If Words Would Heal the Ancient

I've always had a lot of words. In my mouth. In my head. Coming out of my mouth. Caught in the back of my throat. Just lots of them. In moments that seem so dire, or so important, I always feel this incredible need to have the very right words. I would say if there was one, very constant desire in me, it would be to possess an eloquence beyond my understanding. Better explained- that my words would come from places that knew more than me, that had a bigger picture in mind, so that when I spoke them- they were RIGHT. They were historical in that moment. To me. To the spoken-to. To the following events. I have sat numerous times in front of hurting friends- hearing their pain, their frustrations, their confusion....what have you... and I feel this pleading hope inside me that MY words would be the ones that brought forth change for them. Maybe an epiphany for their next brilliant, course-changing steps. Even better, maybe healing words to erase a cycle.

Today, I listened, to a story. A hurtful story within my family. A story that has been writing along for quite some time. I talked and asked questions as logic called for, all the while feeling my gut begin to turn with this burning desire- to speak. Not just talk- to my mom, or even other characters in this story, but to REALLY speak. To say to my mom words that would break ancient lies weighing on her heart. To tell my loved ones things they needed to know to repair. An ache tends to build up in my heart, desperately wanting to deliver fresh new words that bring life and awakening. Pleading.

I want to speak healing against the ancient, in grown blisters of all this time. I believe that the simple word can make or break a history within someone. And honestly, it's not about ME being the one to deliver such powerful words. It's the agonizing hope that SOMEONE SOMEWHERE will take that step to deliver them. That in the end, WORDS were said. I can count many moments along this storyline where I have wished words would swoop in from some unknown human- like in the movies- a passerby just shocks with wisdom and brings new light to some very dark corners. But, seemingly, that's more common in movies than in life. And here we are, with no words. BUT I HAVE WORDS- I DO! I just don't know if they are the RIGHT ones. What if they are not meant for the now? What if they are meant to be said, but it isn't the right time for them to be heard?

I would love to walk into a room, and just speak those words. Into the air they go, to fall on the necessary ears at their own leisure- in their own right moments.

I love so passionately that I fear my own intentions would interrupt. They would inject some own commentary. So- I withhold ALL words. I just wait. What will be will be. Right? But what if those words needed to be there? To show love and truth and revelation of healing and renewal? What if nothing is out there strong enough to break the ancient cycle but these words? I don't really have specific WORDS to say, I just feel like deep down inside something is welling up and needs to come out....But also, I don't give myself some weird credit for having magic words to solve everything... I just know that if words of truth and release were in the air, the other words of pain and deceit would be called to accountability.

I just can't get over the thought that words could be the dissolving agent in such a built up cycle. I want words to come- to heal, to renew, to strengthen. For them. For me. For us all.

God gives the gift of WORDS so very often, now, I pray it is the time for our family to receive that powerful gift.

I'm curious what the word "hope" means to people. I'm not gonna do the cheesy go-around-the-room-and-tell-your-experience game, but generally speaking, I'm thinking "hope", as a word, has an effect on people. Some may say "hope" is this gushy word associated with God and unicorns in green pastures and doesn't fall into the realistic category all that well.

(Those people are the ones afraid to cry in public.)

Others might have this soul-jolting connection with "hope" that gives them every reason to wake in the morning because of the life they have lived and the incredible story they have to tell.

(Those people cry a lot in public.)

Nowadays, if someone hears the word "hope" they might even see Obama's whole political campaign flash through their brain. But this blog isn't about any of those people, cuz I'm not them. This blog is about me... (Isn't it always?)

The type of "hope" person I am is this: If I begin hoping for something, it creates an obsession which turns into something painful which turns into disappointment. Doesn't sound all that appealing huh? I'd take the Obama campaign reference over my weird understanding of "hope".

I'm obviously going to explain myself on my dot-to-dot connection between hope, obsession and pain. So, don't go anywhere.

A year and a half ago-ish, I was struggling to find a job. My health was a mess. And I had quite a few other things weighing me down over the blessings I should have been strong enough to count. I felt like nothing went right. Nothing voted in my favor. And maybe I will go so far as to say, I felt like God was picking on me. Maybe not "picking on me", but at least neglecting me or more practically speaking, I felt like God was giving me a dose of reality. Ya know, making me play the hand I had dealt myself. Hope to me wasn't much of a word because everything I "hoped" for was a NECESSITY that I wasn't getting (job to pay bills, health enough to function...). It wasn't like I was able to go into "dream mode" and think of the amazing possibilities. I was just thankful that I could get out of bed long enough to keep the house clean, feed Zoe and enter the painful process of applying for jobs I didn't really want and probably wouldn't get an interview for anyway. (I sound like quite the drag eh?)

