I spent most of this Memorial Day weekend outside, like millions of other Americans. I went on a long bike ride, which was glorious. I sat on my porch. I went to a BBQ. I walked to friends' houses instead of driving.
And a realization about myself resulted from these forays in the outdoors: I am a muddy girl.
Allow me to illustrate. The destination of my bike ride was Utah Lake, which is notoriously "gross." The water smells, the mud is a quagmire, and there are a ton of mosquitos. No one swims there. My friend didn't even want to walk close to the shoreline. So I, of course, left him on the bike trail and went to stand on that shoreline and look across the water. We were there, weren't we? No way I was gonna miss out on the view, even if some of the biggest mosquitoes I've ever seen (and let's be clear here, I've lived in the Adirondack Mountains of New York State, so mosquitos are not unfamiliar to me in the least) immediately rose in a billowing cloud above my head.
And on the way back home? I did, indeed, stop along the trail and dip my hands into the Provo River, despite the cold. If I had worn sandals instead of sneakers, I would have waded. It's there, and I'm gonna experience it!
If you've seen me gardening, I was probably out there in my bare feet, gloveless and unheeding of the dirt getting under my nails. Gardening is about digging in with both hands. Dirt washes away.
If it's summer and I'm driving, those windows are all the way down, and so is my hair. I want to feel the wind, and who cares if my hair gets tangled? It can be combed out.
Ceramics class, my freshman year of college, was delightful. I didn't care about getting clay all over me, I just jumped in and had the time of my life, centering the clay and creating. My roommates always made fun of me when I came back from class, wondering aloud if there was any possible way I could have gotten more dirty. I wish that picture of me just after class one evening was accessible...
And oh yeah, doing the dishes is going to result in a little bit of a soaking down my torso and/or legs. And playing with my nieces will result in a spill or two on my clothes. When I go camping, there is no worry about preventing myself from smelling like smoke. I get right up to the fire and let the heat soak in; allow my hair and clothes and body to absorb that wonderful, woodsy smell. I got grass stains on the knee of my pants less than a month ago. Today, my knees collided with the ground while doing the limbo during field day. I probably could have just twisted my head aside and admitted defeat, but I wanted to go all out. Now I have some lovely mud stains to prove that I did, and guess what? That'll wash out, too.
I throw myself in. I'm not afraid of getting dirty; of reveling in the mess that's part of the experience. I like to live a little loud. I'm ok with opening up to and feeling what's happening a little deeper than most people let themselves. I'm not afraid to be uncomfortable. I'm not afraid to be seen unedited. I want to sink my teeth into living. I'm a muddy girl.
I go in, and I get dirty. When it's done, I pull myself out, clean up, and go on living. And you know what? I prefer it that way.
Wednesday, May 28, 2014
Saturday, May 24, 2014
It Was a Nice Fantasy
It was a nice fantasy, it really was, but it just isn't reality. Reality is made of much meatier, more fulfilling, substantial stuff.
Like the woman who taught me to play the flute while she underwent chemo, who let me pay for lessons in folded towels and swept porches. I visited her yesterday, for the first time since serving my mission, and she talked to me about losing her husband--a powerful influence in my life!--and considering the possibility of dating again, now that it's been more than a year and a half. So strange, that this situation could come into being.
And there living is--the unexpected mixing in with the plan, the backup plan, the revised backup plan, and the completely new plan that came from facing the changes.
It hit me, the grief and the wonder that mix up so flawlessly to make living vital. We swing back and forth in the joy and the sorrow and all that's in between. Somehow, that is the beauty--the living, learning, feeling, thinking, and experiencing that makes up the days and years we're here.
There I was yesterday, saying goodbye to the scholars I've taught this year, their faces bright before me. The one whom had started with the most difficulty hugged me the tightest, with a fierceness that surprised me, and it stung my eyes that he had cared, after all. I took a picture of my empty little classroom and choked back the tears. I looked at the small, silent classroom and felt in myself that things will never be the same again. Those children have made me more than I was. And never again will it be the first year, with all the delightful bumbling about I did.
Just like I'll never be a college freshman again, with late nights and the learning of a new kind of friendship, without the walls that come from living in separate homes. I shared all the messy parts of myself without even meaning to, and found people who still loved me. And I passed classes and failed English and fell in love for the first time of consequence. I took so many years to truly say goodbye, inside myself, and not just in words.
