A Newly Seperated Girl's Guide to the Holidays

I went to the mailbox yesterday and received my first holiday card. 

I used to adore this time of year - both sending and receiving cards - picking out that perfect picture (always taken as a family at Thanksgiving) and running to the mailbox every afternoon to see it chock full of those non-bill-shaped envelopes bearing updates from friends and family.

When I saw that first green and gold envelope with a little heart sticker on it, my stomach plummeted.

This year there will be no holiday card from our family, because our family is separated.

I suppose I could send a card with just the kids on it. But what would the message say?  Joy?  Merry Merry?  Happy New Year?

I don't feel any of those things this year. 

Over the holidays, even more than usual, there are reminders of what-isn't-anymore all over the place, like little bomb-lets that explode in my face when I least expect it.

Holiday commercials of intact families celebrating over a Thanksgiving meal. Magazine ads of Moms and Dads kissing under mistletoe, or grinning conspiratorially to each other as they stuff holiday stockings or wrap gifts. 

The holiday cards with smiling Mom-Dad-Kids, their arms slung around each other, wearing goofy Santa hats or matching outfits.  All together, just like they were last year, only one year older.

The holiday season makes me glare at the wedding rings of the Moms in front of me in the grocery line, their chubby babies' drooling grins taunting me.  I used to be them, I think.  My stomach twists with regret and jealousy.  Why didn't I pay more attention when all that was mine.  

The changes are coming at me fast.  Our beloved dog, Casper, died last week.  She was thirteen years old, lived a long, full life, and it was time for her to go.  My husband and I got her when our marriage was only two years old.  As I mourn her loss, I find myself thinking: my marriage began and ended with her life.

I don't want to put up the tree.  I don't want to decorate.  I don't want to celebrate.  Every step of the way I'm haunted by traditions past:  he cuts the trunk, I hang the ornaments, a crackling fire blazing in the background. 

I want to curl up in a ball and unfurl on January 2nd.

Friends mock-complain about all they have to do: the in-laws coming to stay, prepping meals, planning trips to see family, grumbling about what to buy their husband or what their husband will get for them.  All of it sets my teeth on edge, but I just stand there and smile, feeling like I have a blaring neon sign on my forehead that says:  separated.

I gazed at the smiling faces peering out at me from that first holiday card.  Then I closed my eyes, and I prayed. 

May they have a happy holiday season. May I find joy in the blessings I have, instead of all I do not have.

It helped.  A little.

Here's the thing, though: none of these emotions have any bearing on our separation specifically, on the circumstances behind it, or the reasons why.  I don't regret the separation itself, I realize, although it's confusing and hard and sometimes I just want to get in my way-back machine and start all over.

What I'm grieving is the loss of The Dream, the one that is shoved in our faces over-and-over-and-over during the holidays.  If you were an alien from another planet and landed on earth on December 14th, or thereabouts, you would think we were the happiest-smilingest people in the Universe.

At least that's how it feels to me, newly separated for my first holiday season.

Our society commercializes happiness, and it's never more glaring than in November and December.  I'd like to see a magazine ad, or a commercial, of a single mom and her kids sitting down to Thanksgiving, or buying a Christmas tree. 

They'd be smiling, I know they would, because my kids and I smile together. A lot.  I am not unhappy when I'm able to live my life as it is, and not how I feel it should be.  Most of the time I am content, and I'm able to grow and learn from the hard lessons life is teaching me right now.

But, dammit. It's almost impossible not to lose myself in comparisons when family-and-togetherness is everywhere.  Logically, I know that we're still a family, just in a different form. I know my kids are over-the-top excited for Christmas, and that they had a great Thanksgiving with their Dad.  I had a great Thanksgiving, too, with some amazing sober friends. 

I would be okay, most of the time, if that damn cookie-cutter family wasn't grinning out at me from my television, Facebook stream and mailbox. 

That's not how the world works, and I know this.  This is hard core life-on-life's terms. When I'm in a good head space, I can find peace in chaos.  When I'm not, I find chaos in peace.  I fall into the 'shoulds' - how my life should be instead of how it is. 

Don't Should On Yourself, my friend would say.

