Christmas in August

"Em, I still don't have a Christmas list from you," my grandma would nudge as we chatted int he kitchen working on Thanksgiving dinner. "Oh, yeah, okay..." I respond though truly wishing we didn't have to go through this ritual again. I did't want to compile a list of what I want, that felt vulnerable and greedy. Sure, there were lots of things I wanted but it's as if somewhere deep inside me, I knew it didn't matter. I don't know why I wrote that in past tense, it still happens. 

So, Em, what do you want?
The question arises year after year and I've become quite gifted at slighting my discomfort by dropping emails of things on my "wish list" to my parents and grandparents throughout the year. The email I sent my mom last week doesn't feel so awful to say... "hey, I think this Lilly Pulitzer dress is whispering to me. It's saying it would like to make an appearance at my graduation in May...oh, and it's on super sale right now, I'd wear a size 6. Love, Emily" This just means 1. I can't give into instant gratification for everything and 2. I've gotta remember to send those succulent emails through the interwebbs so I'm not pinned down by a late-November request for a list and 3. Learning to dispel concerns about making note of Christmas-related items in August ranks on my lengthy list of "reasons I have a therapist."

You can probably guess by now that I'm not here to cry my woes about the materialism of Christmas in my family...though I totally could. It's that question: what do you want? --replied to with that answer: Sweet Jesus, I DON'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!

Welcome to my favorite sitting place with a recently found unfavorite stinking question. It's a freaking dandelion of a question, popping up exactly when and where you'd expect it to but you never have a solution, or not yet. The hilarious part about this is that I'm the one who lovvveeeesssss blowing the fluffy dead dandelions. (fun fact: I didn't realize these were dead dandelions until about two years ago when my dad pointed it out. I feel my IQ dropping rapidly) When I blow the dead ones, I'm letting the mutant dandelion seeds fly into the world to create further cesspools of dandelions. My father has yet to truly convince me that dandelions aren't flowers. They are my favorite color and, as a child, I would pick them in bunches from a hill down my street and decorate my bicycle spokes and my hair and still have enough to squeeze against the white (until yellowed by dandelion juices) handlebars of my super cool pink sparkly bike as I paraded through the neighborhood. Gosh, I love metaphor. 

I love and find purpose for dandelions even though my parents pulled me away saying "they're just weeds" as they gunned down the blooms with weed killer. I also love questions that I can't answer in 1.3 seconds, questions that melt in my mouth and get my to tip my head back with closed eyes. More often than not, I'm the one who picks these dandelion questions from the field of wildflowers.

What do you want...from this conversation...from this therapy session...from this internship...from this relationship...this blog? I still get the queazy, guilty, selfish feeling with these questions. There's something inside me saying "you should be happy with whatever you get"yet there's a conflicting yet comforting voice saying "you deserve to be fulfilled and people deserve to know how they can help." And that's where I get stuck. I have an idea of what I want but the words just don't come out. I'm afraid I want too much or not enough or that the person/situation won't be able to give it to me. I keep it simple saying "I'd like a box of crayons and a coloring book this year" instead of telling my grandma that I've been dreaming of learning to paint and would really love to take a painting class with my dad.

I don't have a take-away for you today--unless you are cool with taking "Emily lives not he struggle bus too" as today's dirty, honest truth. Super honestly: when I started blogging again last month, two friends asked me how I felt about it and I said I was struggling because I didn't feel like I had a purpose for it, there was no cohesive fiber (besides myself) tying it together and I didn't know what I wanted that fiber to be...still don't...

The Only 3 Things I'd Say Under Oath

I've written before about how you can find me on the floor in my living room, hands above my head admitting "I don't know anything!" Apparently, this feeling of uncertainty, incompetence, non-mastery is one of the blossoms of my introvertedness. Whowoulddathunk?! According to a book I read the first 50ish pages of three weeks ago (the pick up/put down method to my reading madness is a topic for another post), it is so boringly common for introverts to feel as though they know nothing until they have three Ph.D.'s in the subject area--perhaps that's a bit of an exaggeration from what the author actually said, but you get the gist, right?