And that season ended, and more rose up, overlapping in a wonderful tapestry of learning which I now wear, adding colors and people and places without end. The season of the second year, of hoping for something better, of becoming more than I imagined I could be.
Every day I become more. Occasionally I wonder at the fluidity in me, at how much my perspectives have changed and will continue to change. I think of the things I've held on to all this time. The truths, as well as the inclaritites waiting to break free when I am ready to see what is real. The people, and the places that I carry inside me, ugly and flawed and free.
And then I think of the life I built inside my head; the way I thought these years would stretch. Oh, it was a nice fantasy, it really was. But this is real. This stretches me. This is better.
This is much, much better.
Like the woman who taught me to play the flute while she underwent chemo, who let me pay for lessons in folded towels and swept porches. I visited her yesterday, for the first time since serving my mission, and she talked to me about losing her husband--a powerful influence in my life!--and considering the possibility of dating again, now that it's been more than a year and a half. So strange, that this situation could come into being.
And there living is--the unexpected mixing in with the plan, the backup plan, the revised backup plan, and the completely new plan that came from facing the changes.
It hit me, the grief and the wonder that mix up so flawlessly to make living vital. We swing back and forth in the joy and the sorrow and all that's in between. Somehow, that is the beauty--the living, learning, feeling, thinking, and experiencing that makes up the days and years we're here.
There I was yesterday, saying goodbye to the scholars I've taught this year, their faces bright before me. The one whom had started with the most difficulty hugged me the tightest, with a fierceness that surprised me, and it stung my eyes that he had cared, after all. I took a picture of my empty little classroom and choked back the tears. I looked at the small, silent classroom and felt in myself that things will never be the same again. Those children have made me more than I was. And never again will it be the first year, with all the delightful bumbling about I did.
Just like I'll never be a college freshman again, with late nights and the learning of a new kind of friendship, without the walls that come from living in separate homes. I shared all the messy parts of myself without even meaning to, and found people who still loved me. And I passed classes and failed English and fell in love for the first time of consequence. I took so many years to truly say goodbye, inside myself, and not just in words.
And that season ended, and more rose up, overlapping in a wonderful tapestry of learning which I now wear, adding colors and people and places without end. The season of the second year, of hoping for something better, of becoming more than I imagined I could be.
Every day I become more. Occasionally I wonder at the fluidity in me, at how much my perspectives have changed and will continue to change. I think of the things I've held on to all this time. The truths, as well as the inclaritites waiting to break free when I am ready to see what is real. The people, and the places that I carry inside me, ugly and flawed and free.
And then I think of the life I built inside my head; the way I thought these years would stretch. Oh, it was a nice fantasy, it really was. But this is real. This stretches me. This is better.
This is much, much better.
Good Timber
- by Douglas Malloch
For sun and sky and air and light,
But stood out in the open plain
And always got its share of rain,
Never became a forest king
But lived and died a scrubby thing.
The man who never had to toil
To gain and farm his patch of soil,
Who never had to win his share
Of sun and sky and light and air,
Never became a manly man
But lived and died as he began.
Good timber does not grow with ease:
The stronger wind, the stronger trees;
The further sky, the greater length;
The more the storm, the more the strength.
By sun and cold, by rain and snow,
In trees and men good timbers grow.
Where thickest lies the forest growth,
We find the patriarchs of both.
And they hold counsel with the stars
Whose broken branches show the scars
Of many winds and much of strife.
This is the common law of life.
Monday, May 19, 2014
The Lump in My Throat
When I have something important to me that I want to share, I have a hard time talking when I feel I'm not being listened to. I used to keep trying with a person, no matter how evasive or distracted they seemed to be. This lead to frustration, and even hurt, on both sides. Eventually, I started attempting two or three times in a single conversation. If after that I still didn't feel heard (when I was truly hoping to share something that matters to me), I'd just accept that the other person wasn't presently in a listening kind of place, and keep my thoughts to myself, saving them for a different situation.
Occasionally, one subject arises which I have a deep need to talk about, so I'll try with multiple people, multiple times, to bring it up. And often, I'll be able find someone who is ready to listen for a little while or a long while, and the words get spoken.
