Gray is My Favorite Color

Beauty is...

...in the eye of the beholder.

...only skin deep. 

So many of the prominent ideas in society suggest that beauty, actual aesthetic beauty, is shallow...frivolous...unnecessary. And while I don't want my daughter or myself or any of the other phenomenal women, of all ages, that I know to gauge their value on their looks...isn't there something to be said for appreciating beauty? After all, THIS was my view on the drive to work today:

I may not be certain in my beliefs, but I know there are miracles in the world. Proof? This ⬆️ happens every morning, almost like a reminder that there is something more than us. Further proof of beauty and miracles? ⬇️

 

Life, new and untouched and in absolute awe of the very things so many of us take for granted...and very literally a part of me. Who knew that the very thing that would make me feel whole was a piece of me, thinking & speaking & feeling for herself?

I'm not a pageant mom, nor am I a make-afficianado of any sort. But I do fancy myself an artist of sorts, and that means I appreciate the beauty - hidden and blatant - in the world. As I said, make-up is not my thing (can you believe I turned 33 today and still can't manage eyeliner of any sort, yet alone winged?!), so it's good that I can value...not beauty, perhaps, but our natural sensibilities, those we display freshly-scrubbed after a shower.

Don't get me wrong: no one's writing home about me or seeking my natural affections...but I'm okay with that. I go to bed each night after getting hugs and kisses from my beautiful (that's right, I used the B-word) girl; I go to work with genuine joy in my colleagues, my students, and the intellectual challenges of each day; and I go through each day with relatives so amazing that I couldn't begin to dream them up for myself.

I turned 33 today. I woke up at...hmm, around 4:30am with a frantic mind & a tired soul, only to discover the gift from my loves:

It might look like a collection of paints, no more and no less. But it's so, so much more. It's a testament to the healing nature of art, whether visual or written. It's a testament to my self-induced therapy since I refuse to actually speak to people. And it's a testament to one of the most basic revelations: Life. Is. Beautiful.

Because damn, there is a whole lot of ugly floating around, but the beauty, the completely raw beauty of the world? Well, we couldn't stop it if we tried...and why would we? ❤️

Through the Valley

I asked you not to use the word "zombie". It's disrespectful. Stumbling around squawking for brains? That's not how they do. And "undead"? Nobody wants to be "un"-anything. Why begin a statement with a negative? It's like saying, "I don't disagree." Just say you agree...You're either living or you're dead. When you're living, you're alive. When you're dead, that's what you are. But when you're dead and then you're not, you're alive again. Can't we say "alive again"? Doesn't that sound nice? - Ned, Pushing Daisies 

It's unsettling that life has been so mired with death lately. Beyond my family's own situation over the last month, this past weekend was an odd recognition of life and death, the two constantly bound hand-in-hand. September 10 is National Suicide Prevention Awareness Day, a day sponsored by To Write Love on Her Arms. (If you're not familiar with the organization, as well as its story and its mission, check it out here; it's well worth a read on any day of the year). Sunday, of course, was Patriot Day, or for those of us who lived through it, just the date - September 11 - is enough because we will never forget.

Despite the potentially macabre cast of the past few days, I've been dealing in swirls of darkness for the last few weeks. Mom has made tremendous leaps in her physical recovery, leaps that doctors didn't expect her to make. Following the old adage of hoping for the best while expecting the worst, I'd update family and friends...and then begin preparing portions of a eulogy or the playlist for the service (lots of Petty and Seger, if you're interested).

And yet here we are: Mom's awake, alert, and raising hell for the nurses...and will celebrate her 61st birthday tomorrow. One month ago, I was standing in the ER receiving grave news as she was airlifted to another facility; today, I'm trying to decide what to put in this week's goodie basket other than pickles, pretzels, and Diet Pepsi. Oh, and if you think I'm exaggerating about the raising hell part, well, you know what they say about one picture and its thousand words...

It's true that we can't choose our family, and life and death are relatives to us all, the twins who don't always get along but are irrevocably linked to one another. Just like Grandpa puffing his cigar and making foul jokes or the crazy aunt who laughs a bit too loud when she's had a bit too much, Life and Death will always be around for the reunion. And just like those other relatives, they might be difficult or unwelcome, but they are part of the family...

...so Life and Death really are there all the time. Death is relentless and will find each of us eventually, and that's fine, because we all need an end to our stories. But Life, she can be shy...seek her out and spend each moment with her. After all, none of us know when she'll be ready to say good night, so be sure to hold tightly to her with your eyes wide open.

Dream big, friends.

Trading Places

I just spent one hour soaking in a bubble bath. For eight of those minutes, I hastily yet thoroughly took care of the bathing business. The other 52 minutes? I was on the phone with my momma. This is how I looked after hanging up with her:

Can you guess how I spent the majority of those minutes? That's right, friends..."Niagara Falls" (Scrooged), or more accurately, "sobbing like a little bitch with a skinned knee and shit" (Jay from Dogma). 