I'm trying. I will get through this. I will say a prayer of compassion over every card I receive this year. I will pray for peace of mind, for acceptance of what is, and gratitude for all I have. 

But sometimes?  Sometimes I just have to get my truth out there, that this is hard. 

It just is.

The Other Side of Fear

I want to say a heartfelt thank you to all the support, love and encouragement I have received since my last post about my relapse.

I'm pleased to report that the saying "feelings aren't facts" is totally true.  My fear of being judged or alienated proved to be ill founded.  If there are people judging me out there they are remaining blissfully silent. 

I am overwhelmed (in the good way) by all the comments, messages and emails. 

When we are suffering, it is easy to feel like we're the only people on the planet. It seems like the bad feelings are never going to get better.  No matter how many times I have said to other struggling people "hang in there, it gets better", it is still very difficult to believe that when it's me who is in pain.

When I wrote about my alcoholism before - from the start of this blog - it was from the relatively safe perch of time and distance.  It wasn't as hard to write about the stigma, shame, regret and guilt of alcoholism with over a year sober tucked under my belt.  For someone who writes extensively about the power of truth and vulnerability, when it came time to share my own without the buffer of time I felt more frightened than I have in a long time. 

I had to wait to hit "publish" on my last post until I felt in my gut I was putting my words out there for my own healing, not because I wanted to dispel rumors or try to project some image of okay-ness that wasn't true.  I had to be sure I wasn't writing for anyone but myself and was able to let go of the outcome.  

I forgot about the power of truth and vulnerability.  Not everyone understands addiction or recovery, but everyone understands suffering and courage.

Because it takes courage to be vulnerable.  When someone speaks or writes their truth - unvarnished and straight from the heart - I feel awe and admiration, and no small measure of respect.  When it's my turn, however, the urge to varnish. minimize or maximize the truth is overwhelming.  

And why do I want to polish up the truth?  Why do I feel this urge to minimize my accomplishments?  

Fear.

Fear of being judged, of course, but also fear of the "who do you think you are's".  

I have learned that fear is at the root of so many deflecting emotions like anger or resentment. Fear is also at the root of pride, envy, perfectionism and shame.  At the heart of it all, for me, is self-centered fear of rejection and abandonment.  

Social media can amplify and exaggerate this fear.  People don't post about their vulnerabilities often.  We aren't practiced in expressing our fears.  When perusing Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, etc. we can find ourselves comparing our insides to everyone else's highlight reels.  

What I felt from the responses I received from my last post was relief and identification.  Even people who aren't alcoholics, who aren't in recovery, wrote to me about their own struggles, fears and experiences with falling down and getting back up.

Many, many people expressed that they wish they could be more open about their fears, doubts and insecurities but that they couldn't because of fear of peoples' reactions, of not fitting in and being perceived as weak or inferior.  

There is a chasm between how we feel on the inside and what the world sees, and at the bottom of this chasm is a river of suffering.

Every time we open up and share our truth, our vulnerability, we are building a bridge across this chasm.  In recovery we do this all the time; we open our mouths to save our lives so the chasm doesn't swallow us whole.

I will never be rid of fear, but I am learning to embrace it as a great teacher.  The antidotes to fear are self-love, faith and truth.  When I can face my mistakes, regrets and truths with compassion and love, I can find the strength to build that bridge. The only way fear wins is if I stop trying; if I avoid what is really going on inside and keep polishing up the outside instead.  The shiniest castle built on sand will eventually fall.

My relapse happened, in large part, because I didn't want to face some hard truths about what was going on underneath it all; how my foundation was crumbling as I madly kept on building. 

I can't get well on my own; when I try to fix myself I inevitably make things worse.  Thank you - everyone - for your words of hope and encouragement, but mostly importantly for sharing the vulnerable, beautiful parts of yourselves. When we raise our voices together, fear doesn't stand a chance. 

If you're struggling and have been afraid to reach out for help because of fear, take a deep breath, and speak your truth to a trusted friend or loved one. Or even start by speaking your truth out loud in front of a mirror. Tell yourself what you're afraid of.  Truth shines a light on the things that make us suffer and sends fear scuttling into the shadows.