Well, there's a lot I don't know, that's for sure; volumes of knowledge I have yet to learn and even more that I will never learn. In these 23 short years of mine, I have learned some things, here's a list of 3 things I swear to be true and important:

1. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. I learned this as a theorem in geometry class as a sophomore in high school--it's likely the only thing I remember word-for-word from that class. My classmates say the teacher was talking about figures and numerical distance, but that's not what I heard. I heard her whispering truths about life, about pain, about friendship, about the going to the doctor. She said, the most efficient way to go is through rather than up and around and back three steps in order to cross the bridge which will take you to an elevator to take you back down to where you want to be. Efficient, not easy. If you get caught kissing your best friend's boyfriend, you can avoid him and her and lose them both, or you can go through the embarrassment and guilt and apologize and try to save at least one of the relationships. If you were hoping to get into that one program, and then you don't, you can go on being "fine" and just putter around because there's no joy left to be found or you can cry about it, remember what about it brought you joy, and find plan B. You can get your flu-shot at CVS and your birth control at planned parenthood and a cast for your broken wrist at the ER and just assume 'if it ain't broke, don't fix it' works for healthcare, or you can deal with the obnoxious questions about your sex life during your yearly physical and know you've got somewhere to go if you need more than a physical.

2. A well stocked supply of chocolate, a pair of rain boots, and a best friend will get you through the hard stuff. Someone once told me, "there's no heartbreak that chocolate can't fix." Well, there are some heartbreaks that chocolate can't fix, but that's what the rain boots are for. When the rain comes down, it clears the streams and streets and washes away everything, if you let it. Put your rain boots on so you don't wash away, then let everything else go. And if you've got someone to hold your hand or sit on you or just be with you, you'll be able to remember there is a reason to keep going.

3. If you can dream it, you can do it. I once got into a heated argument with a professor about this statement because, at the time, my mind was bound by self-depreciation. This truth does not promise you dreams don't require you to work your patootie off and get disappointed and betrayed along your way to your first 12940724 failed attempts. It says your dreams are possible, they can become real. Dreams are not just sparkly wishes floating in and out of the puffy white clouds...some are, I suppose, if you just close your eyes and imagine and call it quits. When I said I wanted a pony for my birthday when I was little (I was joking, but if I was serious), it totally could've happened. I would have needed to have a legit chat with my parents and figure out how we could, together, make this dream of mine real. Dreams seem lofty for a reason--to get you to reach and become. A life of static existence is boring. Dream...and do.

The Heart-Wrenching Headache of the Day, yes, of the day

Four years ago, four summers ago actually, I nearly killed myself at a Christian summer camp. During orientation we were told of a magnificent acronym to shout at a staff member who looked like they were losing steam or passion or focus: FTK, for the kids. Everything we were to do that summer was 'for the kids.' If we took a nap during our break, the shut-eye was so we could feel refreshed and more capable of spreading joy for the kids. If we took a kid aside to reprimand [compassionately], the point was not an ego boost but rather to create a more positive experience for the kids. I came really close to killing myself for the kids. There is such a thing as loving too much, I learned.

11 asthma attacks, 7 that ended up with ambulance rides to the hospital. Apparently, I'm allergic to smoke and everything green and my asthma roars with exercise and allergies--so dancing around a campfire three times a week wasn't exactly what the doctor had in mind as life-sustaining-activity. Oops.

Despite my health issues, camp kept letting me come back because I was good at my job. In fact, I was pretty darn great...and each time I needed coaching to not cry while being wheeled into the ambulance, it was because I would be missing time with my kids. I kept coming back for the kids, that's what I thought. There's the heart-wrenching stuff.

Who are you? And why are you here?
And there's the headache.

That's how we began the first night's campfire each week. For my middle schoolers, the answers were typically: I'm (insert name here) and I'm at camp because I like (insert favorite activity here). For the counselors, however, answers were dug from a deeper place of intention. Perhaps something like : I'm  confused but overjoyed and I'm here to share both struggles with you and let you share your struggles with me this week so we can grow with one another. The answer was always another way of saying FTK.