Don't get me wrong. Throughout this most recent ordeal, I have felt such a tremendous outpouring of love and support. People have gathered together to help me visit my mom with gift cards for gas and other necessities...

...or loving gestures to show love and support (and may I add yet again: I have the greatest students ever -- these kids are going to change the world -- because, yes, these are from my students )...

and...

And yet. People have been loving and supportive and encouraging and freely offering their thoughts that I'm strong. Then I call Mom and hear her sounding exactly like she usually does, and she is strong and happy and calm. So in the face of her strength? This is me:

(though not so pretty...or Botoxed or shallow or, well, much of anything other than bawling). Mom is in her hospital bed, about to hit the one-month mark of hospitalization with extensive rehab in the future, and she is reassuring me. And you know what? She was glad to do it. She even told me, "I thought maybe you didn't need me or need to cry to me anymore." Wow.

There are a lot of changes happening...and despite the initial outward appearance, it seems like most of them are for the better. Jeremy and I are taking care of each family member as best we possibly can...and family, friends, and neighbors are showing that people truly are good at heart...and my kick-ass mom is showing she always was and always will be the baddest broad in town.

Every obstacle, every hit...Mom takes it and makes it awesome, makes it her own. I dried my eyes (and the rest of me because, y'know, I was taking a bath) and pulled myself together, and I'm ready to roll with the punches right along with Mom...even if we need to use a wheelchair to do it.

The Book of Job

When it rains, it pours, and this year has been a monsoon. No need to recap each downpour, but this past weekend -- what should've been a relaxing four-day weekend -- flooded me out. Gracie was sick coming into the weekend, but getting over it by Friday...at which point I was diagnosed with hand-foot-mouth disease...which felt a lot better this morning while Brian was diagnosed with strep throat at Urgent Care. *deep breath*

Despite spending a few days itchy and sore (and a few more coming up where I'll look like a walker from The Walking Dead as I...shudder...peel), it could be worse. Now, one of my dear friends and I have agreed to stop saying so because it's apparently being taken as some great cosmic challenge. But the thing is...it really could be worse. When I first sat down to write this post, I was sitting in the gorgeous sunshine watching my daredevil careen through the yard on her new 4-wheeler with not a care in the world.

After our grand outdoor adventures, it was time to relax, and Gracie did that the same way she does everything, completely and with absolute devotion (girl zonked out!). And I had to stop and wonder: if this isn't nice, what is?

Life was further tossed into perspective with -- wait for it -- a call from my mom. Just over a week ago, we were wondering if she'd be able to breathe on her own; just over three weeks ago, we were wondering if she'd live through the night. So getting a call from my mom, a call where we giggled and caught up and made plans for the future...hard to beat. Another friend told me to cherish these moments and, until this nearly-normal evening call, I didn't truly realize how much they'd mean to me.

This led me to reflect on what's been happening around me while all of this has been happening to me. When I thought that the first week to school would be nearly impossible with the chaos I had whirling around me, my friends and coworkers took that as a challenge. For starters, a coworker brought me a fresh, homemade lunch every single day. I'd show pictures, but, um...I ate everything before I could take a photo. Oops? (And so, so delicious!)

Then, in the midst of first-week-back craziness and their own busy lives, my (fill in with the best compliment you can possibly imagine) friends showered me with cards: handmade cards with personalized notes and gift cards for gas and food to ease the ache right now. It's rare, but it struck me speechless. If life gets tough, these ladies are the ones you want to have your back.

So, I don't want to make it an ongoing challenge, but really...it could be worse. I have my family, and I have my friends...and there's really not anything else I need.

I love you all! 😘

If Not Now...Then When?

I've been quiet lately, at least in the blogging sense. Part of the reason is that I've been trying to focus on enjoying the dwindling days of summer; a larger part of the reason is that I've had much more pressing issues to address. Through an experience I'd never wish on anyone and gladly undo in my own life, I've experienced one major truth:

As an educator, I pride myself on eloquence and clarity. In the case of 2016, clarity takes precedence: this year has sucked ass. Like, big hairy ass, too. I've lost my stepdad to a 5+ year battle with cancer;  experienced relationship issues because...y'know, life; lost, found, and lost old friends again...and then shit got real. (Don't you just feel the classy eloquence in my words?!) But the problems of the last two weeks have reinforced something I've always known:

I got a phone call just after 1pm on Friday, August 12. It was my mom, asking that I take her to the ER because she had a nasty case of food poisoning. Hearing - something - in her voice, I went to her right away...even though she told me (in typical fashion) that I could wait until evening to get her. Turns out, I couldn't have waited and, in fact, I should have gone to her sooner. Mom has a rare, impossibly perfect-storm condition of necrotizing fasciitis, or what the media so delicately refers to as "flesh-eating bacteria." The name really isn't accurate, but it's close enough for simplification purposes. Hours later, I left the ER as my mom was taken by helicopter to a hospital specializing in skin and tissue care. Her surgeon very clearly let me know that she might have as much as a 20% chance of survival. My mom; that's my mom he was talking about...

