The Light Around the Door 2014

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2015 is two days away and I find myself sitting in contemplation of the year gone by. There has been a lot of happening this year, so bear with me as I suss at least some of it out.

Firstly, a huge thank you to you, my readers, for sticking with me over this year and lending me your time, hearts, and minds in your reading of these paper bullets of my brain. I hope you have enjoyed reading this blog as much as I have writing it, however scary it was at times.

One of the most notable occurrences is that I have become a contributor to The Well Written Woman, which has been an absolutely wonderful experience! I have had a fabulous time working with the talented ladies at TWWW. They have allowed me a great freedom in exploring subjects in my writing – fiction pieces, personal writings, works on faith and social matters – and I have greatly enjoyed getting to know co-founder and editor Camicia Bennett. Thanks so much, Cam!

I took college courses for the first time since graduating with my Masters in 2006 and entirely online. I was very nervous about how I would handle it and being a mom at the same time. It was hard work, completing two graduate courses simultaneously in five weeks, very stressful and tiring. But I had amazing help from my in-laws, my parents, and my husband; I found ways to enjoy it; and I succeeded, earning A’s in both classes. A personal triumph and big weight off my back as those grades allowed me to renew my teaching license for the next ten years, should I choose to return to education when Elizabeth heads off to daycare/preschool eventually.

Speaking of Elizabeth, my daughter turned two years old eleven days ago and she is an absolute force of nature. Even my mother had to admit that when she was here to visit. As such, I sometimes do not know what to do with her, but we are doing our best. Our Bizzy is smart and bright, talking more every day. But she is also clever and cunning, though thankfully I am still more so just yet. She is artistic, skilled with anything technological (similar to her mother), creative, fun-loving, energetic, and loves the outdoors. She is also sweet and loving, giving affection to those in her life, tight little hugs and sweet kisses. She loves her Marie (The Aristocats) and Katarina Kittycat (“Daniel Tiger’s Neighborhood”) stuffies – they go to bed with her every night – and she is never as happy as she is watching “Daniel Tiger” (unless she is outside exploring). She loves to be read to but will also insist on “reading” to herself. She has started to take her own ‘me time’, climbing into her rocking chair in her room to rock by herself for a little bit with a book, her tablet, or just her stuffed buddies. She may still be little but she has gone from a baby to a little girl in the space of a year, and I am constantly amazed by her.

As I have been writing and also continuing in my position as the wife of a Quaker pastor, I have had the opportunity to sit and think seriously on what I believe and how it affects my life, or how it should affect my life. I am well aware that there are some, or many, who disagree with my faith or even what I believe in particular within that faith. And that is OK; my faith makes sense to me. Lately, I find myself drawn more and closer to its core tenet of “loving others” (Matthew 22:37-40) and “If it is possible, as far as it depends on you, live at peace with everyone” (Romans 12:18). I want to do that: love others in whatever way is needed, whether it is a listening ear, a requested explanation of what I believe, a note to say hello, a little gift, prayer, or just my time. And maybe I can help someone find/experience a little bit of peace, even for a short amount of time. I have learned some wonderful lessons from a writer whom I discovered this year: Lysa TerKeurst. Lysa is a wonderful woman who manages to speak to my heart without ever knowing who I am. Her devotionals, books, and faith-based writings have spoken to my soul as I have worked through several issues in my life this year, and I have taken several of her teachings to heart as I work to build myself an even stronger foundation and keep my emotions from becoming “unglued”. One that has been the closest to my heart this year is a reminder that our feelings are indicators but they do not need to be dictators of our behavior or actions. I can choose to act out of high emotion or I can choose to act and speak out of love, grace, and gentleness. The latter is most definitely what I want in my life, and I have some wonderful examples of these to follow in this.