Let go.  It's worth it.  You're worth it.

And so am I.

Pride Is Not A Dirty Word

shame (SHām) noun

1.

  a painful feeling of humiliation or distress caused by the consciousness of wrong or foolish behavior.

~~~~

Probably the number one topic that comes up when I'm talking with my recovery friends is shame.

We all know what shame feels like; I feel it physically, in my gut, like a stone in my belly.

I carried that stone with me for years, both while I was drinking and after.   Even years into my recovery journey, I feel its weight sometimes, dragging me down.

Who do you think you are, is the most common theme shame whispers to me, now.  

I looked up synonyms for shame, and this is what I found:  abashment, dishonor, self-disgust, disrepute, self-reproach. 

It's easy, when I think about my drinking self, to feel these emotions.  How could you, I ask myself when my disease is speaking to me. 

In early recovery I learned that I needed to reconcile the things that made me feel shame in order to heal.  Memories, feelings, actions, behaviors that made me feel shameful led me right back to a drink as I struggled to get sober.  Lean into them, I was taught.  Feelings aren't facts. 

I learned about the difference between shame and guilt.  Guilt is feeling badly about something you did, shame is feeling badly about who you are.  I did a bad thing versus I am a bad person.  

The antonyms to shame are these:  esteem, honor, respect, pride.

That last one hits me hard.  Isn't pride bad?  Doesn't it smack of ego? 

Back to Google, The Oracle of all Things, and it tells me these are synonyms for pride:  self-confidence, self-respect, dignity, delight, joy, satisfaction. 

I feel all of those things today, and I felt exactly none of them when I was drinking.   

For years I wrote in excruciating detail about my addiction; I painted a colorful picture of what it felt like to be an active alcoholic.  But I didn't write much about what it is like to be a recovering person, because that felt prideful, and I assumed that was inherently bad.

Lately I have felt frozen when it comes to writing about addiction, and it took me a while to figure out why.... and the answer makes me twitch a little.  I don't want to write about alcoholism anymore.  I want to write about recovery.  It makes me twitch because I am afraid of pride.  I was taught pride = ego, and ego will lead me back to a drink.

I have learned that pride and ego are not synonymous, and feeling proud of my recovery is a better antidote to wanting to drink than anything else I have found. 

My life today surpasses my wildest dreams, but I don't know how to write about that.

So let me show you a picture instead:

 

This is me, with my best friend of 35 years, Amanda.  Drinking was all fun and games back then, but seeing this picture makes me want to scream at them to STOP.   But we didn't stop.  We kept right on going until alcohol brought us both to our knees, twenty plus years later.

I found this picture recently, as I was clearing out my digital photo file. Immediately, I felt that stone in my belly.  Oh God, I thought.  We could have avoided so much pain, if only we knew then what we know now.

But, of course, life doesn't work that way.  We rarely learn the hard life lessons the easy way.  Every moment - every shameful moment, every regrettable decision, every bit of denial and secrecy, led me to where I am today.  

I stared at this picture and told those girls that I loved them.  My shame voice lost confidence, and another voice took its place:  who would have thought, it said, that you are looking at women who would grow up to be sober women of dignity and honor (both synonyms for pride).  Who would have thought we'd run a non-profit together, and make it our life's mission to break the stigma of addiction and celebrate recovery from the rooftops. 

I am proud of my recovery. Not in the I'm-better-than-you sense, but in the I-overcame sense.  I don't feel shame about being in recovery from cancer.  And I don't feel shame for being in recovery from alcoholism, either. 

For years, when I said I was an alcoholic in recovery, the subtitles in my head thought: I'm admitting to a weakness, I'm revealing that I used to drink a shameful amount.   But recovery is all about moving forward. Now, when I say I'm in recovery, there are no subtitles.  There is no shame.  

Here we are today; this picture was taken at Amanda's three year recovery anniversary:

The antidote to shame is pride. It is action, involvement in your recovery.  We found honor, self-confidence, joy and delight in being women in recovery.

And we aren't going to keep it to ourselves.

