Oh Happy Day!

March 20, 2009 at 8:31 am (everyday life)
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Today is, officially, the first day of Spring.  For those of you who live in sunny Florida or mild Arkansas or desert-y Arizona, this may not mean much to you.  I read some of your blogs and you have pictures from yesterday of your kids in shorts and sandals playing on the playground, or you are describing the baseball games your son played, or wondering what kind of flowers are popping up in the front yard of your new home.  For those of you up here in the North, like me, however…the first day of Spring is all about hope and renewal.

Hope that my children might once again be able to go outside and play and get the heck out of my hair while I’m trying to make dinner or sweep the kitchen floor.  A renewal of determination to actually Spring clean this year.  A hope that I might once again see the laundry room floor, since spring and summer mean less laundry.  (They do!!  Shorts and t-shirts are much smaller than jeans and sweaters!  And in summer, we eliminate pajamas altogether as my kids just sleep in their underwear!)  A renewal of health as I can finally get back outside and walk with my friend B without stepping in snow up to my knees or worrying about slipping on ice and cracking my noggin.  A  hope that my teenager’s brain won’t shrivel up and die from the video games he plays all winter long, as he’ll be back outside  playing baseball and basketball with his friends.  A renewal of the color in my skin, which during the winter just turns a ghastly, pasty white. 

See?  Hope and renewal.  And don’t tell me that it’s only 21 degrees outside.  I KNOW it’s only 21 degrees outside.  Trust me.  I sent my children to school in their bulky down jackets and winter hats and gloves.  I know it’s 21 degrees.  But it’s a signal that winter really WON’T last forever.  It will come to an end.  Someday.  I think.

Until then, I’ll be doing laundry.

4 Comments

I AM NOT OLD!

March 16, 2009 at 9:07 am (Life Lessons)

I am 35.  And despite what I thought of 35 when I was 18, I now know that 35 is not even remotely old.  I’m young to have a 14 year old, I know that.  And I still act young, at least most of the time.  I like to go out dancing with my friends.  I can usually almost  keep up with Spike in a game of basketball in the driveway.  I love roller coasters and I’d go bungee jumping or skydiving in a heartbeat if given the chance.  And most of the time, I look around at my husband and three kids and job and mortgage, and wonder how they all got here when I still feel like I’m about 21.  See?  Not old.

But then every once in a while, I have a day when I feel incredibly ancient.  When I look around at the way we’re talking and the things we’re doing and I think…Oh no!!  We’re old!!  Sometimes it’s when Sarge and I get caught up in talking about his retirement fund and how to best save for those years.  Sometimes it’s when I’m sitting on the floor for a long time and I have to make grunting noises to hoist myself back up onto my feet.  It’s not often, but there are days when I stop and think Yikes!  Yesterday was one of those days.  Or evenings, actually. 

The day started off as usual.  I dragged myself out of bed, went to work, and then went to my parents’ house to see our extended family and to celebrate some family birthdays.  No problem, right?  Typical stuff.    We came home, put the two youngest kids to bed early after a busy weekend, and turned on The Amazing Race.  Still fine.  It’s after that that it gets scary.  Once The Amazing Race was over, there was nothing really on television.  And it was only 9:00.  After flipping the channels for a while, we finally turned on a show on the Travel channel…some show about Alaskan wildlife.  And we watched it.  With interest!! 

Now don’t get me wrong.  I think documentaries are wonderful.  They have great educational value and I’m glad they exist.  In fact, I would be thrilled to walk into the family room and find my children glued to the tv screen watching a documentary about Alaskan wildlife, or rainforests, or sandstorms in the Middle East, or African insects, or whatever.  Especially in place of the Hannah Montana or iCarly or Spongebob (please!! no more Spongebob!!) -type shows that they usually turn to.  And I would not be surprised at all to walk into my parents’ family room to find them watching a documentary on World War II or America’s National Parks or The Seven Wonders of the World or Earthquakes.  See?  I like documentaries!  They’re wonderful for children!  And old people! 

But here’s the problem.  In the last couple of months, Sarge and I have watched two other shows that I see as “old people” shows.  First there was the time we were flipping through the channels and stopped for several long moments paused on The Celtic Woman on PBS.  Now again…lovely show.  Lovely women with lovely voices.  And being primarily Irish myself, I value Celtic music and all that it embodies.  And yet….I am not quite prepared to watch The Celtic Woman on TV.   It’s for old people, right??