Always, but especially this past year, I have been astounded by the loving natures and kind hearts of the people in my life. My family and friends are simply amazing! My life is constantly blessed by them and their generous souls. There are days when a card in my mailbox, a text popping up on my phone, an IM chiming on my computer, or even a surprise package waiting for me has been just what I needed, just the uplift and tender touch that my heart and soul required on that day, the thought or those words just what I needed to give me the strength to take another step forward. Even those words were simply, “Hi. I was thinking about you.” So, to them I say, “Thank you!” from the fullness of my heart. You are more than I could have ever dreamt for. You hold lines to my heart and I am so grateful for how gently, honestly, and lovingly you handle them.

As this year’s curtain descends, there are indeed many things that I wish I had done and ever the more that I wish I could do. This year has been full and I am thankful for all I have been able to do, accomplish, and witness this year. I know that this next year will be full of its own miracles and hardships, triumphs and challenges. I look forward to it and am nervous for it, too. But, again, that is life and it continues on apace.

Chasing the Moments

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Greeting cards have all been sent
The Christmas rush is through
But I still have one wish to make
A special one for you

Christmas is over, the night is winding down. My toddler is abed, Ben is in his den, and Mom is flipping through channels on the TV. I’ve had my plate and a half of ham and side dishes, watched the “Call the Midwife” Holiday Special, had a glass of wine, and, now, a glass of sparkling white grape juice with my two Aleve before bedtime. As I reflect over this Christmas season, I find myself having to admit that someone on Twitter was correct at the Christmas season, at least partially. I spent a goodly deal of this Christmas weary, worn out, and stressed to the point of breaking. All I wanted were the quiet times, the periods of wonder and Christmas magic, of soft light glow amidst snowfall, and, except for a few all-too-fleeting moments, I didn’t really get them. And I complained about it (privately), a lot. But, as I sit here in the quiet of my living room, I realize that there are some changes I’d like to make to how we ‘do Christmas’, but, also, that I am having that moment right now, the one I’ve been chasing after all season.

As I get older and my daughter gets older and life gets busier, I need to be far more vigilant in seeing those moments for what they are and not just wishing for more of them. I had that moment when Ben and I were at the Luminary Walk. I had that moment while wrapping presents with my mother. I had that moment sitting quietly alone at the back of the church before Christmas Eve service. I had that moment before bedtime last night. I had it tonight with my daughter cuddled in my lap in her Christmas pjs. In all my rushing, I missed those moments for the gift they were and that makes me sad. I don’t want to do that again, and it will take hard work and awareness not to, but it is worth it. I am also happy, at the same time, in that I recognize those moments now for what they were and can remember them with a smile and a warm heart.

And, with that, I wish a merry Christmas to all and to all a good night.

I Don’t Exercise to be Healthy…

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Author’s Note: This is a post about my weight, self-esteem, etc. This is entirely personal and more than a little of what people would call vain. Just be warned, in case you aren’t interested in reading about it.

A few nights ago, a dear friend posted a version of that picture (*points off to the side*) on her Facebook page and I had to be brutally honest with myself and admit, “Yep. That’s right.” It may be totally vain or selfish or whatnot but it’s the total truth. I eat as well as I can to be healthy, but I can do better. Always. I exercise, I bellydance, walk, etc., however, to look good, to feel beautiful and proud about how my body looks. Yes, only one person is going to see me naked but I want to look good nevertheless.

I have fallen away from my normal habits of exercise of late, with the change in the weather and the holidays and all that. But I cannot only blame those circumstances as that would be unfair and lazy on my part. I haven’t been as disciplined as I should be and that is on me. I have gained enough weight since the summer to now rate as overweight on the BMI scale. I don’t like that. I don’t like feeling like I don’t look well in my clothes. I miss the curve in my waist that I envied in my mother as a teenager and worked hard to get. I miss the tone that bellydance and daily walks pushing Elizabeth’s stroller uphill gave me. I miss the feeling of being beautiful as I danced, with pride in my technique and stage performance. I want that all back.

So call me vain if you so wish. It’s your opinion and that’s fine. It’s also fine that I want to look the way I want to look and feel the way I want to feel. That is my goal for this new year and I am looking forward to it. I know it will be hard, I know I will have to give up some of the things I really like. I will have to make time to get to Planet Fitness and bellydance class, even if it is inconvenient or I am tired after a day with Elizabeth. It will be worth it. I will be able to fit comfortably into the dresses and skirts that I love, and, hopefully, I will come to enjoy the exercise again, find a new happy spot in my soul, and give my daughter a run for her money in the energy department. Maybe I will even start performing again. And, just maybe, my heart – with all its little vanities – will once again smile to hear shouted across a room “I hate you, Ben!”