Life to me was this painful, tiring chore I had no other option than to just keep doing.

I felt guilty for wallowing, trust me on that, because there were people all around me trudging through hard things too- and they seemed to be doing just fine. I felt even more guilty that I wasn't fine, that I wasn't strong enough to just pull it together.

I had amazing friends who really got creative in trying to bring me out of my slump and remind me that God does provide, and that all things work out they way they are supposed to. But still- those words "provide" and "work out" didn't make sense when I was jobless, weak and completely discouraged. I mean- granted, I had a place to live and I still had my car. But does it count calling it "provided for" when you have to borrow unrepayable amounts of money from your relatives just to live? (Today, I do actually know the answer to that question, but back then- I cried over that horrible way of getting by--- in other words, it was difficult being on the humble end of a blessing or two.)

The thing is- I wasted that whole time crying and resenting the fact that I wasn't getting provided for "for reals"- that all the people who were there to jump in and bless me, ironically JUST WHEN I NEEDED IT, were taken for granted.

And worse, the entire experience didn't shine with the great wisdom extracted from the journey. Instead, pain built upon pain built upon disappointment cemented itself deep down. I caught myself thinking "it's about freakin' time, God" a lot. (I needed a lesson on gratefulness too, but thankfully that lesson was held off on. haha)

How hard would it have been for God to have just given me a job? Or just given me a break? I asked those questions a lot. And, over and over, I got the silent answer of random blessings to keep me going. When I look back, I'm shocked at how perfectly I was provided for, how flawlessly God moved me forward, even when I was kicking and screaming. I accused Him of NOT doing what He actually WAS doing. (Hindsight is the perfect portal to viewing my immaturity.)

The other day, I caught myself hoping for something. And with that "hope", I also recognized the trailing feeling of painful obsession. Becoming so destined to GET IT and then becoming so disappointed when IT didn't come the exact way I had hoped. I remembered how often that feeling had come up in the past. And that is when I stopped myself, and the thought popped into my head, "what if hope is not about designing the perfect outcome, but becoming so vulnerable to the future with your dreams in hand that God is allowed to work some serious magic? What if hope wasn't a painful thing, but a transforming thing?" It sounds so obvious, so rudimentary. Like of course hope isn't supposed to be a painful ordeal! Of course hoping should allow God to see your dreams and then lead you directly toward a REAL demonstration of that dream. But to me, it sounded kinda epiphany-like.

If I hope, I will hope open mindedly. If I am open minded, I will learn. If I learn while I hope, I will grow. When I grow, I will see my hopes automatically woven into the path I'm naturally walking. I like this kind of hope. It's natural, simple. It has no obsessive strings and no past of disappointment dragging behind it.

It's free.
It's limitless.
The way hope was intended to be.

Hi, Maintenance

I honestly don't even know how to begin this one other than to say, I hate the word MAINTENANCE. The very definition BUGS ME. What's the source of my deep disdain? Because MAINTENANCE is a word that suggests you have to do "it" every day, all the time in order to keep up. You brush your teeth EVERY DAY, no breaks- no vacations. You go to bed and get up at the same times every day- no weekend exceptions unless you want to struggle the following week with constant tiredness. Every day you do dishes and clean up and wash laundry and take showers. If you skip days, people notice. YOU NOTICE. You try to relax, and the next thing you know, you're realizing that relaxing has somehow put you behind.

I'm a huge fan and proponent of the "if you do it once, you shouldn't have to do it again for a long time" motto. You know, if you just spent an hour washing all the dishes, putting them in the dishwasher- it makes sense to not have to revisit that chore again for at least a week. (And all the real women out there chuckle...) Or if you lose all that cherished chub from bearing a baby, the work you put in should give some lifetime guarantee that it won't sneak right back on. (Again, the real women out there know how unrealistic this hope is.) But how do you have time to keep the house clean, the weight off, the work done, the husband and kids loved and still have time to take care of all the little things YOU need too?

Ironically, I starting writing this blog months ago when I was frustrated with how messy my house was, how behind with work I felt and in the midst of a "fat day". I have added pieces here and there to this lingering topic, and I revisited it today. Right after I realized all my frustration is stemming from the lack of good, true perspective.

