The ripple effect
Though my shoe barely made contact with it, down rolled the stone from the walking path into the pond this morning. I never even saw the stone, just felt my shoe brush against it while in mid stride. Down to the water’s edge it travelled and, upon entering the pond, made its presence known by sending out gentle, undulating ripples that I watched spread on the sparkling surface, until they became imperceptible to my eye.
My thoughts immediately went to those times we are stones, cast not where we had placed ourselves, but suddenly sent flying in a new direction, into a new environment. It isn’t where we prepared ourselves to be, isn’t where we placed ourselves, and often isn’t where we want to be, but there we find ourselves, nonetheless. What ripples do we send out when we land? What impact do we have when immersed in new surroundings? How do those around us experience our presence?
Though we don’t always stop to consider it, our actions do affect others. Sometimes we are the shoe that sends the stone flying, not stopping to think of how we changed the dynamic we just walked through. But if you’re like me, you’re most often the stone. My hope is that the ripple effect I leave on the ponds where I land is a legacy of peacefulness–quiet, wavy, soft ripples that lightly touch my surroundings in beautiful ways.
In the presence of greatness
We each choose what and who we hold in esteem, that which we deem to be greatness. I was blessed yesterday to be in the presence of what I consider just that: I was privileged to attend a celebration for a 40th wedding anniversary. Given my age and my unmarried status, it is a milestone I will never have the honor of experiencing. So while I silently grieve that which will be impossible for me to know personally, I am always filled with happiness when a couple is feted for achieving a benchmark in marriage.
I am the first to acknowledge that not all unions are healthy. Those that are abusive in any form (physical, verbal, emotional, etc.) or involve financial deceit or substance abuse are decidedly unhealthy, and remaining in a relationship like that is dangerous. We just don’t know what is going on behind the closed door of someone else. As I feverishly worked to save my brief, horribly unhealthy second marriage of a decade ago, I am embarrassed to admit a huge motivator was worrying about what people would think. I worked so hard to keep people from knowing what was going on in my home. It took the therapist saying to me, “Cathy, you are living in Crazy-ville and you need to let people know what is happening. Your friends and family who love you would never want you to be in this situation.” While I slowly shared bits and pieces with a few close to me, I still tried to “fix” the marriage, thinking that being divorced a second time was worse than staying in “Crazy-ville.” A wake-up moment for me was in couples therapy. Instead of answering the repeated questions of the therapist, my former spouse said “I may have done and said things to lead Cathy to believe I am someone other than who I am.” He also made faces at the therapist while in session (which she admitted was a first for her!) and had no interest in sharing who he really was in order to work on the marriage. That, in conjunction with a general fear for the safety for myself and my daughters (I never dreamed I would have to run and lock myself in a room while my stepson chased his Dad with a knife yelling, “I’m going to f***ing kill you” over and over, but I did) helped me face reality quickly that some unions are not appropriate to continue. That one, and so many others, are just not safe places to be.
What I find to be greatness is those couples who make their unions a safe, loving and supportive environment for each other. Where all three entities involved–each person as an individual and the relationship itself–are healthy and encouraged to achieve his/her/its full potential. That’s a tall order. But it is why I hold people who make this work in high esteem. They “get it.” They understand what makes life special. They have made a life with a partner and weathered the good and the bad, the highs and the lows. They have made a commitment and turned it into a positive, beautiful, life-enhancing fortress against the storms of life. Together they stand in unity against the outside world. Every day they choose each other again to walk through life.
So I try to focus on quality, not quantity. I will never get to have a celebration such as the beautiful one I attended yesterday. But I still want that ultimate commitment from another human being. I still want to be important enough to someone else that they can move past the hurts and betrayals that others have inflicted on them and hold me in enough esteem, love and respect to make a full commitment to me. I wish this not only for myself, but for all my friends, both heterosexual and homosexual–to find that depth of love with a partner and to marry.
Life is short, precious and fragile. And sometimes, if you are lucky, you get to experience the greatness of committed love in its ultimate form, marriage.
If I let you in
If I let you in, will you stay to hear what I have to say?
Will you listen? Really listen?
Or will you politely nod and smile, silently considering somewhere else you’d rather be?
If I let you in, will you open your soul to me, trusting me to treat your vulnerability with honor and care?
Or will you hide in the obscurity of shadowed answers and ambiguous discourse?
If I let you in, will you try to be authentically you, to appreciate the breadth of my being, and to join me on the journey?
Will you?
If I let you in.
Leading with the heart…
…is a great way to wind up with a crushed spirit from time to time. But how could I do anything differently? What else would I lead with?
My heart is the true, authentic representation of me. Yes, it is fragile, delicate, and filled with emotion. That’s what makes it special. That’s what makes me real.
So, stay the course with me, heart. It’s all-in, no games, and no stone ramparts to protect you. A heart’s beauty lies in its vulnerability– hidden behind a wall, it withers and helps not a soul.
I have to lead with my heart. It’s the brave thing to do and the brave thing to be…me.
The proper footwear and a good marching song
It’s turning out to be a job for the hiking boots.