The Moment My Glorious Faded

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Yesterday, I went shopping with my mother. We ducked into Victoria’s Secret to see if they were offering a special that she had heard advertised (she wanted the tote bag that came with the purchase special). I started looking around the underwear, as it was 50% off, and found a few cute pairs. But, then, as I rounded the display, two men walked up and one started looking through the underwear. His friend commented on the prices and the man looking said, “Well, then, she can get two.” So I can only assume that he was buying Christmas gifts for his significant other.

I, of course, went about my business silently (they could spot the 5 for $27 deal for themselves), as I dislike inhabiting close quarters with strangers, much less talking to them. Then, the man’s friend suddenly burst out with, “If I see another girl in tights with a washboard butt, I swear I’m going to throw my phone at her ass. Tell her to stop ruining the tights, man.”

It was that comment, as if that woman’s – or indeed any woman’s – body was his to comment on, that suddenly made me not feel so much like buying cute underwear. I didn’t feel cute and far from glorious. So I put the pairs down, walked away to my mom, and contented myself with nose-nuzzles from my daughter. It is a bit difficult to explain exactly how I felt in response to the comment but it felt as if I were the one being judged, as I had indeed been judging my own self all day (there are extenuating circumstances that I acknowledge but they are neither here nor there). I have fitness, nutrition, and weight goals to work on, yes, and I will get there, I know. But, in that moment, I found myself feeling objectified in place of the girls to whom he was referring and my spirit felt low under the added burden. It didn’t last for long but it was poignant enough that here I am writing about it a day later. If something is still on my mind after a night’s sleep, then it is something worth discussing. And body image and acceptance, by ourselves and others, always is.

Keeping My Eye on the Ball…Er, Box

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Not long ago, I was worried about having too few Christmas gifts for our daughter. More accurately, I was worried about her receiving too much for her birthday and Christmas from other family members and felt that the hubby’s and my hands were tied as to how many gifts we could/should get her for Christmas ourselves. However, today, as I wrapped said presents with my mother, I realized how dangerously close I had come to falling away from the reason for the Christmas season. No, I’m not just talking about the story of Jesus’ birth. What I mean is the spirit of giving, of generosity, compassion, and care for others rather than self. I desperately DO NOT want Christmas to become about what or how many gifts Elizabeth receives. I knew too many people who that was ALL they cared about with Christmas and it broke my heart. I do NOT want that for my daughter.

So, yeah, for a hot minute I fell into that trap and let it stress me out. But, no, Elizabeth has everything she needs and more than enough of her potential ‘wants’. She will have her first big birthday party this Saturday (which is stress enough for me); her family and friends are all around. She is smart and strong, clever and healthy. She is loved and cared for, with food in her belly, a roof over her head, and clothes on her back. She has all she needs. The gifts are icing.

Now, I love giving gifts. I love surprising people and making them smile. What I give them might not always be exactly what they want, but I do enjoy trying to find gifts that might mean something to them or, at least, give a grin and/or a chuckle, even if it is accompanied by a shake of the head. Buying gifts for family is often difficult as it is hard to know what they might want or need. For some reason, I feel a bit more freedom with buying and putting together gifts for friends. So, in addition to getting gifts for my family, I have done my best to get gifts for my closest friends, though I know that I couldn’t get everyone something. I honestly don’t expect anything, not really, though I didn’t really realize it until I said it aloud to my husband. I know that these seasons are hard enough on others, and they already have given me a great gift in their friendship and time. This is just another way for me to say thank you for that particular gift of theirs.

So while it might be stressful and tiring, crazy and hectic. I really do hope that we are able to find the happy moments in the midst of the rush of this season. I had to agree with a family friend today in that, yes, it finally was feeling like Christmas as I wrapped and stacked presents for these friends and loved ones. Your smiles (hopefully) are on their way, dear ones.