Looking back now, I was being asked the ultimate questions each week. Yes, it was a getting to know you exercise but it also served as a moment of reflection that we never really took.

Who are you? And why are you here? What is your purpose? What is your goal? What drives you? What defines you? The questions swim around in my head most days. I ask myself these questions when I'm making decisions and when I'm not feeling confident and hope some clarity drops on me. There are some things I do that need definite answers to these questions and if my answers don't line up, I need to check-in with what I'm seeing in this world, in myself big time.

I'm starting a new school year soon, and with that, a new internship and a new swim season...each requires me to answer these questions daily and get some perspective. To do things to the best of my ability, I need to clean off my perspectacles and focus.

How a Mosquito Made Me Skip My GRE

What do a little black dress, my first GRE test date, a 10 hour silent ride in an F-250, and mosquitos have in common?

Two years ago this week, my grandma suddenly passed away. I had made a weekend home-visit during the last weekend of July where she came over for dinner and listened to stories of my trip to Disneyworld with Annie. Everything was fine. Everything was normal...or so it seemed (my mom has speculated grandma was experiencing some symptoms but not saying anything about it--she had always been a tough cookie). 10 days later, she showed up to the hairstylist disheveled, late, and with a hefty dent in her back bumper. 10 days later she began hospice care and 4 days later she passed away. Holy dang.

At first they thought she had a stroke...she had had one about a decade ago, so it was possible. But she got worse not better. She was poked and prodded and would lose consciousness and come back and would forget who my mom and aunt were and then remember a few hours later...it wasn't good..and they didn't know what was wrong or what to do. When she began her decline, my mom told us all not to worry, people often get worse before they get better. But then she wasn't getting better because they still didn't know what was causing the problems but the words "west nile virus" were being whispered. Still, my dad told me to stay in St. Louis because I was scheduled to take the GRE in less than a week. [Insert gigantic amounts of inner turmoil and the rawness of knowing this was the wrong thing to do.] The next day mom decided they'd be discontinuing medical intervention and signing grandma into hospice care. Everything was happening freaky fast. I was feeling awful for not being there, even though I knew there was nothing I could do if I were there. That morning, I texted my dad and asked when Andrew, my older brother was coming home--he had no GRE to worry about but was also preparing for his second year of law school--dad said he was already home. Immediately struck with a tsunami of guilt and pain, while trying to keep myself pulled together, I called my dad and wondered aloud if he and my mom even wanted me to come home because it didn't feel that way. After a few minutes of clarifying conversation (they had written down the incorrect date for my test, thinking it was monday that week rather than thursday) we planned that I would tuck-n-roll into my uncle's truck the next morning as he and his wife drove to Michigan from Dallas.

We met my mom at grandma's house and immediately went to the hospital. My brother and sister hadn't been allowed to come to the hospital and my mom advised me that "grandma didn't look like grandma, she looked like an old lady...and she's got bad hair" but my heart wanted to say goodbye. I stood in the hall as my uncle went in. Whatever it is that comprises my core of emotion and connection dropped inside me like a brick. Mom came out and stood with me...and I cried. I said goodbye from there, I wanted to remember my grandma with clean, poofy, well colored hair, and fresh red lipstick--I figured she'd want me to remember her that way too.

She passed away 36 hours later surrounded by all three of her children. Upon her death, the CDC could do the necessary tests and determined she had, indeed, been struck down by the West Nile Virus. My mom thinks it ironic that such a tough woman was brought to her grave by a mosquito.