I’d personally prefer a cute sandal this time of year, but trying to kick away the vines and foliage blocking the remnants of my deserted path with that footwear would not get me far.
So, hello boots.
And sing on, Sara Bareilles, pushing me forward with my newly adopted, personal anthem, Brave.*
I’ve got the shoes and the song, so baby steps, don’t fail me now.
*Brave by Sara Bareilles
You can be amazing
You can turn a phrase into a weapon or a drug
You can be the outcast
Or be the backlash of somebody’s lack of love
Or you can start speaking up
Nothing’s gonna hurt you the way that words do
And they settle ‘neath your skin
Kept on the inside and no sunlight
Sometimes a shadow wins
But I wonder what would happen if you
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
Everybody’s been there, everybody’s been stared down
By the enemy
Fallen for the fear and done some disappearing
Bow down to the mighty
Don’t run, stop holding your tongue
Maybe there’s a way out of the cage where you live
Maybe one of these days you can let the light in
Show me how big your brave is
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
Innocence, your history of silence
Won’t do you any good
Did you think it would?
Let your words be anything but empty
Why don’t you tell them the truth?
Say what you wanna say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
With what you want to say
And let the words fall out
Honestly I wanna see you be brave
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I just wanna see you
I wanna see you be brave
A novel concept
People often refer to a life path. But most of the paths I have seen out in the real world are fairly well defined, cleared of hindrances, marked with directions, and easy to find. I do not find life to be like that at all. It’s not so much a path through life as it is a zigzagging, partially to totally obscured, boulder-laden obstacle course. This seems to be a far more accurate description of one’s journey through life.
I’m not implying that’s a bad thing: far from it. It’s those challenges, those sudden changes of course that test our mettle and teach us who we can and cannot trust. They reveal how much stronger we are than we could have ever imagined. Those trials and tribulations are how we grow and spread our wings to accomplish feats far greater than those we dreamed for ourselves at earlier points in life. Challenges propel us forward.
I love to read. Not until you reach the end of a novel do you understand and see how all the pieces fit together; how everything that came before led to the end of the story. We are each a novel in progress. Some chapters will turn out to be longer than we would have liked, and some chapters shorter than desired. I’d venture to say that for most of us, where we are right now in our life story is not precisely where we pictured we would be. Those so-called life paths don’t really work that way. Only at the end of our journeys, when all the twists and turns of life have played themselves out, will we be able to see where the path was for each of us. My hope for every person is that when the final page is written, we each find the following: While the life path may not have been what we planned, it was, in fact, even better.
Baby-Dog-Whistle Soup
Today was a big day in the life of my older daughter, Brittany. This morning she called to say she had just been offered a job in her chosen field, utilizing the Master’s Degree in Counseling she recently earned. It was her first job interview, and it was a position she really wanted—working with adolescents and college-aged young people in private practice. As I listened to her excited voice on the phone I found a puzzling image in my mind: A three-year-old Brittany and her baby-dog-whistle soup.
Britt had the nearly requisite Little Tykes kitchen when she was young. While on rare occasions she used it to hide a dreaded food (hint to other parents—check behind those plastic cabinet doors often. You might find a big surprise!), it was primarily used for creative purposes. Like so many children, Brittany enjoyed pretending to cook us versions of her favorite dinners, offering plates of invisible macaroni and cheese, hamburgers, spaghetti, and the like. We would go through the motions of eating those items, pantomiming the chewing and offering our grateful praise of her wonderful meals. One day Brittany branched out on her own, and proudly offered us a bowl of baby-dog-whistle soup. When asked what that was, she answered with that exasperated sound that only a child can muster (the one that conveys, “Hello! I thought these adults were supposed to be smart!”) She tipped the small, yellow bowl towards us to show what was clearly obvious to her: A “soup” containing a tiny dollhouse-sized baby, a small plastic dog (dollhouse-sized, too) and a whistle. Well, of course, it was baby-dog-whistle soup. What else could it be? She beamed at her creation and we beamed back at her.
That’s the vision that appeared in my mind as I listened to Brittany this morning. I know it’s like this for other parents, too—no matter how old our children may grow to be, at key moments in their lives we often flash back to very young versions of them. Brittany so proud to show us her creation many years ago and Brittany so excited to share her first foray into her professional life—these two events have co-mingled for me and likely will remain linked in my mind. The joy I feel now is the joy I felt then: my child experiencing a sense of self-worth through accomplishment. I know today she is thrilled that the hard work of her Master’s Degree earned her the job she really wanted. But I also know that all those years ago her heart soared, too, when the creation of her three-year-old mind earned parental smiles for a bowl of baby-dog-whistle soup. The magnitude of accomplishment may have grown through the years but my child’s happiness behind it remains the same. As a parent, that’s about the biggest privilege one can experience: seeing your child happy. Congratulations, my sweet Brittany, on your joyful success!
A tiny tree in the forest
Big family trees with numerous branches have always fascinated me. Large families in general do, as well. I can’t get enough of the stories my friends share of reunions, get-togethers and holiday celebrations. I also love hearing of how they gather to support one another in times of great joy and times of great sorrow. Their tales only reinforce my idea of how wonderful that must be and I live vicariously through those accounts of extended family members coming together.
