Happy Birfday

Happy birfday to meeeee . . .

Happy birfday to meeeeeeeeeee . . .

Happy BIRFday, dear Maureeeeeeeeen. . .

Happy birfday to ME!!

Sweet thanks to Amanda and Jason for my flowers!!

Morning After

Love. Love God. Love yourself. Love others. But above all, when in doubt, love.

Sometimes I think I'm making progress, or what I would call progress. I see a place in my life that I think I need to/ought to/should be, and try to get there. I know all about how the journey is equally important as the destination, and some would say more so.

But still. It has been hard for me to value my wanderings in the wilderness. Why can't I just get "there" and finally be "done?"

Those are the frustrations--the chorus of nasty voices that swirls around the edges of my thoughts at times.

But. [And this is a BIG but!!!!] I'm finally seeing evidence of true growth. Of groping in the dark, zigzagging through the wartorn pieces of my life, enduring self-inflicted wounding and STILL coming out of it loving myself and my babystumble from an old life into a new.

All these pictures? Evidence of the day-old Valentine's candy I bought for myself yesterday. And ate. The chocolate that kept me from sleeping. I knew when I ate it that I might be sabotaging sleep. But the tender ache, the still healing wounds from unrequited love, called out for something sweet. So I fed myself chocolate.

When I couldn't sleep in the dark of night, I got up and read a book. Went back to bed just before 4am and managed to sleep, on and off, until almost noon. Got up and showered. Went to my line dance class, groggy, grainy in my soul, a little wobbly in my dancing feet. But gentle. Oh-so-gentle with my emerging self.

Right now, I am doing the best I can. I am moving from darkness into light. Yes, I wobble. Sometimes I fall. Hard.

But I'm learning to hug myself. Maybe lie down with my self, and rest, until we can get to our feet again. More hugs. Wipe away tears. Blow snotty nose. Turn face to the sun and start again, one tiny, unsteady step at a time, into the light.

What next?

Oh my. For 100 days I had a structure for this blog. Paint every day. Post nearly every day. And now that glorious adventure is over.

You know, even as I wrote "had a structure for this blog," something pinged in my thoughts. I think I stumbled onto this whole idea of blogging, back in January, as a way to break loose, break free. Of what? I'm not sure. Maybe if I knew more clearly, I'd already BE free.

Anyhoo, instinct tells me that holding to some "structure" for these posts would be antithetical to the original inspiration.

So . . . . . . here's what I'm thinking right now ("Now" being nearly 1 a.m.--waaaaaay past my bedtime . . . .) : I'm gonna do my best, my very best, to share the real me here in these posts. No, that's not a new commitment--I've been as honest as I know how, from the beginning. [oh poop. Tears. Gollygeewhiz, I'm sooooooooooooooooooo tired of crying.]

I'm casting about for words to accurately say what I'm trying to convey. But they dance at the edge of thought. They tease me. I LOVE writing. LOVE finding just the right word. But right now, words are NOT cooperating.

At this moment, I'm feeling all bits-and-piece-y. The last two weeks have been a physical and emotional roller-coaster, taking responsibility for getting my 88-year-old aunt moved from one assisted living facility to another, from a private room to a shared room. Making her new tiny space accommodate her myriad of needs. What she couldn't take with her is now scattered throughout my living room, single garage, double garage. Do I share it? Sell it? Toss it? I am inches away from drowning in STUFF, hers and mine.

I see her mired in memories, many of them sad. Even though her fiestiness usually prevails, much of her time now seems shaped/crippled by her past.

What do I want to do with the rest of my life, so that when I am 88, joy predominates? Every day overflows with crossroads, many taken unconsciously. This way? or that? Right this very moment, I am walking my way into my future. Which direction am I headed?

No more "quiet desperation."

No more holding back.

No more shushing myself.

No more shame.

The lovely flowers shown earlier, all arranged in a vase, came from this tangle of sunflowers growing in the cracks of my front sidewalk. They weren't planted. They weren't on purpose. They just started whereever they found themselves, grabbed onto whatever soil was available, made do with whatever water came their way, and they grew. And grew. And grew. They didn't ask for space. They didn't apologize for blocking the walkway. They just grew.