I wasn't even close to the woman. This wasn't the grandma who spoiled you with candies and gave you three hugs before she left every time she came over. I was only 8 when my grandpa died and 11 when my grandma had her first health scare, other than than our first dog needing to be put down when I was 13 and out second dog being continuously ill, I didn't know the face, the smell, the feeling of death or illness. I was 21 years old, 5 days from beginning my senior year of college, and unsure if I would be able to handle the deaths of my other set of grandparents...the kind who spoil you with your favorite foods and drive two hours to take you out to lunch even on your half-day break from working at summer camp and give you three hugs when they arrive and when they leave. I think about it all the time, but no amount of preparation is going to make those days any less surprising and excruciating. I feel deeply, I always have. It's because I love deeply too.

Week 4ever: Oh, the Places My Gaze Will Go

My reasoning for not writing a reflection at the conclusion of my #monthwithoutmirrors last week is twofold: 1. the week was busier than I have been used to in awhile. therefore, I enjoyed sitting on my couch not doing anything or talking to anyone a bit much when I returned home each night. 2. I wanted to wait awhile to compare my return to mirror-less existence to this past month as well as life before.

Sweet, holy mother of pearl! 

The mirror is annoying.

It's not completely unnecessary but almost. Sort of like salad dressing. We think it's a wonderful thing to have and that in the name of all things good and holy we can't live without it...until we end up at work with no dressing and al our work buddies brought not-salads and OH NO! Oh, yes. You'll be just fine. In fact, you'll be able to taste your salad not just your salad dressing. Fancy that. 

By no means am I advocating for us all to frolic into the streets, mirrors in hand and smash away our reflections. No, no, no. Please use the mirror to help you pluck your eyebrows and put on eyeliner and check for panty lines. These things are a decent part of feminine existence. And guys, please watch yourself while shaving and make sure your crack stays in your pants and before you leave the house, please! please! please! check that you're not wearing stripes and plaid together. These things are also a decent part of feminine existence. Yeah. 

Please someone, explain to me why on god's green earth I find it necessary to check myself in the mirror when I'm about to head out running. Why?! If I pick clothes out of my closet, why do I stand in front of the mirror as if to ask "is this acceptable' or 'does this look okay'? I'm a pretty competent human being. I think I can put clothes on my body in an acceptable manner...but perhaps not. Something deep in my psyche seems to disagree.  

In the past week, I think I've realized I'm looking in the mirror hoping for reassurance that I appear the way I want...determined by what the world has told me I should want. It's completely arbitrary and yet controlling. Remember my rant about the 000 clothing size at J. Crew? Same concept here combined with the concept I chatted about week 2 regarding my inner chatter, my inner appearance being unchanged. If I appear confident, perhaps I will become confident. 

If I appear competent, perhaps I will become competent. If I appear fulfilled, perhaps I will become fulfilled. If I appear ______, perhaps I will become _______. Let's remember what I learned at my very first collegiate swim camp: the body achieves what the mind believes. Though I believe there's truth in that regarding athletic performance and even a tad relating to life-performance, I strongly dislike the 'fake it till you make it' mentality and I realized this appear-->become crap is exactly that. HOLY DANG! I'm doing exactly the thing I despise. Grrrrrrrrrrr. #thanksnothanks My issue with 'fake it till you make it' is that it tells you that you're not enough as you are and that someday, after a lot of hard work, you will be enough. False. No. Wrong. Lies. Deception. My tent has its stakes hammered down in the land of 'relax. you have enough. you do enough. you are enough.' 

Legit posted in my journal, next to my mirror, and on my door.

It seems I'm needing to live a mirror-lite existence. The full-length mirror in my room is going to live under a shroud for awhile to help me figure out this intentionality...a little barrier between my mirror-happy psyche and reality. I vote that what I bring to the world is already in me, I just have to find it and share it. Cool bros. 

The Love Struggle: Engaged or Disengaged?

Not the engagement marked with a sparkly ring that leads to white dresses and well-tailored suits and cake tasting and place settings and hundreds of phone calls.

The engagement of paying attention, of making eye contact, of listening and actually hearing...opposed to the disengagement of feeling bothered, cut off, disinterested, and apathetic. This has been the topic of my week...or maybe better said as my choice of the week.