~~~~~~~~

Shining Strong is proud to announce the opening of our new Shopify store!   Amanda and I have both been wearing our "I Am Not An Anonymous Person" T-shirts, and have been asked again and again, "how can I get one?"   We are so proud to be part of recovery advocacy with The Anonymous People and are excited to offer the official Anonymous People T-shirt in our new store!  All proceeds go to help Shining Strong and our advocacy and outreach in the recovery community, including our websites The Bubble Hour and Crying Out Now.  If you want to join us in breaking down the stigma of recovery and proudly wear one of these T-shirts, head on over and purchase one for $15!  Click HERE to go directly to the listing in our shop.

You can find other Shining Strong goodies there, too - a tote bag and coffee mug for starters (more to come), and you can purchase a copy of my book Let Me Get This Straight there, too. Again, all proceeds go directly to Shining Strong.

We appreciate your help, your advocacy and your support.  Thank you.

  

Introverted Extrovert

Whenever I make a new friend, somewhere innocuous like the soccer sidelines, or a new neighbor, (as opposed to through a recovery, business or internet connection where someone already knows me, or knows of me) there is inevitably that moment.   The one where they say, "and what do you do"?

One of my first-ever blog posts ranted about the awkwardness of this seemingly innocent interrogative.  Back in my single working days this question never gave me pause.  "I'm a Blahbity Blah" I'd rattle off without thinking, my identify safely wrapped up in my Job Title Du Jour.

Becoming a full time Mom added a layer of puzzlement on how to answer this.  I hated how often I felt the question mark at the end of my reply, when I'd mumble out "I'm a Mom?"  Sometimes I'd even say, "I'm just a Mom", as if the merits of raising a child were lacking in some key way.

After I started my jewelry business, the question mark still loomed:  I make jewelry? 

When a person expressed an interest in learning more about this, I struggled.  I didn't own my creativity, refusing to believe I was an artist of any kind.  "Oh, it's no big deal," I'd say.  "It's just a little Etsy shop.  Something to keep me from getting too bored."

Blogging added another layer of complexity, especially five years ago when more than half the people would say, "You're a what?? What's a blogger?"

Again the question mark reared its ugly head. "Um, I write about my life on the internet?"

This was almost always met with a puzzled expression and a "Why?"

Back then I didn't know why.  It was just something I couldn't not do, but that answer seemed ridiculous.  And blogging carried for me more than a whiff of narcissism, of navel gazing.  I couldn't understand why I blogged any more than I could understand why on earth anyone would read it.

The awkwardness factor ratcheted up a notch when, left unsatisfied from my self-deprecating mumbling response to why I blog, the person would inquire, understandably, "well, what do you blog about?"

"Well, er, I'm an alcoholic in recovery, and I write about that," I'd sputter, bracing for the person's head to jerk back, for them to stare into the middle distance and concoct an excuse to walk away.

Most people had this response, because the of the uncomfortable vibe radiating from my pores; if I felt embarrassed about it, they felt embarrassed for me.

Little by little, my jewelry business and blog grew, but my self-deprecating manner did not keep pace with the public response.  I'd frame my answer to the what-do-you-do question with "Well, I'm a Mom and kind of a writer. Oh, and I make jewelry."

I wouldn't hand over the business cards I carried in my purse, feeling that was to pushy. If they asked for a card, I'd give them one with a tentative smile.  "You totally don't need to buy anything," I would say, as if that person possessed no free will.

I cringe just thinking about it.

Then I founded my non-profit, Shining Strong, encompassing all my internet outreach projects that were growing by the day:  The Bubble Hour podcast, Crying Out Now, and my advocacy work with other organizations working in recovery advocacy.  And I started my Arbonne business.

Still - STILL - I stumbled over how to answer the what-do-you-do question.  It all came tumbling out in one vomitous reply: I-run-a-non-profit-and-make-jewelry-and-blog-and-am-an-Arbonne-consultant?  And a Mom of two kids?

The middle-distance stare. The shuffling feet. The poor person wouldn't have the first clue how to respond to my rapid fire and apologetic answer that landed at their feet like a stone.