They shall be my teachers.

Day 4 of 100

Only four days into this project and it's already part of me. Some sort of oasis in the desert.

I have finally started making serious inroads into sorting through 30+ years of Stuff, complicated by the fact that the marriage that produced the Stuff didn't survive, but the Stuff did. It's really hard to sort through what should have been souvenirs of those decades but is instead sad reminders of what is no longer.

Also, opposite-sex relationships since divorce have not gone well. They, too, seem to be being shed, one by one. Or at the very least, they are not turning out the way I'd hoped.

So, in the midst of the past week of all sorts of housecleaning and soulsorting, I have taken water and color and splooshed on paper. Yesterday and today I worked on the pieces all throughout the day, a dab here and a swirl there.

With the sorting, I'm letting go of so much that I once dreamed would be wonderful. At the same time, I am allowing myself to play with the simplest of elements, on one 5x7 piece of paper a day. Downstairs go through a musty box of old papers and letters and anniversary cards. Then go upstairs and see how lemon yellow looks next to raspberry and spring green.

Making beauty with the same hands that are sifting through emotional wreckage and worn-out dreams is somehow saving me.

Gotta Bloom

My flower buddies are teaching me sooooooo much about persistence. And even more than that: about doing what God has designed me to do. No matter what.

One winter several years ago, I just got mad when our outdoor growing season stopped so soon. It's not unusual for a freak snow in September to wipe out flowers that are really still at the height of their growing. I heard news of a coming hard frost and went outside and dug up my geraniums and plopped them in a glass bowl. Honestly, I didn't hold out much hope for their successful transplanting--I'd been sorta rough and fast in my "rescue." But I'd fallen in love with their fiery red blooms and just did NOT want to see them end.

To my surprise and delight, they immediately prospered. However, over the next few years, my tending of them went seriously downhill. My personal life was unraveling, with marital separation, reconciliation, then another betrayal. Then ultimately, divorce--unwanted by me, seemingly unavoidable, like an emotional avalanche I couldn't stop nor avoid being buried by.

Every so often I'd remember these sweeties and water them. Every time I thought my neglect had killed them, they rallied. These pictures show them as they are this morning: gangly, wild, raggedy, and exuberantly blooming. Look how they turn to the light. True, only a mommy or daddy geranium (and ME!!) could call them "beautiful" in their present state. But oh, how their insistence sustains me.

Most days, I, too, feel gangly and disjointed, trying to survive despite arid conditions. But most days--no, EVERY day,--I, too, turn to the sun, to divine Love, and blossom. Not because I "choose" to, but because that is how God designed me. Hallelujah!

After the Rain

All night the sky wept. When I woke to today's gray wet morning, Love surprised me by also waking me to a heart brimming with quiet hope.

She who loves sunshine more than words can say, rose from a sweet night's sleep, tore the lid from last night's pizza box and painted a list of possibilities for today.

Third on the royal purple list was "weed." I needed to make room for the flowers I'd bought yesterday.

I went outside, ostensibly to just turn on my fountains, but I didn't come back inside for two hours. Without any conscious intent, I bent over one of my gardens and pulled a handful of grass.

Delighted at how easily it gave up its hold, I pulled another clump. Then another.

The night's rain had not only watered last year's seeds and bulbs. It had also made it nearly a joy to pull the weeds that were choking out the perennials and those determined enough to reseed themselves.

As I worked my way through first one garden, then another, I thought of all the tears I'd shed these past few days, mourning the loss of a friendship that had, in many ways, sustained me in the nearly two years since an unwanted divorce had become final.

These recent tears at times felt like molten pain, searing my insides. But they also served to cleanse and clarify.

Late last night I was finally able to acknowledge that yes, many sharp and sweet joys came out of that friendship. But this good was, sadly, more than counterbalanced by acts of hurt and betrayal.

I am ready now to accept that I deserve better.

My weeding showed me that the rain loosened the soil, making the removal of what did not belong nearly effortless. In the same way, tears had soothed and softened my bruised heart, allowing the removal of old growth, roots and all.