But there are these other times. These times when I try and try and can't find the right ears, the right heart, to actually listen. Or the words are slippery and I have no idea what it is I need to say, and I feel guilty to just keep talking without a direction I'm headed in, while someone sits by. Sometimes I am not willing to speak because my emotions are too untidy for me to look at, or too heavy to share. Or I don't want to make the effort to put myself out there a little, or whatever. I just don't always find the ears.
I have made the choice, on multiple occasions, to hold inside what would probably would have been better said aloud, even if it just helped me. I'll be honest here: I've cut off ties of communication with pretty much any possible important category of person by judging them for not being willing or able to listen, whether temporarily or permanently. You know--family. Friends. Ecclesiastical leaders. Roommates. Boyfriends. Co-workers. What are the other categories? Whatever they are, they probably have at least one representative that I could think of. And oh yeah, God too. I've avoided talking to Him on anything more than a superficial level hundreds more times than I care to admit.
When this happens, a lump forms in my throat, a lump which can last from hours, to days, to weeks, months, or years. It's an actual physical sensation: a tightness, an unpleasant tingle. A throat-constricted, stomach-churning, hard-to-breathe, bile-tasting pressure in my mouth. Those are the worst times, of course. There are all kinds of degrees, and being frank, sometimes it builds up for a while before I notice it because I so automatically hold in what I want to say. And I hold it in out of anger, out of a twisted sense of revenge or punishment for those who aren't listening the way I wanted, when I wanted.
It's kind of a ridiculous internal temper-tantrum, actually. The one thing I get most offended about, most often, most easily.
I want to let this pattern go. I want to take it less personally, for one, because it usually isn't. We just get busy with our own stuff--as evidenced with this very preoccupation, haha!
I want to have a different knee-jerk reaction when I'm not feeling heard. Maybe instead of clamming up and feeling superior or hurt or hateful, I could learn to say something like, "Hey, I have something I wanted to share with you. Do you have a few minutes for me to do that?" Often, we just don't know that the other person has a item they want to discuss.
And definitely, I want to be more forgiving, not only toward others who unintentionally don't hear, (because I could use a whole heaping helping of that!!) but towards myself, too. To recognize and be forgiving of this weakness that has developed in me. To acknowledge that there are reasons I've learned to hold it in, and to acknowledge that it will take me a little time and practice to learn a better way. To say to myself, "Hey, we're all still learning. It's ok to start from here--it's not where you're going to end up."
"The ears are the door to the heart." -Voltaire
Occasionally, one subject arises which I have a deep need to talk about, so I'll try with multiple people, multiple times, to bring it up. And often, I'll be able find someone who is ready to listen for a little while or a long while, and the words get spoken.
But there are these other times. These times when I try and try and can't find the right ears, the right heart, to actually listen. Or the words are slippery and I have no idea what it is I need to say, and I feel guilty to just keep talking without a direction I'm headed in, while someone sits by. Sometimes I am not willing to speak because my emotions are too untidy for me to look at, or too heavy to share. Or I don't want to make the effort to put myself out there a little, or whatever. I just don't always find the ears.
I have made the choice, on multiple occasions, to hold inside what would probably would have been better said aloud, even if it just helped me. I'll be honest here: I've cut off ties of communication with pretty much any possible important category of person by judging them for not being willing or able to listen, whether temporarily or permanently. You know--family. Friends. Ecclesiastical leaders. Roommates. Boyfriends. Co-workers. What are the other categories? Whatever they are, they probably have at least one representative that I could think of. And oh yeah, God too. I've avoided talking to Him on anything more than a superficial level hundreds more times than I care to admit.
When this happens, a lump forms in my throat, a lump which can last from hours, to days, to weeks, months, or years. It's an actual physical sensation: a tightness, an unpleasant tingle. A throat-constricted, stomach-churning, hard-to-breathe, bile-tasting pressure in my mouth. Those are the worst times, of course. There are all kinds of degrees, and being frank, sometimes it builds up for a while before I notice it because I so automatically hold in what I want to say. And I hold it in out of anger, out of a twisted sense of revenge or punishment for those who aren't listening the way I wanted, when I wanted.
It's kind of a ridiculous internal temper-tantrum, actually. The one thing I get most offended about, most often, most easily.
I want to let this pattern go. I want to take it less personally, for one, because it usually isn't. We just get busy with our own stuff--as evidenced with this very preoccupation, haha!
I want to have a different knee-jerk reaction when I'm not feeling heard. Maybe instead of clamming up and feeling superior or hurt or hateful, I could learn to say something like, "Hey, I have something I wanted to share with you. Do you have a few minutes for me to do that?" Often, we just don't know that the other person has a item they want to discuss.
