1 ::January:: 2013

I'm a resolution maker. I know, it's cliche, but I like pausing to re-chart my course from time to time. I've learned to keep them simple and keep them few.

Here's what I'm hoping for in Two-Thousand-Thirteen:

This is going to be me. I'm going to run darn it. I know my short legs weren't made for it, and for the most part I don't really enjoy it--  but that's all beside the point. I WILL conquer the running leg of my triathlon this year- it's always been my weakest. I've read both this book and this book over the Christmas break. I want to run a 5K in less than 30:00 and a 10K in less than 60:00. Both realistic goals. Time to get to work.

I want to spend more time here, at my desk. Writing. Not everyone understands the need for creativity, but it is vital to me. Words are my primary form of expression, I'm going to keep writing them. Also, I'm currently working through 31 Days to Build a Better Blog.

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I want to learn how to work my camera. Like really learn. Understanding f-stops and aperture has come VERY slowly to me (or not at all). I mostly get good pictures by chance. I'm ready to pursue photography more seriously this year.

All that being said...

How about we just all do this for each other too? I think one thing that I learned in 2012 was to ditch the judgement and condemnation. Perfection does not exist this side of heaven. I am incapable of it, and so is everyone else. We're all just doing the best we can, and you have no idea what unseen and unspoken battles are being fought in the hearts of those around you. Encourage. Build up. Run alongside. Hold a hand. Have no conditions. Embrace mistakes... and love.

I hope that in this year to come, you make mistakes. Because if you are making mistakes, then you are making new things, trying new things, learning, living, pushing yourself, changing yourself, changing your world. You’re doing things you’ve never done before, and more importantly, you’re doing something. So that’s my wish for you, and all of us, and my wish for myself. Make new mistakes. Make glorious, amazing mistakes. Make mistakes nobody’s ever made before. Don’t freeze, don’t stop, don’t worry that it isn’t good enough, or it isn’t perfect, whatever it is: art, or love, or work or family or life. Whatever it is you’re scared of doing, do it. Make your mistakes, next year and forever.
—   Neil Gaiman
LORD, GRANT THAT I MIGHT NOT SO MUCH SEEK TO BE LOVED AS TO LOVE.
— -St. Francis of Assisi

Happy New Year Friends. It's so great to be alive.

"I miss you" - how I say it.

Sometimes it comes out wistfully, like when I remember the way you used to softly rub my cheek to help me fall asleep. The words float out lightly riding atop my sigh, and my breath and my words are companions, and I say, "I miss you."

Other times it blurts out of me bluntly in a selfish, egocentric tantrum. I want to know what God's purpose was, and why it seems like it's something that I'll never understand? I verbally stomp my feet and I say, "I miss you."

There are moments when it escapes me anxiously. It's out before I know I've said it. I didn't mean to say it out loud, but like a small child that is lost and looking for their mother- you are gone from me! In a cry of desperation I say, "I miss you!"

Often times it seeps out of my smile gratefully. I think of how much you would love my children, and how, (through what you gave me, and what I am able to pass on) ... you are loving them. And with a hand over my heart I say, "I miss you."

Sometimes I utter it hopelessly. It's this unmoving marker in my life and I catch myself measuring time not by my birthdays or the date on the calendar, but instead by how long you've been gone. The years feel long. They stretch out behind me and before me, and in defeat I say, "I miss you." 

And then, on days like today, when I relive... the words escape my heart and barely make their way up to my mouth. I find myself in a struggle to push back the pain and pull out the words. I'm not sure that they even qualify as words, actually. From an ache so deep, they are jagged and barely audible, and I say them- the hardest words, "I miss you."

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I don’t know what they are called, the spaces between sounds—but I think of you always in those intervals.
— Salvador Plascencia

Today marks 20 years. Is it strange that I feel as though I have cultivated a friendship with you even in your absence? I'm getting older and you are not. I think of you both as my mother and now also as my contemporary. There are so many things I wish I could ask you. So many things that I wish I could tell you. I want you to know that my brother is an amazing husband and father. He has such a big heart. Dad continues to love me well in your absence. He is one of my best friends. I've spent some sweet times with both of your sisters. They have your mannerisms and always share little memories of your childhood. It is such a comfort and such a gift. 

And, I have forgiven myself for not being there the night that you died. I know you would want this. For a long time I held it against myself. I didn't want to be there, It was intentional. I'm horrible at goodbyes, and sometimes you just know what kind of pain you're capable of bearing.  I wasn't strong enough to watch you slip away. I know this now, and have given my 14 year-old self the grace that she deserves.

I miss you Mom. I miss you every day, but today especially I remember you, and I have peace knowing that you are at peace. I love you.

A visit to my library

Every one of us is losing something precious to us. Lost opportunities, lost possibilities, feelings we can never get back again. That’s what part of it means to be alive. But inside our heads — at least that’s where I imagine it — there’s a little room where we store those memories. A room like the stacks in this library. And to understand the workings of our own heart we have to keep on making new reference cards. We have to dust things off every once in a while, let fresh air in, change the water in the flower vases. In other words, you’ll live for ever in your own private library.
— — Haruki Murakami, Kafka on the Shore

I like that analogy. I like the thought of a special space in your mind/heart where you keep the memory of things lost to you. A place where you can go to file things away, or to just flip through the pages of your most favorite stories. The approaching anniversary of my mom's death usually sends me there- so does walking around with a lump in my throat for a couple of weeks. In my library I cry. I ask myself questions, and evaluate where I'm at. How do I feel about it? What else have I learned in light of it? Do I understand it any further? How am I healing? How are the other wounded people around me faring? How can we remember, together? How much further down the road to peace am I? As always, my dad is gentle, kind, and transparent about his journey; his process of handling loss. He shared this with me via email this morning:

"I have often pondered the cost of great love. Is the immeasurable pain of the loss of a loved one worth the equally immeasurable joy we develop over the living of a life? Can we truly, fully appreciate the depth and width of love without the inevitable loss? 

I will choose to feel, to love and to experience the pain of great loss. I will understand that to truly love is a guarantee that the pain of loss will visit. I will be willing to pay the price because it is worth it to me.  Grief in loss is the evidence of the great richness of love.

 As the anniversary of such a great loss comes again to visit, it is with a bitter sweetness. In many ways I love the pain because it rekindles the memories of great love. I am at peace!"

I'm so blessed to learn about life and love from someone who knows a little something about both. Love you Dad.

I'm sorry if you came here looking for some Christmas Cheer today... I've been in my library. Be back soon. xxoo