Once the weeds were removed, several clumps of flowers were able to show their sweet faces.

Space was made for new flowers to be planted.

And so also do I feel tiny buds of love and tender hope stir in the soil of my soul . . . watered, yes, by tears, but also warmed into blossom by Love's constant embrace.

And I too am ready for new love to take root and bloom.

Hanging onto Joy

This morning I am hanging onto joy. It's been a liquid few days. By that I mean that tears have flowed freely, with resulting puffy eyes and slimy snotty upper lip and chin (ewwwwwwwww!!)







But through it all I keep finding my way back to a smile, a laugh. True, these start as a grimace and a rumbly grumble, but eventually, within minutes (okay, within hours sometimes) they are almost recognizable as signs of a heart growing lighter once again.

What caused this recent descent into the valley of the shadow? I reached out, finally, to a friend who had been out of touch with me for several weeks, asking why there had been no responses to my previous efforts at contact. Was he okay? The response was, in essence, that he'd moved on, found someone else "better. "

Half my heart said, "Well, poop on you." The other half said, "Why wasn't I good enough?" Yet another half said, "What can I say or do here that will promote healing and growth for both of us?" Still one more half moaned, "Why me, God? Why me? What's wrong with ME???"

Yes, I'm well aware that all my bits of hearts add up to more than one whole. But that's the way I feel. God has given me a huge heart with which to care and feel and ache. And sometimes I want to give it back to Him and say, "Take back my heart. I don't want it. It hurts too damn much."

And then I realize: giving my heart back to God is precisely what He requires of me. Oh.

In my prayers lately, I've come across many Bible verses that tell me to give my "whole heart" to God. I always assumed that in addition to meaning "entire," "whole" also meant a heart in one piece. What God breathed into my sadness yesterday was that it simply meant ALL of my heart. It's okay if it's broken. Just be sure that when I hand my heart to God, I give Him all the pieces. Every single shard. Okay.

P.S. The pictures accompanying this post are more of my beautiful flowery friends. They remind me to keep blooming, no matter what. Blooming is NOT a choice for them. It is what they are designed to do.

Amen.

I'm back . . .

Yes, I'm back. And the weird part is that I didn't even realize I'd been "gone." Ever since I started blogging in January, some internal calendar sent me to the computer every few days to post a message. But in May, that evidently didn't happen.

I do know that I've felt particularly unsettled the past few weeks. A dear dear friend finally talked to me, and persisted, until I was able to see that something was indeed out-of-whack. Yes, I had made a commitment early in January to follow where God was leading me, even though it felt very uncomfortable. God had promised to be my partner in the dance of life and He was urging me--actually He was inviting me quite insistently :)--to stay out on the dance floor with Him and not to worry if I didn't know the steps (He did). And I was not to run for the chairs along the wall in between songs. Just stay out there, smack dab in the middle of the world and new experiences and evolving relationships and listen for the music.

I obeyed. A result of this was that I often felt uneasy, uncomfortable. I was definitely thinking things and saying things and doing things that were not "usual" for me. True, I was uncomfortable, but I was with the Comforter. I let that assurance support me and gradually I got more accustomed to NOT feeling comfortable.

But these past few weeks, as my dear dear friend helped me see, I had lost the joy. As I prayed in private, what God revealed to me was that in those early months, it was very appropriate that I feel sort of twitchy and at times, gritchy, due to being far out of my comfort zone. But now I had grown quite a bit. And actually, I had OUTgrown that twitchy gritchy feeling and was now feeling it only out of habit. It was time for me to lay aside what was appropriate THEN, and move forward. With joy.

As nearly as I can tell, this need for emotional recalibration is what made my internal calendar go whacky, resulting in my being oh-so-sure I had left several posts here during May, when in fact I had not. (Gee, how much MORE have I thought I've done and really, I haven't???? :)

In a sweet blessing from God and the universe, even during this time with only one post for nearly 3 weeks, several new people have visited my blog and left wonderfully supportive comments. Thank you to everyone, both new and familiar, for the responses. They mean the world.

See you soon.