Another time, there was a show on PBS that was just comprised of a whole lot of violinists.  Like, orchestra violinists.  And there was one young man…I think it said he was 18 or something…that was outstanding on that violin.  It really was something to watch.  The orchestra would play something leading up to his solo, and then he would go to town on those strings and make some pretty remarkable sounds from his violin.  It was amazing.  Really.  But again, PBS airs it primarily for other violinists…and old people.  NOT for young and hip couples in their 30’s.

So back to my story…and on to the REALLY frightening part.  We finished watching the Alaskan wildlife channel at 10:00, and then…wait for it…we went to bed.  At 10.  Seriously…we really are old.  We barely had the teenager in bed at that point!  And yet, we were both ready for bed, practically falling asleep in our recliners.  Ug.

Now again, I have a little bit of an excuse.  Since my sister passed away a month ago, I have been almost constantly exhausted.  I think it’s my body making me take time to grieve in a busy life.  And admittedly, in an already busy life, I have taken on more responsibility (happily so!) since she’s gone.  I am more active in the lives of her two little girls…caring for them on Wednesdays and helping my brother-in-law when I can.  And this means that my time at home is limited as well, so that when I am home, I am always cleaning or doing laundry or whatever.  It’s also been an incredibly busy few weeks, with a couple more busy weeks ahead.  I get that…I get it that I SHOULD be tired and that it’s okay.  But that doesn’t make me feel better when I climb into bed at 10:00 and fall immediately to sleep.  It just makes me feel, well, old. 

I just never want to be one of those women, you know?  Someone who loses herself in the caring for her children.  Someone who stops wearing makeup or stylish clothes that fit well and making herself look pretty because she just doesn’t have time, or because she’s exhausted.  I want to go out with my friends and stay out until 2am.  (or later!)  I want to travel the world and run from subway station to subway station in London without getting out of breath or complaining about my aching knees.  I want to be able to have a real conversation about my life without needing to talk about my children because there’s nothing left of me.  Especially since seeing the deaths of two people in my life in the last month, both who were under the age of 45, I want to live as much as I can. 

I know, I know.  Watching a documentary about Alaskan wildlife (or even the Celtic Woman!) and going to bed at 10 does not mean I can’t do all those things.  That doesn’t mean I can’t live life to the fullest.  I get that.  It just made me stop and think…wait a minute!  is this how I want to be spending my time?  What else can I be doing with my life right now?  That’s my point.  That’s all I mean.  I just don’t want to act old yet.  I’m still so young. 

So the moral of the story is….(and I mean this!!)  if you ever catch me watching old Laurence Welk reruns, you officially have permission to slap me.

9 Comments

The Gift

February 24, 2009 at 9:55 am (Life Lessons)
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One thing I’ve been contemplating a lot lately is how much unhappiness and anger is in the world.  I’m constantly amazed at how many people are so quick to flip me the bird as I “get in their way” on the road, or give me a dirty look if I’m taking too long at the checkout counter, or look the other way if I smile as I pass a stranger on the street.  Just this morning I read an article about a television show, and the number of people who took the time to read the article and then badmouth the tv show was staggering!  The negative comments about the show far outnumbered the positive comments.  I just don’t understand this.  Why would you even bother to read the article, if it was a show that you hated?  I don’t get it.

Two weeks ago today I was standing vigil at the bedside of my big sister in the ICU of a nearby hospital.  I had been there all night and, as it would turn out, would stay all day.  She had been fighting breast cancer off and on for ten years, and it was finally winning.  My sister wasn’t giving up…she was still fighting despite the pain, the exhaustion, and the news from the doctor that she only had a couple of days left to live.  She had hugged her little girls, aged 12 and 9, and held the hand of her amazing husband who she loved so much.  She had said the words we all needed to hear from her, and we had said the words we needed to say.  But she still didn’t give up.  She was still fighting.

In the midst of that fight, during the last two days of my sweet sister’s life, she was smiling.  She was bald and thin and her body was covered in rashes that meant her blood was betraying her, but still she was smiling.  The nurses (they were wonderful nurses!!) came to gently give her medication or change her bedding or check her wounds, and she smiled at them and said thank you.  She was too weak to reach out for her own cup of water or ice chips and would ask me for some, and she would say please.  She was dying, and she was leaving behind a wonderful husband and two amazing little girls, but she was still smiling. 

We all do our share of complaining.  I whine that there aren’t enough hours in the day to complete things at work or at home.  I get frustrated when my kids don’t help out enough or when they fight with each other constantly.  Let’s face it:  life is rarely easy and it’s so easy to complain about the little stuff as well as the big stuff.  And I understand…I really do.  Just because one person is dying from breast cancer doesn’t mean that it hurts less when you stub your toe. 