I've been babysitting two boys (ages 10 and 7) which really means I've been conducting 8 hours of play-therapy for a significantly reduced rate. I have no significant memories of babysitters that were harmful to my sense of self or esteem. However, no memories of the contrasting effort exist either. This gives me pause...childhood is short and the time in which the child is highly impressionable and malleable is even shorter, yet those who interact with children often lose this knowledge before saying 'hello.' From my experience as a small human as well as my later experiences as a coach, babysitter, and social worker, I've born witness to child/adult interactions mostly disengaged. I'm not pointing fingers. I'm not saying anyone is a bad parent or babysitter or nanny or coach or teacher or whathaveyou. I'm saying that we just aren't paying as much attention as we should.

When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tihuman and/or people around them. From the day of conception, the attachment process begins. It can be built or it can be destroyed. Though it is not a linear process, we certainly hope there is more building occurring than destruction.When tiny humans come into the world, their gaze is met with a smile or at least two eyes of the makers of that tiny human and/or people around them. When tiny humans cry, they are held and attempts are made to comfort. And pretty much whenever the tiny human does anything, the tiny human makers get genuinely excited.

And then the attention and excitement wane to occasional annoyance and a struggle for control. There's a lot of hearing larger humans tell the smaller humans what to do, where to go, how to act, etc. While this is certainly necessary to some point, there's a line that many people straddle between guiding and ordering, myself included.

On Monday, I decided my ten 8-hour days would be profitable for these boys. To have fun is a no-brainer, but "Emily camp"as they are calling it, has a richer goal: to infuse each activity with meaning and to intentionally create hundreds of teachable moments and opportunities for growth.

How?

• I'm asking open ended questions and listening carefully so I can mention parts of their answer in later conversation (it really helps that I'm an auditory learner). 
• The boys are given choices galore and when they say "I don't care," we develop a pro/con list quickly in our heads to initiate choosing and problem solving. 
• The games we play have a connection to gross motor development, memory, or creativity. 
• The praise "good job" has been exiled from my lexicon for the time being. Rather, I articulate praise, recognition, and accomplishment in tricky ways that let the boys know I actually saw and was paying attention to what they were saying/doing.
• We've had a conversation about what is included in a full apology and that sometimes it's better to say "I'm not ready to apologize yet" instead of saying it without meaning it.
• We have activities about feelings and how to respond to them effectively. 

There's probably more but that's the gist of it. I could let them play video games and watch tv all morning while I read then eat lunch while standing or walking around to turn on music or play with the dog then go to the basketball court and let them play while I sit on the opposite side of the hoop and swipe through facebook or pinterest on my phone. I'll admit that I've done that before and sure, I get paid the same amount as I do as when I'm truly engaged, but the boys connection to me is so much stronger because I pay attention to them and am teaching them things and building up their specific strengths and I've already noticed a bit of a change in behavior. 

Now, here's my struggle: I can do this for 8 hours a day then go home to my apartment where I don't have to give anyone direction or pay keen attention or remain entirely positive and at an even keel, but I'm not about to sign up for the 24-hour shift. So, how are parents supposed to do it? I don't know.  They get to go to their jobs all day and do whatever they do and then after hours at work, I'm asking them to come home and be fully attuned to their small humans...that's a china plate resting on a goose's head. I don't have an answer. Perhaps, that's why I'm staying on birth control until I figure it out.

Week 3: know thyself

Yes, week 3 ended last Tuesday while I was enraptured by the marvels of Michigan and simply computer-less. My apologies, again. Instead of getting pissy about how clearly tardy this reflection comes, you could, perhaps, find some space for gratitude that my thoughts have had a few extra days to simmer richness into their meaning...perhaps.

Ladies, what's the single most challenging article of clothing to shop for? ...and they all responded: JEANS!

It was "cold" and I needed to wear pants that were not running leggings or yoga pants because eI was going out to lunch with my grandparents. And, in my brilliance, the only pair of jeans I had brought home was well-worn, slightly-baggy, and slightly torn--not lunch with the grandparents appropriate. So off to the store I scooted. And was soon as I walked in, I realized I was embarking in a feel-only based investment--I was going shopping without the ability to deem my appearance satisfactory based on the image in the mirror. Brilliant, just brilliant. 