Hello world

Good morning, world! When I sat down at my laptop just now, I thought I was just checking a few sites . . . had no overt intention to post anything new here . . . nothing specifically gnawing at me, nothing pressing to be thought about. Now that's not to say if you checked my journals, that you wouldn't find me still in the midst of tremendous transition and growth, accompanied by messy and noisy growing pains.

It's just that right now, this morning, this hour, this minute, is an oasis of calm. True, several tasks lie ahead the next few days, filling many of the hours. A handful of "big" things still need my thought and ultimate decision. A couple problems persist, needing fairly immediate resolutions. The landscape of my personal relationships still rumbles and roils around me, a raw and uncharted wilderness.

And yet.

Right here, right now, under my skin lies contentment. A soft smile curves my lips. Rain that fell here in the foothills last night lies now on Crow Peak as yet another layer of fresh snow. Mist that shrouded the hills surrounding town now dances solo across the western horizon. I've just stepped outside to check on my flowers. They are not letting the current coolness halt their growth. They have not surrendered to this winter's record-breaking harshness. They are insisting that the process of bud and bloom must survive even the most inhospitable environment.

I join my gentle teachers in their dance of persistent joy.

I WILL bloom . . .

Headlines in our local paper declare that we've broken a decades-old record for snowfall--120 inches so far. Some knee-deep drifts are still melting, all the while temp signs in town today read 70 degrees.

Several weeks ago I spied 2-inch-high sprouts in my flower bed. "Go back," I warned. "Go back!" Heavy snow was forecast. But those little guys didn't listen to me and my fear. They were too intent on growing. Now, the last few days of sun has finally melted away most of the several feet of snow that had buried my little buddies and they looked none the worse for the snowy assault they'd survived. Yesterday I oh-so-delicately shoveled away the last piles of snow at the end of the bed, uncovering a tangle of smooshed leaves and stalks. Oh dear. I figured that losing only these few plants was a pretty good turnout for the severe winter.

But then I happened to glance at the flower bed a few hours later. Right where broken leaves and bent stalks had lain, I saw upright plants--I could almost hear "Ta-Da . . . we MADE it!!"

When we are designed to grow, and not merely grow but bud and blossom, that imperative carries us through the coldest, harshest times.

I'm following the lead of my daffodil buddies and hollering, "Ta-Da . .. I made it!"

away from home

I've been down in Mississippi for a week now, with my sister. 60-70 degrees, sunny now. Back home in South Dakota is shut down with a spring blizzard. Yesterday I walked down a path by the library and had these azaleas tower over me.

Besides having a lovely time with my sister and her family, plus a two-night visit from our brother and his wife, I am also experiencing more healing regarding my own life. Being away from my own house for over two weeks enables me to gain some mental distance from it. I've been wrestling with what to do with my life--from the sublime "What is my life's purpose?" to the mundane "What do I do with all this stuff?" I'm experiencing the expected shifting and changing and renewing associated with the natural event of children growing and leaving home, and also the UNexpected shifting connected with the UNnatural event of an unwanted divorce.

This time--away from home, and with dear family--is filling me with new direction and purpose. For that I give heartdeep thanks.

yet another fresh start

Taking a deep breath. Exhaling gratitude. Doing the best I can to just BE in this present moment.

Friday's disappointment over leaning on another human for support was mitigated by hearing from him Saturday and being able to set myself aside and feel compassion for his challenges.

Saturday was preparation with family members for my mother-in-law's memorial the next day.

Sunday was the memorial, scattering ashes, sharing a meal, then dividing up some of her belongings.

The peace I felt at the end of that day was nothing short of miraculous, especially since the time was spent with members of a family I am now disconnected with because of my husband's leaving me.

The next day--yesterday--was my birthday. It's never mattered much to me to celebrate "birth"--that's just a biological event years ago. But it does matter to me to celebrate a person's uniqueness.

And that's where I'm dragging a bit, right now. It's a struggle for me NOT to define my value in terms of how I think others perceive me. Having my dad leave me when I was two, and then my husband leaving after 33 years of marriage, and choosing to be with several other women during our marriage--I have a hard time shaking a sense of worthlessness. [To the people who love me who read this-don't freak out. Deep down I KNOW I'm worthy and loved and lovable]. It's just this darn persistent sense of being left. Of wondering WHAT it is about me that is "leaveable."