And definitely, I want to be more forgiving, not only toward others who unintentionally don't hear, (because I could use a whole heaping helping of that!!) but towards myself, too. To recognize and be forgiving of this weakness that has developed in me. To acknowledge that there are reasons I've learned to hold it in, and to acknowledge that it will take me a little time and practice to learn a better way. To say to myself, "Hey, we're all still learning. It's ok to start from here--it's not where you're going to end up."
"The ears are the door to the heart." -Voltaire
Sunday, May 18, 2014
Church Today
Church today was exactly what this lady needed. I felt a lot of personal messages in the words of the speakers, especially in sacrament meeting. I am grateful for this day to honor the Savior of mankind, and learn more of Him.
One of the things that stood out most to me today was the strength that we can each gain from a personal relationship with Him. Something one of the speakers said that resonated deeply with me was that when we use the Atonement to overcome challenges, our perspective changes. We change. We become new people. I have seen this in myself and in my life, as well as in the lives of people around me. Through His Atonement, we each are able to be healed and changed into new people. His grace is real, and I have experienced the healing it brings.
He also mentioned that when we have experienced this healing, enabling power in our lives, we become hopeful people. That struck me because I'd been thinking in the past few weeks about how different my perspective is than it used to be, and wondering what changed to make me so much more optimistic. Not only have I been noticing a change, I've had numerous friends comment on my hopefulness recently. Hearing that the experiences I've had with the Savior are directly connected to my increase in hope suddenly explained exactly what has happened to me over the past few years, and filled me with both gratitude and wonder at the Lord's kindness.
Last week in church, our Relief Society instructor had us take a few moments to write down our witnesses of The Savior Jesus Christ and His work for us, God's children. Although my testimony is incomplete and weak in areas, I do want, today, to share that testimony with you. It is the most precious knowledge I have gained in this mortal life.
What I wrote last week in Relief Society:
I know that Jesus Christ is the Savior, that he knows and loves us as individuals. I testify that His Atonement is real, and can wash away sins, pains, and sicknesses of all kinds--physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. I testify that it is the greatest power on earth or heaven, and that by Him, and through Him, and of Him, the worlds are and were created.
He is our Elder Brother. He wants us to be happy. His love for us, and our Father in Heaven, was the motivation for His sacrifice.
I know He was divinely called, and the only being who could fulfill the demands of justice while opening the doors of mercy to us. I know, through Him, that death is overcome, and all will be resurrected at the Last Day.
I know He is the way, the truth, and the light. Amen.
"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." -Philippians 4:13, KJV
"And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.
And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death with bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities." -Alma 7:11-12, The Book of Mormon
One of the things that stood out most to me today was the strength that we can each gain from a personal relationship with Him. Something one of the speakers said that resonated deeply with me was that when we use the Atonement to overcome challenges, our perspective changes. We change. We become new people. I have seen this in myself and in my life, as well as in the lives of people around me. Through His Atonement, we each are able to be healed and changed into new people. His grace is real, and I have experienced the healing it brings.
He also mentioned that when we have experienced this healing, enabling power in our lives, we become hopeful people. That struck me because I'd been thinking in the past few weeks about how different my perspective is than it used to be, and wondering what changed to make me so much more optimistic. Not only have I been noticing a change, I've had numerous friends comment on my hopefulness recently. Hearing that the experiences I've had with the Savior are directly connected to my increase in hope suddenly explained exactly what has happened to me over the past few years, and filled me with both gratitude and wonder at the Lord's kindness.
Last week in church, our Relief Society instructor had us take a few moments to write down our witnesses of The Savior Jesus Christ and His work for us, God's children. Although my testimony is incomplete and weak in areas, I do want, today, to share that testimony with you. It is the most precious knowledge I have gained in this mortal life.
What I wrote last week in Relief Society:
I know that Jesus Christ is the Savior, that he knows and loves us as individuals. I testify that His Atonement is real, and can wash away sins, pains, and sicknesses of all kinds--physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual. I testify that it is the greatest power on earth or heaven, and that by Him, and through Him, and of Him, the worlds are and were created.
He is our Elder Brother. He wants us to be happy. His love for us, and our Father in Heaven, was the motivation for His sacrifice.