Multiple Dramatastic Love Affairs

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I love dramas! Particularly, period dramas. “Downtown Abbey”, “The Paradise”, “Upstairs, Downstairs” (new series), “London Hospital”, and “Mr. Selfridge” are my current favorites, along with the most recent season of “Ripper Street”. I am still chomping at the bit, though, for “Marco Polo” starts on Netflix today, as well as the newest season of “Downton”, which premieres on PBS in January (hush, my beloved Brits, I know you’re all ahead and whatnot). That is the best part of my New Year. “Downton Abbey” is one of the few dramas that my husband and I have enjoyed from the very first episode, devouring the first season on DVD and then settling down to watch each new season together week by week, year by year. It’s been one of my most positive television experiences ever.

The cast of “Ripper Street”

I have dreamt of myself in those stories, inhabiting those varied settings, gowns swishing around my ankles, navigating my way through upstairs or downstairs, shops, music halls, etc. What else draws me is the language. It is why shows like “Ripper Street” and “Spartacus” clasp and hold me close: the attention to detail of syntax and vocabulary. It is lush, wonderful, and enthralling; it draws me into the story to listen to them speak, to hear the phrasing and lilting sentences roll off their tongues. I fall in love with their voices, their accents, their different language statures. It gives life to the characters, a deeper cadence to their souls and characters, and ties the strings of my affection around them all the more tightly.

After all, I mean, I am the woman who fell in love with a man partially because he knew the meaning and proper usage of the word “philologist”.

My favorite moment from the finale of “Downton Abbey”, season 4. No, I shan’t spoil it.

Life in Its Turn

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Elizabeth at one day old.

Elizabeth at one day old.

This time two years and one week ago, I was in the midst of labor. I was foggy and heavy from the pitocin and magnesium, ravenous for ice chips, had lost all sense of time, and was fit only to do as I was told at the time. When they told me to prop my legs up against husband and nurse and push, I did so, for two hours. I remember that it must have been so because the nurse on shift changed right before I started pushing. I had been in labor then for probably about 24 hours by the time I started pushing (looking back now, I think that I must have been in light labor when I left the doctor’s office the afternoon before because my back hurt all afternoon, evening, and through the night). Elizabeth’s head was close, close enough for the doctor to inform me that she had a head full of dark hair, but her heart-rate was dropping as I pushed and not recovering fast enough to make my doctor comfortable. So, at nine o’clock at night, I was wheeled into the OR for an emergency c-section.

As Elizabeth’s second birthday draws near, I cannot help but think about her birth. Not only hers but my own as well. Recently at the March of Dimes Celebration of Babies, Chris Pratt spoke of his son’s premature birth and I could not help but remember my own birth story.

I have inherited my mother’s disposition to preeclampsia and so was put on bed rest three weeks before Elizabeth was born. Mom had the problem with all three of her pregnancies, I the only one of which to survive. She was admitted to the hospital and placed on full bed rest at 24 weeks. She was allowed out of bed ONLY to go to the bathroom, which was maybe six steps from her bed. Based on her medical history, they knew that my sister Jodi was born at 24 weeks and her organs were not developed/matured enough to survive so the doctor’s aim was to get her to at least 30 weeks, at which he was sure I could survive.

I was born at 30 weeks, six weeks premature, 2 lbs. 6 ounces, and 11 inches long. So little that they had no baby clothing that would fit me so I was fitted with doll clothes Thankfully, though, I had no medical problems to hinder my growth and survival. Mom says that I was alert, active, and healthy. My only issue was that I was not big enough to go home, and I didn’t know how to feed so I was fed by a tube for the first few weeks. I was in the incubator for about two weeks, with a total of six weeks in hospital. At six weeks, I weighed 4.5 lbs and was discharged. I had checkups at the hospital’s special clinics for preemies until I was four and then given a clean bill of health and development.