Maintenance isn't much of a perspective issue as much as it is a motivation issue. But I think perspective directly affects motivation. If my theory of "truth up perspective equals amped up motivation" then maybe my definition of EFFECTIVE will be powered by truth and acted out by the abilities I already have. And just then, MAYBE, I will stop seeing a falling behind, ragged attempt of a female and just see a woman- a woman who lives life gracefully and beautifully just as intended. Like every other woman who knows life is not about conquering, just a whole lot of tackling. Over. and Over. AND OVER.

I'm my own robber

Last night I did my taxes. I would say normally, that sort of "event" is not really an "event" at all, and really shouldn't be worth writing anything about. (Especially since I haven't written in months...) I don't own a house, or buy new energy efficient cars or sit down with some fancy suit to get help on this deal. It's rather simple. Turbotax. A few w-2's. And crossed fingers.
I filled everything out- did what I was supposed to do- ready to file and BAMMMMM!!!! My "free" filing system decided it would charge me $85 to file. I'm certain along the way I clicked on some upgrade that I didn't actually read to just continue what I was doing. (My teachers told me that not fully reading the instructions/questions would catch up with me someday.) I had resolved that I would figure out how to un-upgrade and get back to the free business of doing something I didn't want to waste my night on in the first place. Well- to keep this segment of the story short, it just wasn't working out for me. I was being faced with the choice to pay what I didn't want to pay, or to go to another ACTUALLY FREE website and RE-DO what I had already done. And my insides said "ABSOLUTELY FREAKIN NOOOOO" to both- so what happened? Rosie's insides told her to throw a fit. Like, really. I had the biggest urge to just pick up my computer and throw it ON. THE. GROUND. (If you're slightly judging me on the irrational amount of anger happening over such a little ordeal, you're spot on. I judge myself today looking back...) I won't go into detail about my fit, cuz it was really silly- just imagine some stomping, some grumbling and the attempts of a sweet husband trying to calm his completely red with fury wife.
Maybe an hour or so after the actual "incident" in which I fell victim to such circumstances (I'm assuming that my anger stemmed from some ridiculous belief that I was a "victim", otherwise, I would have just rolled with the punches right?) I was laying in bed wondering why in the world I WAS STILL CRYING OVER THIS ORDEAL...(I'm sure my husband was wondering the same) And a little thought came into my brain-

"I'm still crying cuz I don't want to rob my emotions by just blowing past them, but at the same time- I'm pretty sick of my emotions robbing me by dwelling on them"

Even more thought went into that, and honestly, I've been letting my emotions rob me quite a bit lately. It seems like I've been upset a lot over the things that I can't control. And instead of just taking on the world with my talents and everything I think I'm made of, I roll over and just pout, or stomp or sigh or whatever I deem is "fit worthy" for the moment. When did I revert back to a 7th grade girl!? That was never really my demeanor. So what's my deal now?
For some reason, I have allowed this little "victim" bug to wiggle its way deep down to my innards and here I am being so selfish that others get the worst of me. AND THAT MAKES ME FEEL EVEN MORE UPSET- so I punish myself. So I'm a victim to life and a victim to myself. I really don't give myself much of a break from this role of playing "victim" huh? The funny part is, I have no real concrete object to be upset at. I get upset at some mystical concept- LIFE.

I recognize life is all about perspective. And sometimes, I struggle with the thought that perspective means walking away from your emotions and your own reality and letting truth be the bed you shove all the other "stuff" under just so you can rest easy at night on something "stable". I try to find some soothing alternative where I get to keep all my feelings and roller coaster emotions "dealt with" all the while maintaining some composure- like what if I got regular massages? Or would my aura be more positive energy-like if I did yoga? (I had a lady the other day at work tell me I wasn't giving off very positive energy... haha... another reason I'm rethinking my method of dealing with life.)
But every time I run across my ideas, I remember, something is missing from those ideas. Working out is great. Yoga is great. Massages are wonderful (and expensive for broke ol' me). But they are kinda temporary-ish....right? SO- I'm back to the perspective thing. I guess I don't get to run too far from good ol' truth in an old fashioned reality check every now and then. I'm pretty sure, a good start to all the above, would be restarting (and actually maintaining) that darn hope wall.

Show me your bones

I love that my heart is so attached to writing. I hate that I only visit when my heart's longing can no longer be contained. I love that writing releases what I've been trying to manage and sort and box up so neatly, but I hate that I wait until I have emotions stacked to the ceiling to describe. I end up writing more seriously than I imagine my usually comical self to be. I think I'd rather be a comedian, but I let things build up too long--- so I'm more like the thick aired morgue versus the trendy mod comedy stage.

