Sometimes I have wished that I could take the messy parts of life, put them in a cardboard box, seal the box with packing tape and put it on a high shelf in the garage. It isn’t realistic to send the box out with the trash. Oh, if we could just get a reprieve from thinking about that stuff. I’d label the box with a thick, black Sharpie – “Do Not Open Until Mentally Prepared to Deal”. The box would collect dust. I’d move it occasionally. I’d take it down and think I was ready to open it. I’d take a box cutter and slit the tape and just the opening of the top would let a vapor into the garage. The vapor would cloud everything, and I’d grab the tape and hurriedly seal the box back up. I’d put the box back on the shelf, wait for the vapor to dissipate and tell myself that in another couple weeks, I’d better be able to handle the contents of the box.
My mom came and metaphorically put all my’ Mark Junk’ in a plastic grocery bag and took it to her house. She hatched a plan, and because I’m overwhelmed and weighted down, I let her take the grocery bag to her house. I didn’t just let her, I helped put the junk in the bag. I may have even put the bag in her car.
What was she thinking?
I think a few folks wondered if I actually did throw – as in send flying across the room and crash-landing against a wall – a couple plates, during a phone call with Mark. That was a reference to my vacation zen post where I spoke of visualizing a stack of plates balanced precariously on my head. Balancing the ‘virtual’ plates was a way to maintain focus, not get myself riled, and stay on course. I lost my focus in the conversation with Mark, but I didn’t literally throw any plates. The only object I’ve ever thrown AT another person was a fork. I was 11 my brother was 9. He was incredibly brother-like, I was incredibly big sister-like, I lost patience and threw a fork at him. My aim was, and still is, lousy. I broke a pane out of the french glass door.
And when I was telling my mom about losing it with Mark, I made reference to the fact that every time I try to communicate something to Mark about how the kids are feeling, “I might as well be squirting lighter fluid on burning briquettes.” Continue reading →
I’m lousy at identifying trees. My neighbor has a ginormous – Maple? Green Ash? – tree in his front yard that creates the loveliest umbrella over our driveway. On a hot summer day (please let us have a few this year) there isn’t a better place to stand than on the shady cool cement of the driveway, with a dripping popsicle, under the dense lacy shade of that tree.
I did it. Saturday night I 
Yesterday’s post was about beauty and insecurity and denying who I am. It was a difficult post to write. I’m not even sure where it came from. Getting that necklace in the mail was akin to jamming a stick of dynamite in a dam that I didn’t even know existed. Feelings, emotions and tears started flowing, and they weren’t going to stop. Apparently, they haven’t stopped yet. I’m not done with the topic, and I’m convinced that this flood is sending me further down the path that I’m supposed to be on. The tidal wave of emotions is pushing me faster, and I’m not afraid. In fact, I can’t wait to see how far it takes me. This is another exercise in authenticity and speaking truth. Both of those expressions are over-used. But if we set out in search of those things, with integrity, the pursuit of authenticity and truth gets us closer to who we are meant to be.
I can’t remember if I ever thought I was pretty. I have a vague recollection that I felt beautiful, for the first time, when I held my newborn babies. I was swollen, blotchy, sweaty and exhausted, but I felt beautiful.