Both of my parents are only children. I have no aunts, no uncles and no first cousins. My only sibling has never married, nor has she had children, so I also have no nieces or nephews. I’m a tiny tree.
When I was growing up my mom and dad had aunts, uncles, and cousins, so I did get a small taste of extended family through limited interactions with their relatives. My mom in particular had a large number of those folks who lived nearby. I grew up with some honorary cousins—the children of my mom’s closest cousins. We skipped the labels of how-many-times-removed, etc. to keep things simple. All I cared about was having someone to call cousin. Everybody else had them and had such fun with them! Through Facebook, I’m still in contact with my “cousin,” Chris, who still makes me smile and laugh, just like she did when we were growing up. The fact that it is through Facebook adds another benefit; I get to name her as “Family” in my Facebook lists. See? I’m just like everybody else–I have a cousin!
I do realize there were some advantages to growing up with such a small family circle. My sister, Sue, and I never had to share our grandparents on either side with anyone else. We had their undivided attention at holidays and other visits. With nobody else to compare us to, how could they help but find us spectacular? Being the only two definitely had its perks! Sue and I alone were able to call them Grandma and Grandpa, and we weren’t complaining about that.
The older I have gotten, the more I love to hear my friends’ stories of family. Sometimes they seem hesitant, concerned that I will find the subject matter boring. Nothing could be further from the truth! If you’ve got one tale (or ten!), allow me to make myself a cup of tea and pull up a chair. I’m all ears.
My fiftieth Fourth
I woke up this morning and realized this is my fiftieth Fourth of July. While this one is going to be spent working on a lot of homework, I couldn’t help but reminisce about celebrations past.
My primary memories associated with the Fourths of my childhood involve decorating my purple bike each year. I remember weaving the red, white and blue streamers through the wheel spokes and attaching small flags to the handlebars. I can vaguely remember riding up and down the sidewalks, but that memory is overshadowed by the decorating itself. And while I know that going to the fireworks show at night was always involved, adorning the bike is what I picture the most. It must have something to do with that whole accessory thing I wrote about before. I do like to make things look nice.
Then my memory jumps to my late teen years. A boyfriend’s family invited me to go away with them for the Fourth of July holiday to a relative’s home in another state. It was my first experience with anyone setting off their own fireworks and I was a reluctant participant. At each of my two high schools there had been at least one student dealing with the aftermath of a fireworks-related injury, so I wasn’t excited to join in. They told me they’d start with something “harmless” that I would certainly enjoy–bottle rockets. At the lakeside they put small Coke bottles in the sand, pointed at the water. After demonstrating how easy it was, they told me it was my turn. So I slid the bottle rocket in, bent down to light its fuse, and waited for it to sail out over the water and explode, just like all of theirs had. Only it didn’t do that. It kind of plopped forward out of the bottle, nose-dived at an angle into the sand, then sailed sideways, straight into the rear end of an uncle bent over to light his own bottle rocket. And that’s where it exploded–the backside of that kind relative whose home I was visiting. I was mortified. Suffice it to say that has been my only experience with setting off fireworks of any sort. Sometimes the universe is good about telling you what to stay away from, so I think the least I can do is listen!
My last vivid Fourth of July memories are from the time when my daughters were young. Red, white and blue outfits, hair bows with stars and stripes…I had two extra people to coordinate and accessorize! I was in heaven.
Today what I associate with the Fourth of July are my friends who have children serving in our military and how much this patriotic holiday means to them. They are the ones with the most touching displays on their Facebook pages this day. I will be thinking about them as they have family celebrations without their beloved soldier who is away serving, often overseas. I pray that all those brave men and women get to come home safely so that they, too, may one day reminisce on their fiftieth Fourth.
Fifty Shades of Red
I’m going to admit something that up until now only four people know…I read all the books in the Fifty Shades of Grey trilogy. I went so far as to read them on my Kindle so nobody would know what I was reading. And I read all three books in five days because I couldn’t put the darn things down!
Why the public admission? A friend of mine described the reaction his 78-year-old mother had to reading “the book.” She raced home after her hospital volunteer work to get back to her reading, staying up into the wee hours of the morning . She also wound up sharing emails about the book with the female friends of her son who had read the book. I figured if she was happy to admit it and talk about it with others, I should be able to come clean, too!
I had to strategically plan my reading. I knew I had a limited window of time before my summer class started; once that began any potential reading time was going to be taken up with class reading, class assignments, and studying. I was a woman on a mission! I have always been a fast reader so that definitely helped with the process. I also must admit that I eventually started kind of only skimming the “sexy” parts of the books to get back to the storyline; I wanted to know what ultimately happened to Anastasia and Christian! Enough with the debauchery already–how would the story end?
So my apologies to my daughters and my parents, who will learn about what I did on my summer vacation when they read this post. If any friends have read Fifty Shades of Grey and want to talk about it with me, please let me know. But be prepared: If we talk in person about it, I will likely be fifty shades of red.
barrelmakersdaughter 