I want to get my sense of worth from God, from inside myself. And I'm working on it. And despite the thoughts shared here, I have made tremendous progress. But sometimes the pain just hits all over again.

But then, all over again, I fight back. I make a fresh commitment to bloom like my favorite peony--with all my might, not holding back, not saving any beauty for another day, or even another hour. Just live and bloom extravagantly. That's my plan.

Yeah, I slipped a little tonight. But I'm back.

Transitions

Had the family over tonight . . . my aunt Marge, 88, survivor of a pretty rough life. My oldest son, in the midst of his divorce, and deciding it would be better NOT to have his soon-to-be-exwife at G'ma's memorial in two weeks. My other son and his wife, who will host the gathering at the clubhouse at their apartment complex. My daughter and her new husband. My ex-husband.

We all ate. Potluck. Daughter made potato soup. Son brought cheese and crackers. Other son and wife made a cheesecake. Aunt brought drinks. Ex brought salad. I made biscuits. We ate and remembered G'ma. Made plans for the gathering in two weeks.

I'm grateful for the peace I feel, yet even as I type those words, tears well up and spill over. I'm not feeling too good right now, so that probably makes everything seem bluer than it really is. But this time of my life is so far from anything I ever imagined. I would so love to be able to cultivate a sense of adventure about all this newness--to try to see the positive in all these opportunites for new choices, new directions.

Well hey. Why don't you just CHOOSE to do that? Spread your lips out into a smile, right now. . there you go .. . well, THAT looks more like a grimace, but with a little practice . . . there, that's better. Even with the tears not quite dry on your cheeks, you are smiling.

Hey, punkin . . . I love you. You are a brave soul and you haven't given up on love, not by a long shot. I'm proud of you.

Good night. Sleep tight.

Who'da thunk it?

I'm happy with today.

I still feel totally at sea concerning relationships with men. Never imagined in a bazillion years I'd be single after my kids were grown. Never imagined I--once a confirmed teenaged wallflower--would find myself dating immediately following an unwanted divorce. Never imagined that in one year I would connect with someone, break up, then reconnect, only to have them fall and hit their head and die. Never imagined I would become involved with two other men with so much emotional baggage a semi-truck couldn't hold it all.

Never imagined I'd feel so open and honest and real. Never imagined I'd think seriously about drinking. Never imagined I'd pray so long and so hard and feel so close to God.

Life's full of surprises.

Hope

Gotta add a P.S. before this month ends . . . my last posting was really teary and depressed. Honest, but depressed. Part of me thinks I should apologize to The World for having whined. But the reality is that I started this whole blog thing for myself. Maybe other people might read it at some point, but I'm doing it for me. Proof that I believe in myself.

And the truth is that I feel better after posting the last entry. Eyes gummy with dried tears and nose still dripping snot, but on the inside, I feel better.

Being me is not pretty most of the time. I try so hard to take the focus off myself and think of others, and a lot of the time, that's a good thing.

But I also need to take better care of myself. I need to stop thinking that there is some "perfect" way to deal with difficult times. I need to stop setting up expectations for myself that are impossible to meet. I've had some ugly stuff happen to me and I'm ready to ramp up my efforts to see healing. Might get a little messy. That's okay. I might fuss and whine some more. That's okay, too. If somebody other than me ends up reading my moaning and groaning and doesn't like it . . . well . . . that's okay, too.

Enough is enough with all this suffering. I insist on joy. If it takes more tears to get to the joy, that's okay, too. Whatever it takes.

What if . . . what if this is the year I set myself free?

Hearttired

Not really sure why I'm writing now, but feel the nudge to do so. I'm due to leave the house to attend a function at our local Opera House and I'm likely going alone. And I don't want to. My daughter encourages me to be brave, telling me that who knows? I might meet someone there . . Yeah . . .