About a year ago, I wrote about this phenomenon in my post Killing The Question Mark. I was preparing to meet Brene Brown, of Daring Greatly fame, and I was trying to own my successes without apology. I sound all put together-n-shit in that post, but the only reason I gave a copy of my book to Brene Brown was that my Mom brought one. I left mine at home, feeling too sheepish about self-promotion.  To Brene Brown, for crying out loud, the QUEEN of overcoming shame and embracing vulnerability.  The question mark came lurching back like a zombie from a bad B movie.

Now Shining Strong is really growing.  I incorporated as a non-profit. I have a fantastic board of directors, and a gorgeous and informative website, thanks to the talents of my friend Amanda.

Suddenly I find myself standing in front of rooms of people, or being interviewed online, or advocating for The Anonymous People,  a movement all about owning your recovery and speaking unabashedly about your recovery to help others.

The critics are loud in my head, but only I can give them power over me.  Only I can allow them to fuel my Question Mark Syndrome.  They are a minority. Most people are a combination of curious and supportive about Shining Strong's mission.  The question mark is weighing me down, and starting to smack of false modesty.


I have always been an introverted extrovert.  Talking to me you would likely never know that I am cringing inside a lot of the time: do I sound like an egomaniac? Am I making sense? Are you bored? Did you just look at your watch? Do you like me? 

I don't know that the introverted extrovert will ever go away. I am learning to love her, to embrace her and tell her: "It's going to be okay. You're not an egomaniac, and the mission is worthwhile".   Now and again someone in person, or through the grapevine, or on the internet, will criticize my efforts to raise money for Shining Strong. Or even my jewelry business, implying that I'm hawking my recovery to make money.

That hurts, and the question mark gains power.

But in my heart, I know that's not true. I named my non-profit in memory of my Dad (my maiden name is Strong) who gave back to the communities he served his whole life.  My Dad doesn't want me to cringe. My Mom is my biggest cheerleader, carrying the flag for me at every opportunity.  My best friend is now in recovery with me and is as essential to me as oxygen.

It's time to kill the question mark for good.

I will advocate now and again on this blog. I will talk about the mission I believe so strongly in.  I will even, on occasion, ask for financial help if you can spare it. I will often ask for help spreading the word.

And, just recently, when I met my brand-new neighbor at the end of our driveway as we waited for the bus with our kids, and she asked me, "what do you do?"

I smiled and said "I'm a Recovery Advocate and an Entrepreneur, when I'm not Mom-ing, which is most of the time".

She smiled back, and said, "Tell me, what is Recovery Advocacy?"

And so I did.

I even gave her my business card.

Middle School Heart

She stands nervously in front of the mirror, my newly minted middle schooler, and fiddles with her
hair.

Today is Spirit Day at school - the kids are encouraged to wear the school colors - blue and yellow - in a show of school solidarity.

My girl has taken it one step further, and applied temporary hair color, adorning her dark brown locks with streaks of yellow and blue.

"Is it too much?" she asks.

"No, it looks great!" I reply, trying to strike that balance between supportive and overly-chirpy.

"It's not enough, is it?"

This goes on all morning.  She pops into the bathroom repeatedly to double check the too-much-not-enough-ness.

She is stepping outside her comfort zone.  These little sprays of hair color are so much more than that. This is a girl who doesn't like any form of attention, preferring to blend as much as possible into the sidelines.

As she waits for the bus in the driveway, I sit in my designated spot on the porch, hidden by a bush.  She wants me there, but doesn't want anyone on the bus to see that she wants me there.

Change.

As the bus rumbles just up the road, she spins around one last time, "Are you sure it looks okay?" she yells, her eyes wide.

I yell, "It looks great!"

"SHHHHHHH!" she replies.

It's a tug of war, change.  That fine line between uncomfortable and familiar feels like a tightrope. One misstep and you fall, and then everybody sees.

I think most of us are hard-wired to think people are looking at us, don't you?  When we're slipping our toe just a click over the comfort line, it feels like we're wearing a flashing light on our head.

In reality, nobody is really looking. They are too busy wondering if their own light is flashing.

The other night we spent an hour discussing the plan for changing before gym. This is new, and mandatory.  Everyone must change into gym clothes before class, and back into school clothes after.