I suppose, for some purposes, it's good to shed some light in the dark places people choose not to hang out. It's good to bring up the bones in the cooler as comfortably as the most rehearsed punch line. I guess, to be honest, I like talking about the bones hiding around this place, because I'm not quite done with them. I like to pass things off like I've done the mourning, I've done the changing and I'm just in general- D.O.N.E. But that would just be good joke material. No one's ever really "done" with those bones. They still have a way of showing up under furniture and down curious hallways. Enter a new person, and you have artifacts showin' up all over the place- behind the doors they recklessly throw open out of adventure and excitement. Or, exit the random dog that just carried off a piece or two of your skeletal baggage to be found on some aimless walk. For me- they're always turning up.

I have a bone in my hand I ran across today. I picked it up because I recognized it instantly as one that had been hidden somewhere in this foundation of mine. Like I mentioned before, it's one that has been found on multiple occasions. I picked it up, knowing there was something I was going to have to do with it. At that moment, I wasn't sure what to do, but toss it back and forth between the air and my hand as I kept on with my day. I didn't let it trip my step, I just kept going, swinging it back and forth with my pace- trying to make it a casual movement of time passage and a maybe a mindless game of catch between hands. Buying myself time.

I sat down tonight, in the quiet of my home. I sat that bone right in front of me and I looked at it. I'd like to break it, but it's a femur of a thing- it's the strongest bone I have creepin up on me. That's exactly what it is- the hero bone.

Being a hero has never been a negative thing in my eyes. Being a strong woman has always been quite the compliment. But, I find, when I keep waving that damn thing around, people who are approaching to help, get clobbered. The irony is, I WANT THE HELP- I WANT TO PUT THIS BONE TO REST- but I can't seem to bury it deep enough. It keeps crawling back. Scrappy lil demon.

On top of beating my help, I can't even crown myself with the glory of feeling strong "enough". I never feel like I'm ACTUALLY strong, or CONSISTENTLY strong, I just try to push in that direction (overbearingly so)- and seem to fail when I'm unwinding my day in my shower with all the held back tears and whimpering.

"FAKE HERO LONGS FOR HELP, HELP WON'T COME CUZ THEY SEE A HERO"

I don't really wanna be a hero (well, not ALL the time). So, where did this strong bone come from? Why would I have grown such a thing if I'm not REALLY that STRONG? Was I really let down enough times to build up such a thick, haunting structure? I know there's layers of "I'm not good enough" in there, probably the marrow of the whole deal. The original cells grown out of a lie whispered into my beating heart, pumping directed blood to the site. I probably condoned the construction, telling myself I was pushing myself to be "better" (if that's what independent and calloused is---"better").

This bone, my hero bone.... I don't want to keep hiding it- where I forget that I have it lurking around- until some unsuspecting Samaritan trips over the thing in attempts to save me. I'm thinking I will display it- like on my window sill or something. My gory little reminder to be a bit more fragile- a little more vulnerably inviting.

I can't always show love playing hero, so maybe I can show love by letting someone else be a little heroish FOR me.

Free to breakdown. melt down. settle down.

I will not fall silently

There's no doubt in my mind that falling is nothing short of humiliating. Sometimes we laugh, to brush off the stares of others who saw the flailing affair. I tend to laugh because I never cease to surprise my own self with my ability to find new ways to stumble. Ask me about the time I hung out of a bus by my shorts, or the time I tried to skateboard down "stairs", or the time I flew off the trampoline trying to impress a very cute vacuum salesman. They are good stories. I tell them loudly and enjoyably detailed.

The moment you ask me about a REAL fall, my voice will quiet, my gestures will cease and the amount of words I use to try and elaborate will decrease incredibly. This is not characteristic of just me. There aren't many I know that like to relive their failing moments in the spotlight (unless they are able to attach the saying "many years ago, back in my rebellious stage" to the beginning of the tale). I have said before, I tend to shut up when I see myself sliding into a slippery situation. I don't like to know OTHER people know I'm about to do something fairly ungraceful and unbecoming of the woman I otherwise would like them to know I am. I just don't want them KNOWING. Even worse, I don't want them WONDERING. I surely don't want there to be knowing, but wondering is horrible. Wondering involves unanswered questions, and judgements and speculations. If I am going to mis-step, I would prefer to do it in a darkened ally, where I can regain my composure and move on as if nothing happened.

The sad part about falling quietly is, who can help? Who will be there to protect and prevent? Who will be there to help clean up the spill? Maybe I would save face in a dark ally, but I sure would carry a heavier burden of wound cleaning on my own.

I have such incredible respect for people who do not hurt and fall silently. It takes a LOT of guts to be brutally honest about our stumbling blocks, AS THEY ARE HAPPENING. It takes a brave and strong soul to keep speaking AS they fail. I love those people for their courage and transparency.