I have put my whole heart into being loving and open and tenderhearted, almost defiantly so, in the aftermath of an unwanted divorce. I've been insistent that I could not be deprived of the opportunity to express love, just because my husband decided to exit our marriage. For the most part I think I've done pretty well. But oh, at times my heart and soul and somehow, the inside of my skin, is just tiiiiiiiiiirrrrrrreeeeed. I want to be at the END of the journey. I want someone to love. I want someone to love me.

I know. A whole of of "I wants" there . . . sounds pretty self-centered, doesn't it? I don't mean it that way. I just have so much love to share . . .and I still hurt so much, thinking that there just isn't a man who wants to be with me. So hard to not think there must be something WRONG with me.

I know. Be grateful. Find something to be grateful for. I'll do that. Gotta go now and get dressed. Yes, I AM going out tonight, alone. And the smile on my face will be genuine, not forced.

What a difference a few days makes . . . actually, my mood lightened the next day. I've just been too busy having fun to post an update here! Having the daily project of posing a question, listening for an answer, and recording it in a big journal, has really been working for me. Since the point is to let the day unfold according to the answer, my thought (and resulting actions) are pulled back to that spark of inspiration, all through the day.

When I was low and discouraged the other day (when I last posted) the project was there the next day, tugging at me pretty darn persistently. My year's question--What if . . .? --was there to revive my spirits and urge me on. So far, different responses to the "what if" have led me to holding a certain thought for the day; a certain action, like "smile"; or a particular activity, like "put on music and 'dance' while cleaning the utility room." I'm pretty wide open to the sorts of urgings that come.

Starting every day with wondering "What if . . " really opens my mind, directs my gaze far beyond the horizon of what surrounds me right now. I can feel so solidly mired in the rubble of a past life--parental abuse followed by broken marriage--and even though I have claimed that I am "moving forward," and have many delightful new parts of my life, I can still feel like the smell of the fire is on me, pervading everything.

But. And yet. This new project--this time of wonder every morning--is really lifting me up and out of feeling still stuck in the past. Yes, it's still scary, allowing the door of possibility to swing wide open every morning. Yes, I might find great stuff Out There. But I also tremble, thinking Monsters might come in and find me.

But. I don't think that all the time any more. The sweet little girl hidden inside me for far too long is coming out to play more and more. She has surprised me with flowers drawn on the journal page . . . with silly gooey kisses pressed all over the page after my adult's hand has smeared lipstick across my lips . . . she has made giggles spurt out of my grown-up's mouth . . . and this bubbling, unconfinable joy starts my day, dresses me with laughter, sends me out into The World to do my lists of Stuff, just like before, yet different. I giggle. I grin. For no other reason than I'm me and I'm happy.

I still live in a wilderness. I still get sad. Mad. I still cry a lot. But as always, those tears water flowers of hope. Wildflowers. Wild hope.

This New Day

Mid-morning here . . . I had to listen a little harder today when I asked "What if . . .? . . . .or maybe actually a little softer?? . . but I did hear a whisper, a beckoning, an invitation . . .I'm to have music on, all day today. Even the thought makes me uncomfortable, so that's proof I'm tickling an area that would like me to leave it alone, but not really.



I got a second unmistakable nudge: to share this poem

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Someday

Young enough to fit inside the refrigerator box
my sister and I set up housekeeping
Her blankets run along one side, mine hug the other
Our two dollbabies sit in between

Lace curtains taped to box flaps
float in summer breeze
a fragile doorway between
make believe and Out There

Did I know then
that all my life I’d need a place
alone
a place set apart?

A Nebraska boy tells of his early writing place,
a refrigerator box in a bedroom corner
when newly married

He sat in the box, wrote poems,
taped their adolescent shapes
on cardboard walls

We slept outside, my sister and I,
sheltered, by choice, in our Kelvinator cardboard
three feet from the back door, three feet
from indoor plumbing and a mother’s eyes

When summer’s night rain wet our box
we slid out from under a sagging roof, slid inside before
complete collapse, slid back into a bedroom
I’d spend the rest of life trying to escape

The Nebraska boy, from his box,
wrote his way to praise as
poet laureate of America

Me, most comfortable with a wall at my back
and a clear way out, I write and
dream of living open, free,
someday unboxed entirely

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I pasted a copy of this poem on today's page in my 2009 Project journal and found myself writing at the end of it: "oh my sweet precious baby . . . 'someday' is NOW

Scared to Start

Winter wind howls outside, whistling through old windows. I sit here in the near dark and start this blog and wonder what the heck I'm doing. The day's earlier bravery has all but deserted me. I'm on Day 2 of my new year's plan and am already so far out of my comfort zone. Right now, the prospect of 363 more days like this don't sound appealing . . .not at all.