And yet.  Today I will smile at strangers more.  Today I will not complain about my work load or my messy house or my children fighting.  Today I will say thank you to even the smallest acts of kindness and I will try my best to perform a few acts of kindness myself.  I will hug my children, I will tell my friends and family how much they mean to me, I will work hard, I will play hard, I will live my life, and I will be happy.

I miss my sister more than I can say.  And the fact that she’s no longer here leaves a chunk of my heart missing that nothing else can fill.  But I am so blessed.  I had a sister that was an example to me of who I want to be.  I spent my sister’s last full night with her, smiling with her, and talking with her, and holding her hand, and watching the way she still moved in the world, even though she could barely move at all.  I will never forget those last days, or the thirty-five years of days I had with my sister leading up to that point.  They were a gift.

I will treasure that gift for the rest of my life, and even though it will sometimes be with tears in my eyes, still I will smile.

14 Comments

Introducing Blondie

January 22, 2009 at 5:50 pm (Uncategorized)

The talent in this family is unbelievable!!

6 Comments

Saying Goodbye

January 7, 2009 at 9:56 am (Life Lessons)
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I’ve never been one of those people that treats my dog like one of my children.  My dog is just my dog.  That being said, we are definitely dog people.  We got Casey when Spike was a year old, so all of our kids have grown up having a dog in their lives.  They have never known life without a dog.

Until now.  Last Monday, Casey started bleeding.  From several places.  And she didn’t stop.  I took her to the vet, and they did some blood tests, and determined that she had a bleeding disorder that caused her blood not to clot.  She would “ooze blood” for the rest of her life, which wouldn’t be long anyway.  She would lose more and more blood until she became so anemic and so weak that she would just pass away.  The best bet would be to put her down, so she wouldn’t suffer. 

It wasn’t a hard decision.  Casey, while she was 13 years old, had never been sick.  She still acted like a puppy most of the time.  She loved to camp with us, chasing mice in the fields and sniffing all the new smells along the riverbanks.  She went to Christmas at both families’ homes with us, and was playful and happy.  When we had a big snow a couple of weeks ago, she was out tromping around with us in it.  She was a great dog.  We didn’t want her to suffer.  We didn’t want our kids to watch her bleed, and get weak, and be sick.  We wanted her to be able to just go to sleep peacefully, and for us to be able to remember that playful, frisky dog we’d always known.  I made an appointment for the next morning, so that I could bring her home first and we could all say our goodbyes.

The kids were, of course, a mess when I told them.  Spike, almost 14,  was the most upset…almost inconsolable for a while.  Casey was, after all, officially his dog.  Blondie, who is 9, cried and was sad, but asked when we could get another dog, because she just “doesn’t feel right” having no dog at home.  Goo, who is only five, understood and cried, and said that he didn’t want Casey to die.  And Sarge and I had our moments of tears as well.  I felt almost silly, crying over a dog.  But she was part of our family.  She loved us unconditionally and asked for very little in return.  She made us feel safe in our home at night, especially when Sarge was away on TDY.  So yeah, we cried.

It’s been a week now, and we all miss her.  Sarge and I miss hearing her snore as she sleeps on our bedroom floor at night.  We miss having her come up and put her head in our laps in the evenings while we watch TV, wanting a little attention.  We miss watching her chase squirrels in the front yard and seeing her fall asleep with her head on her favorite toy, a stuffed monkey.  We even miss her begging for food while we’re eating dinner.  We just miss her.

It took a little longer for the kids.  They cried when they found out that she was going to die.  They cried as they said their goodbyes.  And then, they were okay.  They would forget sometimes.  They would ask if they could give the last bite of their hot dogs to her, and then they would remember.  But they seemed okay.  And then last night, I put Goo to bed and he called me a few minutes later, which is unusual for him.  When I went in, he was crying hard and asked if I would sit with him for a few minutes, because he was “really, really sad right now.”  When I asked what he was sad about, he said that he didn’t want Casey to die.  It hit him that she was really gone, and he lost it.  Poor baby.

Sometimes it feels like there’s a little ghost around here.  I’ll hear a noise and think it must be the dog scratching at the door to come in.  Or I’ll see something out of the corner of my eye and think it’s her, until I remember that she’s not around anymore. 

