a Mr., Mrs., Miss, Uncle, or Aunt.

These wonderful, kind men were given far less credit and money than they deserved.

Waking with Spirit

Spirit wakes me. “Go write.”

I jump to the call, eager and willing.

I look at the clock –

It’s so early. I need my rest.

I will be tired, how will I get through my day?

I reconsider. I wisely go back to sleep.

My alarm wakes me. “Get to work.”

No time to write. I missed my chance.

Spirit, how can I follow you and stay in this world?

My little one – let go – relax.

I will take care of you. We will work together.

I know your needs and I know your heart.

Trust me with them and try something new.

Your needs are important to me.

I will take care of you..

I need a body to dance my dance.

I need a voice to sing my song.

I need a hand to write my words.

Wake up little one and play with me.

Try it out.

Trust me with the lead.

We will take turns, and lead together.

Message from Mess

I assisted in the move of a hoarder. Her house was so crammed full of junk there was only a small a path from room to room. There were beanie babies, little figurines, clothes, purses, shoes, bedding, books, tons of craft stuff: fabric, paint, brushes, wood, and an endless supply of craft magazines, as well as human-interest magazines. She only had one day to get out of the house, so instead of going through, purging and organizing her belongings, we packed it all up and sent it to storage. Holding on to all of this stuff was costing her tons of money, her marriage, and her happiness.

I could so relate to her. I liked many of the things she had. She had magazines I would subscribe to if it weren’t for the hard time I have throwing them away. She had beautiful fabric, cute stuffed animals, and lots of things I liked. I could see my mind wishing all of her crap (well, some of it) would go from her house to mine. I wondered what all of those things represented to her and why it was so hard for her to let them go.

However, I do know what it would represent for me. It would symbolize living a life I want but don’t have. Expressing myself creativity, but being too fearful to even try; taking adventures and going places that I’m missing out on now; owning cute things, somehow believing they will make me cute; Dreaming of making  doll clothes for my grandchildren symbolizing our love and connection.  Clinging on to my kids toys and clothes in some way believing if I have these things, my children will always be close and shield me from experiencing loneliness.

The truth is at the end of the day, all I’d have is a mountain of junk and no room for me. All of the creativity would still be unexpressed. My kids would still be gone. My grandkids still wouldn’t have homemade doll clothes, and wouldn’t be thinking about me every minute of every day. I still wouldn’t have made any of the recipes in the magazines or crossed stitched even one of the patterns in the hundreds of magazines to choose from.

That empty hole in my heart that I tried to fill by buying more and different things would still be there – connecting me to every past hurt and failure.

Letting go and disconnecting from possessions has been one of the most painful, scary and healing things I have ever done. Letting go of past memories, unfulfilled dreams, and the feelings associated with them is a huge step, and in my opinion, one worth taking. When I feel the feelings that come up when I let go of my things and their meanings, and

turn to the Savior for comfort, love, and understanding I heal. I know that he knows exactly what it is like to be me. He loves me and understands me; free of judgment, condemnation, or disappointment. He knows exactly what I experience, making it possible to bring 100% light to my broken heart. This gives me feelings of worth and value that replace all those feelings of despair, loneliness, helplessness and insecurity. It gives me the space to let go of my things and my pain and opens a place for joy, adventure and faith. Even without those things, I can still have dreams, connection and fun!

It surprises me that I found this message in the middle of a messy house. I thank this woman for the opportunity to see a little inside her and a little inside me. I pray for her. I pray that she can find the courage to part with her "things." I pray that she will be filled from the only place that will completely fill the hole that all mortal experience. I pray that she knows that she isn't alone and that in some way we are all alike.