I know He was divinely called, and the only being who could fulfill the demands of justice while opening the doors of mercy to us. I know, through Him, that death is overcome, and all will be resurrected at the Last Day.
I know He is the way, the truth, and the light. Amen.
"I can do all things through Christ which strengtheneth me." -Philippians 4:13, KJV
"And he shall go forth, suffering pains and afflictions and temptations of every kind; and this that the word might be fulfilled which saith he will take upon him the pains and the sicknesses of his people.
And he will take upon him death, that he may loose the bands of death with bind his people; and he will take upon him their infirmities, that his bowels may be filled with mercy, according to the flesh, that he may know according to the flesh how to succor his people according to their infirmities." -Alma 7:11-12, The Book of Mormon
Sunday, May 11, 2014
Dream Job
The other night, I went to dinner with my roommate. We've had little opportunity to talk one-on-one before, simply because of our schedules, so as we ate we were also getting to know one another better. She asked questions, I replied, then I asked questions and she replied. I enjoyed it. She is a great girl that I've been wanting to get to know better for a while.
In the course of our conversation, she asked me a question that I haven't thought about in a while. I was surprised at what I learned as I answered.
She asked me, "So, what would be your dream job?" It had been so long since I thought about it that I just blinked, literally.
And then the word tumbled out, "Teaching."
"Oh, something like Teach for America?"
"No. Just teaching. It doesn't matter what or where. As long as I'm teaching, I'm happy."
And we moved on.
Now, why is this exchange the subject of a post?
Because, folks, I already am a teacher. It's a bit significant that I am working in my dream job. That I teach. Why? Well, because it's a miracle, for one. Two, because I had gotten so used to being a teacher that I'd forgotten both how miraculous it is and how grateful I was when I was first hired. There was a bit of settling into the routine of teaching, grading, and emailing parents, and I began to take for granted that I HAVE MY DREAM JOB, and I'm not even a college graduate yet! Saying that my dream job is teaching, and realizing that I already have that job, brought the gratitude rushing back up again, and I wanted to share it. I am so, so grateful. This is more than I expected or hoped for myself.
The Lord is very kind and generous, in my experience. Nothing has been "perfect." So much in my life has happened so differently than I wanted, or hasn't even happened at all (yet.) But I have seen His hand, felt His care, and experienced His love for me.
He cares about you. He cares about each of us. I testify this is true, amen.
"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but we often look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened before us. " -Helen Keller
The Lord is very kind and generous, in my experience. Nothing has been "perfect." So much in my life has happened so differently than I wanted, or hasn't even happened at all (yet.) But I have seen His hand, felt His care, and experienced His love for me.
He cares about you. He cares about each of us. I testify this is true, amen.
"When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but we often look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one that has been opened before us. " -Helen Keller
Monday, May 5, 2014
Right Now
I just feel peaceful right now. Peaceful in that tired-out, I-accomplished-things sort of way. All mellow with weary eyelids. It's so, so nice. I like this feeling.
Thanks.
Thanks.
Exhibit A
I have this theory that children are the best. I
would like to present Exhibit A:
I often tell the kids at school to tie errant shoelaces. At our school, we do "bucket-filling," which is about building others up and complimenting. Sometimes these bucket-filling comments are written on index cards, and even occasionally addressed to me and left on my desk. Now that you know the back story, my bucket-filler from yesterday:
"Ms [my name, spelled entirely wrong] (did I
spell you name write)
When I wrote this bucket filler my soes [sic] were
tied. Thank you for Reminding me about them. you rock. [Signed] unanimous"
I'm taking that as unanimous instead of anonymous, because I can. :)
Saturday, May 3, 2014
Strength and Progress
We just finished reading Hatchet (by Gary Paulsen) in the reading class I teach. There's a part where Brain, the protagonist, loses all hope. I gave my scholars a homework assignment that asked, "What could Brian think about or do to feel hopeful again? What do you think about or do when you need to feel hope?"
Their answers surprised me in their maturity and depth. I had scholars who talked about praying, about reminding themselves that they can always try again, about seeking help from others. The one that stayed with me the most, though, was from my student Wil. He said that when he needs to feel hope, he thinks that he is loved and that people care about him. What a strength to have! I don't know what other people's lives are like, but experiencing depression as I do, I know that my mind can very easily disregard the positive facts, and I have been caught countless times in the trap of thinking that no one cares for me/I am not loved. There is so much power in remembering that people care, that you are loved. I envy him finding this strength at such a young age. I didn't even begin to know it till my mid- to late-teens or early twenties.