But. My code word for today is "smile." At others, as I usually do, but more importantly, at myself. So, I have just stretched my cheeks into a smiley sort of grimace, wide enough to make my dimples appear. And yes, it is working, lightening my heart just enough so that my shoulders relax. A sigh escapes and I feel the tiniest bubble of resurgent joy.

For the past three years, as I have tried to lean into life, I have chosen mottos for the year. 2006 was my Year of No Regrets. 2007, the Year of Full Emergence. 2008, the Year of the Holy Here and Now.

As 2008 drew to a close, I had to listen really hard until one day, a couple weeks ago, I heard just a whisper . . . I didn't understand the point of what I was hearing, or so I thought. Actually, I did not WANT to understand the idea--did not WANT to have a year's plan so amorphous, so undefined, so boundaryless.

But these last few years, I have learned to listen, because it is way easier to follow inspiration than to backtrack.

So, the banner over my 2009--my guiding light--my inspiration for each day is: What if?

Yeah, I know. "What if" WHAT???? Exactly. I have NO clue where paying attention to this idea will take me each day. The range of possibilities is truly infinite. All I know is that (I THINK) it is supposed to be something measurable . . . something that, at the end of the day, I can evaluate whether or not I "did" it. . .

All I do, so far, is pose the question, early in the morning . . . "What if . . . ?" and then listen. Yesterday, not surprisingly, I heard "What if . . . you were very gentle with yourself through this first day?" The day ended up being full of accomplishments and joys, and throughout it I stopped often to give myself a mental hug, and I really felt the impact.

Today, Day 2, as soon as I posed the "What if . . . ," I heard " . . .you smiled at everyone today, including yourself?" Well, I usually make a point to smile at others, but I REALLY amped it up today; but the difference is that, many times, I smiled just at me. And wow. I FELT it. Nearly every time, I had a physical response, an upswell of joy, when I got smiled at by me.

Who knows where the days and weeks and months ahead might lead me? I can imagine a rainbow of options: What if . . . I spent the day naked? signed up for skydiving lessons? spoke only in whispers? walked backwards? put my clothes on inside-out?

My only commitment is NOT to force the answers, the leadings . . . I am trusting that I've been led to this idea, and therefore I am trusting that each day will issue an invitation to me.
********************
I feel as if I have been "in transition" forever and always. So many difficult human experiences have left their imprint on me, and their odor. I am ready for new. I am ready to step away from the handrail, let go of the rope securing me to the dock, get up off my chair and out onto the dance floor. I've been doing this in varying degrees these past few years, but I sense that this year's call--my "What if" year--is meant to be a fullout effort--all-or-nothing--and I choose ALL.
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If anyone out there, (except my daughter who already mostly understands me), is reading this, and wonders WHAT THE HECK this woman is prattling on about . . . here are some human details. My dad left when I was 2. Family unit was basically me and sister and mother, with older brother away at school. Abusive grandfather lived on other side of house, limiting my involvement with wonderful grandmother. Dad came back, briefly, when I was 6, just long enough to commit incest. 31 years of repressed memories followed, during which I married, raised 3 children. Husband chose to leave me after 33 years of marriage. I've been living alone since 2004, single since 2007.

I am SO TIRED of having pain leave tracks on my soul. I am commited, with every sliver of my being, to letting innate joy and indwelling God/goodness paint the fabric of my days. I have tried to "do right" all my life, exhausting myself in the search for The Rule Book, which, if I could find, I would obey in every aspect and thus prevent pain . . yeah. I now officially give up that search. I trust the God Who made me, to guide me. I commit to being loving and honest. All the rest I let go of.

I have no idea how this next year will play out. I only know that, ready or not, here I come.