She squirms with discomfort. "Will there be changing rooms?  What if they're all full? What if I can't get changed in time?"

I can only nod with understanding, remembering vividly the anxiety of the locker room change.  I tell her that I would sometimes duck into a bathroom stall or shower to avoid detection.

She asks me if it gets any easier, and I think for a moment.

"Not really," I reply.  "Even grown-ups worry about standing out."

She smiles.  "So it's not just me?"

That's the crux of it, isn't it?  We all want reassurance that it's not just us. 

Last night at her middle school orientation the parents all crammed into the smallish desks, fidgeting.  We glanced nervously at the white board for our list of instructions, not wanting to get it wrong. There are forms to read, a letter to write to our kid.  As we scribbled away, the teacher roamed around the room, talking about his teaching style, while he bounced an over-sized ball. He went to toss the ball to the woman sitting across from me, and she cringed and shied away.

"See?" said the teacher.  "Nobody wants to stand out. Your kids feel the same way.  I'm here to help them step out of their comfort zones a little."

We giggled nervously, and then the loudspeaker pinged with an announcement, and everyone paused to listen.  "Will the driver of a Blue Jeep Commander, license plate blabbity-blah, please report to the office?"

"Oh," said the woman next to me, "how embarrassing for that person".

That person was me. I had parked on the side of the road like many others, but for some reason my car was being singled out.

I didn't want to put up my hand. I wanted to shrink below the desk and turn invisible.

"That would be me," I joked, and everyone swung their head to look at me.

As I gathered my things and slunked out of the classroom, I thought about how some things never change.  How that tug-of-war between "look at me" and "go away" never really goes away.

I scurried out of the school, ran down the school driveway and up the road, and saw a police car with flashing lights and an irate woman standing right next to my car.

She didn't like that I parked in front of her house, and called the cops, threatening to tow my car.

I apologized as reasonably as I could muster, swallowing the not-so-graceful response that was at the tip of my tongue.  I couldn't face walking back into that classroom, so I sheepishly drove home instead.

I struggle with it, too, that tug of war. I want to wave the flag and support the things I feel strongly about. I want to crow about recovery from the rooftops, how amazing it is, how the discomfort is totally worth it.

But when all the heads swing in my direction, I shrink up, try to make myself smaller.  Ninety-nine people cheer me on, but I focus on the one dissenter.  I give more credence to their criticism than I do to everyone else's praise.

It's human nature. Go-away-come-here-look-at-me-stop-staring.

Watching my daughter wrestle with her bravery this morning, I felt my middle-school heart beating in my chest.  I may have grown up, but my heart is still looking for the bathroom stall to hide.


I remind myself that I already know what the inside of a bathroom stall looks like.  My life would be so small if I stayed there.

I'd rather step bravely into the world with blue-and-yellow streaked hair.

 If she can do it, I can do it, too.

On Fear, Ego and Gratitude. With a Cameo by Queen Latifah.

I used to think that what made me different from everyone else was my fear.

Fear of just about everything - not fitting in was at the top of the list. I didn't realize what a fruitless goal fitting in actually is, because the bar is always moving.  Am I supposed to be fashionable like her? Brave like him? Popular like them? Athletic? Thin? Soulful? Smart?

Like a chameleon, I would shape shift to fit in with whoever I was talking to, while a silent ticker tape ran in my head: does this person like me? Am I fitting in? 

It's exhausting.

I was afraid of rejection, abandonment, vulnerability.  I thought that if I didn't look like I had my shit together that everything would fall apart. I believed that people loved the version of me I had shown them, and that if they knew about the vast emptiness inside me, if they knew about the fear, they would run for the hills.

Automatically, anything that came from deep inside me was rejected as inadequate.

I filled this hole inside me with anesthesia for so long.  Motherhood scared me, so I numbed it out with wine. Crowds of people scared me, so I numbed it out with a false extroverted persona.   I was simultaneously afraid of being ignored and being recognized.  Nothing -and I mean nothing - was ever good enough.