So the past two weeks have been an eternity, a cruel waiting game of moment-to-moment because "we just don't know." This past week has been one of action. My mom had her left foot amputated on Tuesday; the right foot followed on Wednesday. Today came another long-awaited (within two weeks) moment: Mom was taken off the respirator and is now breathing on her own. Oh. Hell. Yeah. My momma is a tough bird.

True, Momma, so very true. You are the toughest...and the best, ever. And despite any other challenges I've encountered in my life, the past two weeks have been the most difficult. But today, with a burst of positivity in self-sufficient breathing, Mom managed to bring us our greatest joy from the last month.

I want to end with a moral, a lesson, a burst of great revelation; I can't do that because I don't have one. None of this makes sense to me. What I do have is a tentative optimism, a cautious hope for the future my family and I have with Mom. One of the best days of this past summer was strolling Hershey Gardens with Gracie and Mom...and I can't wait to wander through with you next summer, my sweet girls. 

You Do You

I woke up yesterday for the first time in a long time feeling awake and well-rested...and then I got a phone call from, um, someone (an elderly female relative, perhaps). She began by expressing concern that I don't seem like me lately. It turned into a brief but potent diatribe about my hair color being okay now, and my nose stud being "tolerable...as long as you don't pierce your lip or tongue." Suddenly, before 9 in the morning, I was soul-tired, a victim of unkind & unsolicited opinions. Though it was fun to note that she must've missed the time I had my tongue pierced. Ha!

Her comments were particularly interesting (I'm being really, really polite with my word choice) since, only the day before, another person close to me shared that I seem more myself than I have in some time. It bothered me not only that people I care about were offering pretty strong sentiments about my choices, but it also bothered me that it bothered me, y'know?

Because, whether I'm acting like me or not (for the record, I am: I don't know how to be anyone else), I'm all about joy and contentment and living life. I love my hair, and I loved it from the moment I saw the first multi-hued strands.

Same with my newest piercing. A quick swipe of my bank card, a quick punch through my nose, and BOOM! Shiny new jewelry in a shiny new(to-me) place. What girl doesn't like to treat herself to a bright new bauble?

See, I have a few guidelines and beliefs about how I try to approach people and the world:

1. A person's appearance reveals very little about about who she is as a person.

2. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all.

3. Be there for your loved ones unconditionally.

4. You are small. The world is large. Maintain perspective. 

5. Find your happiness. The people, the places, the experiences--if it makes you happy, it's worth it.

So why, why, why was I getting so thrown by the opinions of others, even if I do love them (the people, not their opinions)? Getting upset about trivial criticism doesn't mesh with my world view, either. 

So I started contemplating the opinions that really matter, and I came up with only two: my opinion and Gracie's opinion. I want her to love, respect, and value me, so her input matters. And without knowing it, she put my mind at ease. Why? In the last few weeks, my brilliant, beautiful, and creative toddler has said the following to me:

"I want my feet colored like yours."

"I want my hair painted purple, too." 

And "When can I go in a room to get my schnoz punched? When I'm 17? 18? 19? 20?"

My daughter adores me; she's at the point where she's proud to say I'm her best friend. She's my mini-Me, a piece of my heart and soul walking around outside my body...and not only does she love me for who I truly am (whoever the hell that actually is), but she wants to be like me. True, that sentiment probably won't last forever, but that's okay. Because, see, what it means now is that Grace is happy that I'm my own person, and even better, she's happy to be her own person, too.

I'm sure you know what they say about everyone having an opinion, and it's true. Don't concern yourself with what "they" say....you'll be just fine if you do you.

 

Don't Blink

Time: it's a slippery thing. A five-minute phone call with my grandmother can last a lifetime while a three-month summer break can pass when you're looking the other direction. Consider one of the first pictures I took of Gracie and one of the most recent pictures I took of Gracie. 

They're separated by nearly four years, yet I can't account for how that much time passed so seemingly quickly. 

Then there's the month of July: July 7 marked 26 years since my dad died and today is the four-month anniversary of Bob's passing. One loss doesn't hurt any more or less than the other. Each has carved a permanent scar, and rather than fading away, each simply becomes one more lasting page in my story.

I find dealing with time to be difficult, and I find it equally challenging when people say that they don't have time because that's not really true, is it? My dad, Bob...they don't have time; it ran right out from under them. If you don't have time for someone or something, it's because you're choosing not to devote time to that person or thing.

That's your right, of course. Time is precious, one of the only gifts we can give but never really get back. Just remember that it works both ways. Don't make someone use their valuable time on waiting for a call, a visit, or any other indicator of authentic caring and respect. 

Time passes, whether we want it to or not. Most often, it passes so very quickly. Try to spend your time like your money: on that which brings you sustenance, happiness, or possibility. 

Enjoy your night...with eyes and heart wide open.