Someday, we’ll get a new puppy.  Maybe in a few months.  But Casey will always be my kids’ “childhood dog” and she will always be part of our family.  And I think there will be a part of us that will always miss her.
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16 Comments

It Must Be Genetic

December 20, 2008 at 1:54 pm (everyday life)
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My nine-year-old daughter is a packrat.  She saves everything from old shoe boxes to school papers from first grade to the tags that we take off her new clothes.  Every nook and cranny of her bedroom is filled with stuff that she’s buried away like a squirrel in the fall.  I’ve wondered for a long time why she is like that.  After all, I am probably the complete opposite of a packrat…throwing stuff away if I can’t find a good place to keep it.  But today, I found a clue to her behavior.

I was lying on the bed, chatting with my husband about our plans for the day as he cleaned off his closet shelf and cleaned out his top dresser drawer.  As I watched the items that he pulled out and sorted, I came to the realization that packrat-ness runs in the family.  And the more he pulled out, the more I laughed.

From his closet shelf, Sarge took a bayonette for an AK-47, a large roll of glow-in-the-dark tape, and a gun-cleaning kit.  He found an 18-year-old Army cap for his dress greens, a couple of military medals, a pair of red suspenders, and some ear protection for when he practices shooting.  He also pulled out a magnetic tool picker-upper-thingie and, strangely enough, an antique clay thrower. 

Then he moved on to his top dresser drawer.  It has not been deemed a “junk drawer” officially…it is supposed to hold his socks and underwear.  However, after seeing what he pulled out of it, I may need to relocate the socks and underwear.  The top drawer collection included two maps of Michigan, two armbands that were worn in Iraq, two exercise bands given to him by his physical therapist (which have never been used, by the way), and some paperwork on how to control your cholesterol.  He also pulled out a padlock, a deck of “All American Dad” playing cards that one of the kids got him for Christmas a couple of years ago, an old pair of glasses, two old cell phones, and a “make your own office stamp” kit, which in all fairness he gave to me and I just haven’t used yet.  The more he pulled from that drawer, the more I laughed.  He tried to defend himself, saying that he isn’t a packrat at all, but by the end, I think even he was amused.  I told him it would make a great post, and he tried to act mad at me about using him as fodder for my blog.  But I think he saw the value in such an array of objects being pulled from such unlikely places. 

So it seems that Blondie comes by her packrat habits naturally.  She’s just a chip off the old Sarge.  Mystery solved.

8 Comments

Slowly But Surely…

December 18, 2008 at 4:41 pm (Life Lessons)
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The following is a recycled post from my old blog, Lyrics of My Life.  I was reading it over today and realizing that I’ve come a long way since I wrote this post.  I still struggle once in a while, but mostly, I’m pretty comfortable in my own skin.  Read on:

 

13 Again…(Summer, 2007)

 

Anyone who knows me knows how much I love music. I’m into all kinds of music, and being a self-proclaimed writer/poet, I especially love anything with great thoughtful and meaningful lyrics. One artist I listen to a lot is Alanis Morissette (No, I do not hate men!) because she sings so honestly about stuff I can relate to. The following song got me thinking about what I wanted to blog about today:

 

“So Unsexy” by Alanis Morissette

 

Oh these little rejections how they add up quickly

One small sideways look and I feel so ungood

Somewhere along the way I think I gave you the power to make

Me feel the way I thought only my father could

 

Oh these little rejections how they seem so real to me

One forgotten birthday I’m all but cooked

How these little abandonments seem to sting so easily

I’m 13 again am I 13 for good?

 

I can feel so unsexy for someone so beautiful

So unloved for someone so fine

I can feel so boring for someone so interesting

So ignorant for someone of sound mind

 

Oh these little protections how they fail to serve me

One forgotten phone call and I’m deflated

Oh these little defenses how they fail to comfort me

Your hand pulling away and I’m devastated

 

When will you stop leaving baby?

When will I stop deserting baby?

When will I start staying with myself?

 

Oh these little projections how they keep springing from me

I jump my ship as I take it personally

Oh these little rejections how they disappear quickly

The moment I decide not to abandon me 

 

There are times when this is me in a nutshell. I want to not care about what other people think of me. I want to state my opinions and hold my own and stand tall without worrying about what everyone is saying or thinking about me. I want to see people from my past (which for some reason I’ve been doing a lot of lately) and be proud of where I am in my life. I want to feel like I can be a beautiful person even if I never lose this 20 pounds. The thing is, I’m just not always quite there yet. 