Everyday as I move forward, I find that the little things do work. They really, really do. Enough sleep, enough food, getting out in the world and apart from my head. I don't believe in forcing myself to do things. There is such a harried, utterly stressed, unhealthy feeling to that. But I do believe in pushing myself, which has a distinct emotional difference for me. It starts with a desire that already exists, and is more of a movement through reluctance or a wading through fear than a propulsion to care, as I find forcing to be. It is driven by hope rather than anger or frustration. Forcing makes me feel injured once I have made myself do whatever it was, but pushing makes me feel relieved or proud or clear afterwards. And thankfully, I am in a place, and have been for the past few years, that I desire to feel better (because Gotye is right, "...you can be addicted to a certain kind of sadness....")
Now, because I have desire, I can push myself to actually do that thing I want to do, whether it's getting together with friends, or going on a bike ride, or applying for a job I'm afraid I might not be considered for. I have found strength in this, too. In taking the little steps forward, in knowing myself enough to know when it's appropriate to stay inside and when it's better for me to go out, even when it's hard.
I am so grateful for forward movement. For movement! My sister wrote a poem once, and although I don't remember the line, I do remember the image: Walking through life with boxing gloves up, ready to defend herself. She talked about feeling exhausted from doing so for so long.
I feel like depression is often like that. There's just so much internal noise to fight through, every day, to live the life that I want to live. And it can wear on me. Imagine struggling with the choice to open your bedroom door, in order to imply that you are home and willing to socialize, knowing that it will help you but feeling less than 1% desire to do so. Imagine wrestling with yourself about whether it's worth it to get fully ready for the day, or to feed yourself, or to actually get ready for bed, instead of scrolling down and down and down, endlessly, on your newsfeed. It can just grind on you, for those little deeds to be conscious decisions that must be made, rather than automatic parts of a routine.
For me, it's not every day. There are stretches of time when I feel full of energy and motivated to take on the world, one goal at a time. I take advantage of those times when I can, because I know they may end without much notice. And I am thankful for the times, evermore frequent, when, despite not feeling motivated to do much of anything, I choose to do at least one something, and find happiness in what I did. So it may take me two weeks to fold laundry because it's not the first something I chose to push myself to do, but it does get folded now. Heck, there's laundry to fold!! I'm unashamed to say that's a victory.
Their answers surprised me in their maturity and depth. I had scholars who talked about praying, about reminding themselves that they can always try again, about seeking help from others. The one that stayed with me the most, though, was from my student Wil. He said that when he needs to feel hope, he thinks that he is loved and that people care about him. What a strength to have! I don't know what other people's lives are like, but experiencing depression as I do, I know that my mind can very easily disregard the positive facts, and I have been caught countless times in the trap of thinking that no one cares for me/I am not loved. There is so much power in remembering that people care, that you are loved. I envy him finding this strength at such a young age. I didn't even begin to know it till my mid- to late-teens or early twenties.
Everyday as I move forward, I find that the little things do work. They really, really do. Enough sleep, enough food, getting out in the world and apart from my head. I don't believe in forcing myself to do things. There is such a harried, utterly stressed, unhealthy feeling to that. But I do believe in pushing myself, which has a distinct emotional difference for me. It starts with a desire that already exists, and is more of a movement through reluctance or a wading through fear than a propulsion to care, as I find forcing to be. It is driven by hope rather than anger or frustration. Forcing makes me feel injured once I have made myself do whatever it was, but pushing makes me feel relieved or proud or clear afterwards. And thankfully, I am in a place, and have been for the past few years, that I desire to feel better (because Gotye is right, "...you can be addicted to a certain kind of sadness....")
Now, because I have desire, I can push myself to actually do that thing I want to do, whether it's getting together with friends, or going on a bike ride, or applying for a job I'm afraid I might not be considered for. I have found strength in this, too. In taking the little steps forward, in knowing myself enough to know when it's appropriate to stay inside and when it's better for me to go out, even when it's hard.
I am so grateful for forward movement. For movement! My sister wrote a poem once, and although I don't remember the line, I do remember the image: Walking through life with boxing gloves up, ready to defend herself. She talked about feeling exhausted from doing so for so long.