Years ago, when I was married, I began to hurt. I began to fail. I could have spoken. I could have expressed what was happening, but I was too afraid of the mess of having too many surgeons in the operating room. So, I performed my own surgery. I amputated the source of my perspective pain- my husband. I left to heal, but no one understood what I was healing from. They didn't see the fall, they didn't see the attempted recovery. I wouldn't let them. I didn't speak. And because I didn't speak, I didn't recover. I am no surgeon, the amputation I performed was less than shoddy. But no one was there to give me perspective. Or warn me for that matter. Or better yet, guide me through the proper maneuvers. Instead, I silently made my way through fall after fall, fail after fail, blindly hoping to pull myself together. Now, let's be honest- there were those who tried to help- who tried to protect, but I didn't let them in, because I wasn't telling my story. Not truthfully anyway.

I've learned that when the only receiver of your beating fists and your angry questions is your pillow, you rest on a sponge of unresolved pain. All those tears are soaked into one place, not taken FROM you and processed, they are right there hiding under your face when you drift to sleep. You dream your fall. You awake and feel tired from the reminder of your fall. You end your day, resting on all the details of your fall.

The moment you take your failings to someone- a live respondent to your humbling predicament of ungraceful movements- you get perspective. You get help. You gain an advocate. You no longer let your pillow absorb all the gory moments of your slips and trips to be hidden forever, you end up spilling them all out in front of you, in front of THEM- and together you SEE. You see the mistake, you see the second by second replay of what SHOULD have happened, but just didn't seem to pan out. You see the place where healing began or WILL begin.

Falling is inevitable. Failing is, too. Speaking your stories of falls and fails means inspiring others who fall and fail. Whether they are inspired by your courage, or by the way they got to help you- they are changed. They are moved and are purposed by the story you carry- and the story they now share WITH you.

Fall loudly. Help will hear. It will still be a really good tale to share.

i have this friend....

Dear Lord,

I have this friend... You know, the one You sent me. She's really a great gift. I see what You were thinking now, when You introduced us. I guess I forget sometimes to thank You for the amazing ones you bring into my life- I kinda take it for granted as if it were just happenstance that we met, that we live and laugh together. Sometimes, I bet I even take her presence for granted, because I am so used to it. I have named part of her home for part of my heart. I guess I probably should tell her how much I appreciate her, huh?

This friend of mine... I know You'd recognize her. She's funny, in her own unique way- she has her own style with the way she tells her story. She radiates some sort of copyrighted smile that only she can shine. (I am certain You are very familiar with the way she brings joy to the places she graces.) God, I will be honest, I'm pretty jealous of her beauty- because it's so indescribably just hers. It seems as if she couldn't be copied- Lord knows how I try to pick up on little things she does here and there to maybe get one inch closer such an essence.

But here's the deal, Lord. I have this friend... She's strong and she's pretty tough. She has always been by my side pushing and pulling on my behalf when I just didn't feel so strong or tough. This girl has heard me out during many of my over dramatized meltdowns. This friend of mine has even sat with me in the silence when something really was too hard to talk about. She always seems to be looking out for me, but tonight- I want to do something for her. God- she is in need. I am asking on her behalf- because she is still out there, trying to fight the fight that is getting harder and harder. Every day, I see her get back up, no matter how bloody the night before- and she's doing life better than most I know. But I see the limp she's trying to hide, I see her trying to catch her breath.

Lord, this friend I have... She is hurting, but doesn't have the time to show it- she's busy still trying to maintain life. She's trying so hard not to skip a beat. She is rising each morning, give her a sunrise that awakens her heart. When she sleeps, give her dreams that rest her soul. For every thought that tells her she's failing, Lord, give her a tangible truth that she's succeeding. Show her her own beauty in undeniable ways. She can't fall- Lord, You can reach her before she breaks.

I'm telling you about this friend I have.... because I trust You with her. She is irreplaceable. It breaks my heart to see her meet obstacle after obstacle- carrying with her burdens that are not her own. Take what she carries, and give her the tools she needs to climb over the walls and walk the desert. You will be impressed how powerful she is. I have no doubt she can make it.

I have a very serious request regarding this friend I have...take care of her. Pamper her. Give her beyond what she needs. Pay attention to the littlest details so when she least expects it, she is pleasantly surprised. Tell her she is loved. Tell her she is impactful- maybe even give her a glimpse of the things she's impacted. Just do it. For her, for me.

Lord, this friend I have.... she is my dearest and best.