Enough. There's a concept. Having enough. Being enough.   For a long time, I defined "enough" from the outside in ... and not surprisingly the feeling of having enough or being enough eluded me.

What I didn't know is that everyone is afraid, whether they know it or not.  We're conditioned to hide it, to appear put together, sure of ourselves.  Social media exacerbates this phenomenon -- you don't see many Facebook updates about how bored, messy, afraid, angry or resentful we are.

I'm still afraid a lot, except now I don't have my anesthesia.  Facing fear naked is, well, scary.  Sobriety robbed me - gradually - of the ability to fake it, to appear fine when I'm not.  Little by little, I began to recognize that my fear of life was incredibly selfish, ego run rampant.  The world simply doesn't care about my fine-ness as much as I'd like to believe it does.

Cultivating the courage to be open, vulnerable, was the key to freedom from fear, it turns out, but when I began blogging, dumping my imperfections and fears out on the page for the world to see, I was terrified.  I would walk through the supermarket convinced I knew what everyone was thinking about me:  there she goes, the alcoholic. I'm so glad I'm not like her. 

How self centered is that? 

Little did I know that being open and vulnerable would bring people in, not send them away.

I went to the blogging conference BlogHer in Chicago this past week.  As I wrote about in my last post, I was feeling fear and unworthiness about reading a post of mine at the Voices of the Year community keynote in front of thousands of people.  My old nemesis fear was riding shotgun, fueling my fear-based ego:  you're unworthy of this, people will mock you, ignore you, talk behind your back. You're not as good as the other readers, not as important a blogger. 

Sitting behind the stage, waiting for my turn to read, I was lost in self, in fear.  Every cell in my body screamed at me: you're SMALL.

So I prayed.  I got out of my own head. I looked around at my fellow readers and felt such joy for them, and it hit me: what's wrong with feeling joy for myself?  

Gratitude overwhelmed me as I prayed:  I get to have this amazing experience. It doesn't define me in any way, it's just a really amazing thing I get to do. 

Living closed off in fear is so much harder than living open and vulnerable.  So many amazing people have come into my life - people I used to peek at from my self-perceived sideline and think: wow, she's got it all together.  Now some of these people are good friends - soul mates, even - and we are broken and beautiful together.   I try to fill that emptiness inside me with acceptance - first of myself, then of others.  Jealousy or resentment let me know that fear is taking control again.  Feelings of unworthiness make me examine my ego, tell me that I'm closing off instead of opening up.

When I took the stage that night I felt only peace and gratitude.  I took a deep breath and read my piece as though I was the only person in the room.

Reading "Behind the Veil"

Because that's who I write for:  me.

Of course, this was pretty awesome, too:

Queen Latifah emcee'd the Voices of the Year

Cafeteria Girl

I had a public snit fit on Facebook last night.

My finger hovered over "publish comment" for a good 30 seconds before I pressed on it with my eyes closed.  I decided to hit the button, because I didn't think I was the only one who felt this way, and it was embarrassing to admit, but I just had to know what people thought.

Here's what I (wince) said:

I am being ridiculously needy and superficial and immature about this, I know I am, but if I get two comments on a blog post these days it's a lot. I used to get dozens. Am I boring now? Am I asking for too much help with my projects? You can PM me if you want to give feedback that you don't want to put out there in public. It's been going on for a while now, and I have to admit (though I'm embarrassed to do so) that it's making me insecure.

 I have to watch the line of ego, attention seeking and people pleasing really closely, examine my motives for blogging, etc. - because those bugaboos are traps in my sobriety.  I worked hard to get beyond (mostly) what people think, to stay focused on the mission or writing for myself, from the inside, regardless of the response.

Sometimes I do a really good job of that. Other times, like last night?  Not so much.

Of course I received comments empathizing with how I felt, and offering suggestions, like people use FB as ways of giving feedback now, people read but don't comment as much, people read through their Google reader and it's hard to leave comments.  All polite ways to put me in my place:  it's SO not about you, Ellie.

I think I'm overly sensitive these days because of the new endeavors like The Bubble Hour and Shining Strong are SO important, and I'm an alcoholic and instant gratification takes TOO LONG and I want THE WHOLE WIDE WORLD to respond instantly.