I feel like depression is often like that. There's just so much internal noise to fight through, every day, to live the life that I want to live. And it can wear on me. Imagine struggling with the choice to open your bedroom door, in order to imply that you are home and willing to socialize, knowing that it will help you but feeling less than 1% desire to do so. Imagine wrestling with yourself about whether it's worth it to get fully ready for the day, or to feed yourself, or to actually get ready for bed, instead of scrolling down and down and down, endlessly, on your newsfeed. It can just grind on you, for those little deeds to be conscious decisions that must be made, rather than automatic parts of a routine.
For me, it's not every day. There are stretches of time when I feel full of energy and motivated to take on the world, one goal at a time. I take advantage of those times when I can, because I know they may end without much notice. And I am thankful for the times, evermore frequent, when, despite not feeling motivated to do much of anything, I choose to do at least one something, and find happiness in what I did. So it may take me two weeks to fold laundry because it's not the first something I chose to push myself to do, but it does get folded now. Heck, there's laundry to fold!! I'm unashamed to say that's a victory.
What do I have?
I had a bit of a hard week this week. I was all set to write about it and air my complaints, but just before I actually sat down to write, I had this thought pop into my head: What do I have?
It kind of hit me. I had been, of course, focusing on those things that I was hurt or dissatisfied about, and to have that idea enter my mind was a little bit of a shock to the track my mind had been on. So I considered it.
What do I have?
Well, I have a home. A few, actually.
An apartment with girls that I enjoy and get along with and am grateful to know. My parent's place, where I am always welcome and can let down my hair with not only a Mom and Stepdad, but a fantastic younger brother who will talk books all day. My brother and sister-in-law's, who have adorable children that heal my heart whenever I see them, a garden, and a peer-to-peer respect that I need. My friend Devin's, when I can nap or nag or eat or play or just watch hockey. My place of work, where there are children to keep me laughing, playing and learning, and adults who support me and help me feel like I'm making a difference. The mountains, who speak great truth without any words at all. Church buildings and temples, where peace gathers and enters into my soul. And Utah, and Arizona, and New York; the many people and homes who are open to me at any time. Even places I've never been, like my friend Brit's in Virginia, or Josh's in Australia. That's a lot-lot of homes, even limiting it to physical places.
What about the hearts that are homes to me? The people that will willingly hear and let me in? That is a list that would be long, even if it were just those I was 85% sure of or above, and surely I'd miss some, even then.
So I have a lot. An excessive amount. I am watched over, and even though it's been a hard week, I am loved and not alone.
It kind of hit me. I had been, of course, focusing on those things that I was hurt or dissatisfied about, and to have that idea enter my mind was a little bit of a shock to the track my mind had been on. So I considered it.
What do I have?
Well, I have a home. A few, actually.
An apartment with girls that I enjoy and get along with and am grateful to know. My parent's place, where I am always welcome and can let down my hair with not only a Mom and Stepdad, but a fantastic younger brother who will talk books all day. My brother and sister-in-law's, who have adorable children that heal my heart whenever I see them, a garden, and a peer-to-peer respect that I need. My friend Devin's, when I can nap or nag or eat or play or just watch hockey. My place of work, where there are children to keep me laughing, playing and learning, and adults who support me and help me feel like I'm making a difference. The mountains, who speak great truth without any words at all. Church buildings and temples, where peace gathers and enters into my soul. And Utah, and Arizona, and New York; the many people and homes who are open to me at any time. Even places I've never been, like my friend Brit's in Virginia, or Josh's in Australia. That's a lot-lot of homes, even limiting it to physical places.
What about the hearts that are homes to me? The people that will willingly hear and let me in? That is a list that would be long, even if it were just those I was 85% sure of or above, and surely I'd miss some, even then.
So I have a lot. An excessive amount. I am watched over, and even though it's been a hard week, I am loved and not alone.
Friday, May 2, 2014
One Defense
My heart's on my sleeve, but my thoughts are buried deep. This is my only chance for privacy.
So yes, you may know what I feel about you, but you sure don't know what I think of you, do you? I'll tell you when you care enough to ask. Which, admittedly, might not happen, and then I'll be only one who knows, won't I?
So yes, you may know what I feel about you, but you sure don't know what I think of you, do you? I'll tell you when you care enough to ask. Which, admittedly, might not happen, and then I'll be only one who knows, won't I?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)