I’m better than I was. Much better, actually. While my husband was in Iraq for a year, I gained a little more confidence in what I can do on my own. If I can get through a year with three kids and a mortgage while my husband’s in a war zone, I figure I can get through just about anything. I also went to Europe for a week by myself (well, my sister met me there for most of the time, but I still did most of the scary parts on my own) during that year and it was absolutely the greatest thing I’ve ever done in my life. I gained so much perspective in that week, just experiencing something–life–other than what’s in my own backyard. So I’m not nearly as “scared” as I used to be. 

But still, there are definitely times I feel like I’m back in high school…or middle school…trying to at least look pretty so people will like me, agreeing with the crowd so I won’t be singled out as the “weird one”, shoving my opinions under a pile of smiles and nods. Even this blogging thing makes me vulnerable…putting myself out there and hoping my readers out in cyber-land will comment good things and go away thinking I’m a pretty interesting person instead of clicking on my blog and then looking elsewhere for something good to read. 

So am I destined to be 13 forever? Will I be 80, trying to do my hair in just the right shade of blue so I’ll fit in at the senior center? I think if I could just be me, I’d be so much more free. (Okay, I didn’t mean to make that cheesey rhyme.) I’m just sort of an oddball in my circle. I don’t always “fit in” so easily. I’m Christian, and I go to church most Sundays. I even help lead a Bible study during the week. I also have 3 tattoos, I love Sangria and martinis, I have 2 good friends that happen to be a gay couple, and I’m an avid (read: obsessed) fan of reality tv. The people at church don’t always “get” me. Heck, even my husband is usually clueless. 

So I’m telling myself…I’m not going to give other people the power to make me feel less-than-worthy. I’m going to make a point this week of expressing my opinion even if it may not be the popular one. I’m going to do what needs to be done this week to feel more comfy in my own skin. Maybe by next week I’ll be more like, you know, 14.

 

 

3 Comments

Parental Guidance NOT Required, Apparently.

December 17, 2008 at 9:49 am (everyday life)
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Right.  So the whole “posting every day” thing?  Not so much.  Life sorta, you know, got in the way.  You know how it goes.  And plus there’s Facebook. 

Yesterday Blondie came home from school sporting some wicked road rash on her face.  I mean…really nasty.  I was shocked, and wondered why the school didn’t call to let me know.  Turns out, it happened on the way to the bus stop yesterday morning.  She had to walk a city block, and this happened.  (Seriously, how do you even get road rash on the bridge of your nose??  I’m not sure I understand.)  She was bleeding.  She was crying.  She was hurt and upset.  Did she turn around and come home to tell me that she was hurt, so I could clean her up and then drive her to school?  Nope.  She just got on the bus, crying and bleeding.  When she got to school, she went to the office to clean up a little.  She wanted to call me.  They said there was nothing I could really do, since those were just scrapes on her face.  They gave her a Band-Aid and sent her back to class. 

Now it’s true that I couldn’t have done anything but offer some sympathy.  It’s true that by that time, most of the pain was gone and the bleeding had stopped and she was fine.  I wouldn’t have gone to school to pick her up.  I wouldn’t have left work to check out her injuries.  I would have simply listened to the story, asked if she was okay, and told her I was sorry she was hurt.  I would have let her know that if she is ever injured on the way to the bus stop again, she should come home and let me know.  I would have given her a little Mommy-love and told her I would see her after school.  Instead, my nine-year-old daughter went through an entire school day looking like she was a member of a fight club, and I didn’t know anything about it.

I’m not mad at the school.  I’m not going to call and yell at someone.  I’m sure they get a gazillion kids in the office every day wanting to call home for some reason or another.  I guess it just bothers me that I didn’t know what was going on with my own kid.  Even if it was an injury that didn’t really need medical attention, it was still an injury.  And I am, after all, her mother.  I would have wanted to know about it.  I did want to know about it.  Instead, my little girl came home looking like this:

roadrash1

I know, right?

7 Comments

Gullible, but Loveable

December 12, 2008 at 5:49 pm (Life Lessons)
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I was doing some Christmas shopping today, merrily minding my own business.  I was the only person waiting in a cordoned-off line for one of three open registers in front of me.  That’s  when a middle-aged woman walked up to one of the counters with her purchases, completely ignoring me, and waited for the cashier to finish ringing up the customer she was with at the time.  Essentially, as my 9-year-old would say, she took cuts. 