There are times when I sit and reflect on my life, remembering the many times I have been told this story, called “miracle baby”. I dearly wish that my mother had not had to go through the heartbreak and pain that she did, but I am glad to be here, hale and hearty and whole. When I had Elizabeth was the only time I have ever been admitted to hospital since leaving it as an infant. I was blessed with the most wonderful doctor, nurses, anesthesiologist, everyone who took such excellent care of me during my pregnancy, labor, and recovery. Our doctor is moving out-of-town soon so, yesterday, Elizabeth and I went to say goodbye to her. In many ways, I owe that woman my life for her care of me. I am beyond grateful for her care for me and for Elizabeth over the past two and a half years.

Soon, I will celebrate Elizabeth’s 2nd birthday. My baby is now a little girl, full of life and vim and vigor. Smiley and creative. Strong-willed and stubborn. She is a gift, and I cannot wait to see how she grows further.

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Some of my baby clothes that my mother displayed at the shower she threw for me.

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Some of my baby clothes that my mother displayed at the shower she threw for me.

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Some of my baby clothes that my mother displayed at the shower she threw for me.

Looking Back at Christmas

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This coming weekend, I will be presenting a program at my church’s Ladies’ Christmas Breakfast and Cookie Exchange. I am presenting on Christmas traditions in the Cayman Islands, where I grew up, with the help of my mother. That’s another big thing about Saturday: my mother, my mother-in-law, AND my daughter will be there. I also haven’t presented or anything of the like since I resigned from teaching in 2013, so I’m more than a little nervous.

There are several Christmas “traditions” that I remember fondly from growing up. One of them was going to tour the lit and decorated yards of the wealthier homes on the south side of the island. These folks went ALL OUT. They lit every tree and bush in the garden, had the animatronics displays out, sometimes even Santa himself there for the little ones to take pictures with. I really enjoyed it, as there would always be Christmas music playing and it felt a bit magical to me, especially when I was little. As I became a teenager, our youth group from church would head out there on the last Friday before Christmas. The folks who owned these homes knew most of us – our families – pretty well and, jokingly, one year they said that, if we were going to tour their yards, we should pay for it somehow. What they requested in recompense was for us to sing. Most of us in the youth group were also in the choir at school and, with places taken and a few pitches given, we launched into our Christmas program repertoire. Soon, most of the people touring the property had gathered to hear the voices that carried on the air across the yard. We enjoyed it and the owners were delighted. It was one of our favorite things to do on the bus: sing our choir pieces a capella. It kept us honest and in practice with the pieces that we had to memorize and perform. Plus, it was a heck of a lot of fun to just sing with my friends.

Another tradition was Christmas Eve dinner. On Christmas Eve, my parents and I would dress up and go out to a nice restaurant for dinner, usually my choice. Usually, it was just us, though sometimes it included some family friends. Eventually, for a few years, that dinner included me, my parents, my high school teacher (one of my favorite people in the world), her husband, and her son. We would spend hours at dinner, talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. I recall one night, as we sat on the restaurant’s patio, watching the new moon course from one corner of the sky to the next in the time of our dinner together. I remember wearing a particular dress to one of these dinners and, before bed that night, I received an email from my teacher’s son, telling me that I looked beautiful in my dress. I must admit, that had me chuffed for the rest of the season.

After dinner, the remainder of Christmas Eve was often spent with me and my mother in the darkened living room, “Carpenters Christmas Portrait” playing on the stereo, enjoying the glow of the Christmas tree. Some years, I would open one present on Christmas Eve, some years not. But I always ended Christmas Eve in front of the tree, ready for that flutter of anticipation in my heart come morning. It’s gotten milder as I have grown older, of course, but it’s still there and it’s nice.

The Darndest Things

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This evening, when my husband arrived home from work, one of the first things he asked me was, “Was there a blue plastic bag outside on our property today?” Odd question, yeah? But I told him, yes, I had noticed a blue plastic bag at the foot of our driveway this morning so, when I went to take out the trash, I skipped down to the end of the drive, scooped it up, and put it the trash hopper. Honestly, I thought it was some trash from Best Buy so I wanted to throw it away before it blew away made a mess on our street.