Clothes shopping is not on the list of top 100 things I enjoy. I love clothes but hate the shopping part, the trying-on part, the staring at oneself in the mirror part. Shopping while banned from mirror gazing requires a different skill set involving a lot of trust. 

Trust the sales people: "You can always ask what we think," she said, and smiled. "It's what we're here for."

But ultimately trust yourself: Doing lunges in the fitting room helps discern mobility, but how can I know how my boot looks or if the pockets cut too low? Trust what feels right. Luckily, I'm not actually that picky about jeans. Still, I felt a wave of panic strike me as I handed over my credit card. 

Without the opportunity to use the mirror as my truth-teller, I've begun listening to my body and my heart. If my clothes feel good, I feel good, and when I feel good, I look good because I sparkle as I smile. When I show up at a formal awards dinner without looking at myself once in the mirror, I have to believe that even if my makeup isn't perfect, it's good enough. My makeup skills aren't what got me there anyway. 

In general however, I haven't been wearing makeup--freedom--not that I wear much regularly anyway. When you really don't know what you look like other than what your facebook profile picture shows, you've got no barometer with which to understand how people look at and treat you. Is there a big pimple on my chin? Do I have jelly smeared on my cheek? How unruly are my eyebrows? It's not that I no longer care, I most certainly do. Rather, I have crawled into a space of patience and peace with myself. Good enough really exists. 

What lies within me sparkles and creates and discovers and questions and loves and heals.

Considering that, why would I choose to give attention to the doubting, criticizing, perfection-seeking outside world of mine?

Smitten with the Mitten

Dear beautiful, creative, courageous readership,

May I offer you my most sincere apologies for essentially disappearing for the 10 days without a word. I took an impromptu trip to Michigan (aka my parents' house) led by a craving for two flavors of ice cream native to the Great Lakes state: superman and Traverse City Cherry.

Before booking my flight, I had spent about 5 hours scouring the internet in hopes of encountering a company that could send these delicacies to my in Boston, but, alas, I found no such option. It turned out to be pretty good timing--my parents didn't have anything planned and I had some time off work and school--cha-ching! So I booked a flight. And I didn't bring my computer.

Visiting my parents/hometown/high school friends carries with it lukewarm nostalgia and the awkward anxiety you might feel watching a red, white, and blue lights flashing in your rearview mirror. I moved out when I was barely 18 and though I visit twice a year [Christmas and sometime in the summer] so to keep up on my 6-month dental visits I've realized it's been really difficult for my parents to keep up with how I'm changing and growing up." Thankfully, I'm a different person than I was when I left as well as halfway through college and even last summer, and it's challenging for my parents to assimilate that into their understanding of me as their daughter. That makes relationship hard for us both. We speak a different language. We want different things out of life. It's better now than it has really ever been but I doubt we will ever be any more than superficially close.

All the relationships are tough...yet I'm figuring out how to make them work. It's been 5 years since I moved out and, in that time, the longest time I've back was the 2 1/2weeks last August prior to the Boston move. This means I don't have many opportunities to see my Michigander friends and because I've always been one to choose quality over quantity ("quality time" is my #1 love language), lengthy one-on-one outings sprinkle my visits home instead of parties and bars and 'going to the game.' Some call it introversion. I call it intentionality.

So, I saw Jackie and Angela and my grandparents and Toni (and met her boyfriend, Lou). I cuddled with my parents' puppies, Rugby and Lance. I finally got to go up north and see the log cabin my uncle purchased in February. I saw my brother post-bar exam and he gave me a tour of his new digs in downtown Detroit. And, of course, I ate ice cream at least once a day.

And in return for me gracing the state with my presence, Michigan unleashed the mosquitos specifically craving my blood. Worth it.

Friends, that is the reason behind my absence from the interwebs. Next time, I promise that I will tell you in advance.