I stood there in line, with an armful of heavy bags and juggling my loot, trying to decide what I should do.  Should I say something?  I could politely say, “Excuse me…the line is back here.”  But then again, it is Christmas time.  I could graciously let her go ahead of me and I could just forget about it.  It would only mean a couple more minutes to wait, and I wasn’t in a hurry.

In the end, I didn’t say anything.  She made her purchases without even glancing my way as though she knew she was doing the wrong thing, but didn’t care.  If she didn’t make eye contact, she didn’t have to feel badly.  It was not a big deal.  I waited until she was done, made my purchase, and was gone within five minutes.  But still, I was left feeling like a push-over.  She “got away” with being rude and inconsiderate.  And while I didn’t mind waiting the extra five minutes–in fact if she would have asked permission to go ahead of me because she was in a hurry, I would have said yes without hesitation–I also didn’t want her to think she could take advantage of me.  I didn’t want to be seen as “weak”, I guess.  I didn’t want to be taken for a fool.

I often feel the same way on my way to work.  There are two separate men who often stand at the top of the freeway exit near my job, holding signs that say “Hungry.  Please help” or another similar message.  At different times, I have happily given those men the lunch I packed, or a few extra dollars from my wallet, or a cup of hot coffee.  I don’t mind doing it.  It’s no trouble for me, and if the roles were reversed I would hope that they would do the same.  But at the same time, I wonder about those men.  What do they do with that money, or that lunch?  Have they decided that it’s “easier” to take other people’s money and food than to work for their own?  Am I just another poor fool that’s willing to offer up what I have?   It’s one thing to be gracious, but it’s another to be gullible.  Which am I?

I guess the bottom line is this:  should I worry more about my intentions, or the intentions of others?  Is it more honorable to be generous and trusting, even if it means that others sometimes take advantage of me?   And what does that make me:  a girl who puts others before herself, or a pushover?  I choose to call myself a girl who puts others first.  But I must admit that sometimes, I can’t help feeling like a doormat.

4 Comments

A Still, Small Voice

December 11, 2008 at 9:47 am (Life Lessons)
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It’s okay!  No need to send out a search party or call 911.  I actually am still around, for the five of you who still read my blog and are interested.  I know it’s been over a month since I posted.  I know that some of you have been waiting for news of what’s been going on in my life.  I know some of you have wondered if I’m done blogging forever.  I know.

The truth is, in the words of my friend Melbs, I miss that obsessive blogging that I used to do back when I had my old blog, “Lyrics”.  When I used to post practically every day, and I would look around me all day for blogging fodder, and my husband knew that anything he did would most likely be posted for the world to see by that evening.  I miss that.

I’ve had a bit of writer’s block lately, for sure.  I thought that there was nothing “blog-worthy” in my life.  I thought that all I had was work and home, and no time for deep thinking or long philosophizing about the world around me.  But I’m realizing now that there is much to write about.  There are my new friends at work.  There are the issues that have recently come up in my life about race and background.  There are my thoughts about the differences between working moms and stay at home moms.  There are cute stories about my children.  There is stuff.  Stuff that I can write about. Stuff that I should write about.  So what’s stopping me?

Throughout my whole life, writing has been an outlet for me.  When I’m stressed, I write.  When I’m sad, I write.  When I’m excited about something, I write.  When I’m nostalgic or melancholy, I write.  And lately, I’ve let that go.  I’ve been so consumed by work and volunteering and family and housework that I’ve let the balance that writing gives me just slip away.  And in the last couple of days, I’ve begun to realize that I subsequently feel that I’ve lost my voice.  That the part of me that expresses myself the best…the part of me that allows me to be me most clearly… is gone.   I think that part of me is afraid.  Afraid that the new people in my life, the people who have recently come back in my life, the people who are just getting to know me, will read what I write here and either think I’m a fool for the things I write, or will be shocked at the thoughts that often go bumping around in my head.  Am I ready for them to see, in black and white, who I really am before they get that chance in person, gradually?

But then it all comes back to my voice again.  Do I want to be an actor?  Do I want to act like someone I’m not?  Or do I want to be exactly who I was created to be, perhaps not who I’m going to be yet, but a work in progress?  Do I want to be real, no matter what people think?  The answer, of course, is yes.  I want to be me, real and genuine and unafraid. 

So here goes.  I’m starting a  blogging campaign for myself.  I hope to post everyday, even if it’s just a quick thought or funny story.  I’m going to be intentional, in the hopes that writing will once again become a habit for me, in the same way as breathing or the need to nourish myself.  And in the process, I hope some of you will hear my voice in my writing, and decide to stick around for the ride.

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