Well, my husband went directly to the trash hopper and retrieved the aforementioned item. Bringing it into the house, I heard him say, “I thought so.” It turns out that those bags held recruiting flyers for a pretty well-known supremacist group. He then proceeded to explain that he had seen them in front of houses up and down the street as he had driven home today and was concerned to NOT see one in front of ours. He told me that what had worried him was that, if one of those flyers HAD NOT shown up in front of our house, that might mean that whoever was passing them out knows who lives here. Obviously, that wasn’t the case so I did my best to set his mind at ease. It had been left; I had moved it without knowing at all what it was.

To be clear, he isn’t scared; at the same time, though, he doesn’t want me to be scared or to fear for my safety or our daughter’s. I told him the truth: the idea of these people has affected me more through movie depictions than in real life. I do, however, know that they exist and that the attitude is harmful, damaging, painful, and has even driven behavior that has been fatal to others. I cannot fathom nor understand the need to hate someone or think them less because of their skin tone, beliefs, heritage, or political views. But I will not be afraid. This is my home. I have been in this state for fourteen years, this area for ten. This is my home. I will not be afraid. I wish no harm or ill on anyone and I will help those who need it however I may. But I will not be afraid.

I will teach my girl to be proud and strong and brave, to follow in a long line of steadfast Hoosier, Scots Irish, German, Scottish, Caymanian, and Bajan women in her family, on both sides. Her bloodline is wide and vast and we will teach her to rejoice in it. I want to teach her as Cinderella’s mother teaches her in Disney’s new depiction: “Have courage and be kind.”

A Lesson in (Geek) Etiquette

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I inhabit a world of geeks. If you have not been confronted by the passion of the geek by now, I salute you, because we are one seriously fervent and animated bunch. We usually make sure that you will remember us, one way or another.

That being said, I have apologies to make. In the past, I have been pretty unkind and even downright mean in my dislike of several comic book characters in the past, namely Scott Summers, aka Cyclops. I have disliked the way the character treats the people in his life, his insistence that his way is the best, etc. But I have realized that, in the past, I have been rather rude when discussing this character with others who may just like or even admire him for his leadership and what he has gone through in his tenure in the X-men universe. I may not agree with or like this character but that is no call for poor behavior on my part when it comes to respecting others and their position in the argument. So, to anyone I have treated that way, I sincerely apologize.

As much as our opinions and passions matter, I think one of the most important things we need to remember is our geek etiquette. What makes us so great a community is that we have a myriad of varied interests, likes, favorites, fandoms, etc. But we can also be exceedingly vocal and adamant in our passion for particular fandoms or characters or even specific versions of the two. Sometimes, we can allow those passions to overcome our good sense and in our desperate attempts to show that we are “right” and to win others over to “our side” or our way of seeing things, we can actually disrespect and damage our relationships with other people by unknowingly tromping all over something that might mean a great deal to them.

We might not know that this particular character or comic that we absolutely despise was an escape for this person when they were younger, a way to get away from the difficulties in their life at a particularly rough time.

We might not know that this character whom we find unbelievable and trite was the first thing that she bonded over with her brother, when before they had had nothing in common.

It might not have even crossed our minds that Matt Smith’s “Doctor Who”, whom we might consider manic and out of keeping with previous Doctors, calmed that frazzled mother’s colicky baby and gave her a few moments of peace and rest, which is why he is her favorite.

There are connections behind people’s opinions and favorites, thought they might seriously diverge from our own, that we might not know of because they are personal and close to their hearts. We are more than welcome to our own opinions, of course, but that does not mean that we cannot be kind and respectful in our passionate discussion, allowing for others to maintain their stances without our trying to tear them down when they refuse to “see it our way”. And this doesn’t just stand for “geeky” hobbies or interests. This practice can and should be applied to areas across the spectrum of our lives. We can be passionate AND respectful and possibly avoid damaging our friendships and relationships with others by stomping all over something that they might enjoy by detailing to them just how awful their choice in geekery, religion, career, or hobbies is. Trust me, we all get enough of that in our lives.