That is something I have to watch closely, because in that impatience lies a drink for me. If I'm seeking validation from the outside in (as a friend gently PM'd me last night- you know who you are and thank you) - I'm looking in the wrong place and I'll never be satisfied.

But sometimes? I still feel like that girl holding her tray in the cafeteria and looking around for a place to sit without looking like she's looking around for a place to sit.  I'm human.

I do believe in the mission of Shining Strong, The Bubble Hour and Crying Out Now from the bottom of my heart - and that is driven from the inside out. It's in my DNA, because it's how my parents raised me.  So I take comfort in that, and try to forgive myself for my occasional snit-fits.  The response has been amazing, and I'm SO grateful to all of you who have liked my page(s) and left testimonials and sent me encouraging words.

Sometimes? This is what it's like dealing with an addict.  We can never get enough.

Last night I meditated and prayed on this, and at the end my heart felt so full.  I have enough.  I am enough. And it will be what it will be.  I was all brave talk a few posts ago about being okay with trying and failing, but not being okay with not trying.  And I feel in my heart that this is true.

I just have to keep an eye out for those bugaboos, and I have to plunk my cafeteria tray down wherever I damn well please and not be scared of acceptance.

On a logistical note?  If you want to be sure you get all the updates from Facebook (where I think most people hear about posts) for Crying Out Now, One Crafty Mother, The Bubble Hour or Shining Strong it's not enough to "like" the page anymore.  I found this out last night - you also have to go to each page and look for the "tool" icon (little wheel - next to the "Likes" box) and select "Add to Interests".  Then you'll get all the updates, if you want to.  Thanks, Facebook, for making things so complicated and making me have to come make more self-serving comments that make me itchy.

Bottom line, I guess, is that we never really shake Cafeteria Girl, do we?  But we can keep moving bravely forward, tell our truth, empathize with each other instead of being embarrassed about our truths and stick together.

You guys are all at my lunch table, and I thank you for it.  Truly.

Killing The Question Mark

I am sitting in my jewelry studio, which looks like a tornado went through it, although as I always say "It's an organized mess".  I know where everything is, and if someone came in and cleaned it up I'd be lost. 

I think that's just the way my artist brain works; it thrives on jumbles. Jumbles of thoughts, ideas, colors, textures, priorities, designs - the list could go on and on.

For the first time, ever, I'm owning my artistry. I have always said what I do with a question mark at the end, like "I make jewelry?" or "I write a blog?".   

I'm done with that. I have dreams, dammit, and that question mark is in the way.  Part of this new found existential enthusiasm is because of Brene Brown's book Daring Greatly - you all know I love me some Brene Brown - and I'm understanding, finally, that the key to  my artistry IS my vulnerability. What I produce, whether it is writing, jewelry or creating outlets for sober people to share community it comes from my heart.  And sometimes, I admit, it makes me feel very naked.  Or, more accurately, it makes my soul feel naked, and that's scary.  

And a blessing. So much of my life was spent people pleasing, or numbing out, or trying to force you to like me by being who I thought you wanted me to be. 

I am literally incapable of doing that anymore, and that is a miracle and a gift.  

I still struggle with Ego.  Maybe that's a good thing; the people I know who don't struggle at all with their Ego aren't very likable. I'm so afraid of coming across as an egomaniac that I run the other way and get all question-marky about my creativity, my business, my dreams.  

I fall into old patterns all the time.  Next week my mom and I are going to the Massachusetts Conference for Women.  Brene Brown will be a speaker (along with a world-class lineup, including Deepak Chopra as keynote speaker).  But I'm there mostly there to hear Brene speak. I even made my Mom read her book. 

I was chatting on the phone with my Mom the other day and she encouraged me to have a copy of my new book Let Me Get This Straight  to give to Brene in case I have the opportunity to get a signed book from her, or shake her hand, or something.  As she was suggesting this, I was shaking my head on the other end of the line.  No way, I thought. There is no way I could do that. It's egotistical and she must get inundated with books all the time and I could never, ever have the guts to promote myself like that. 

My Mom waited a polite beat, and said, "You just made me read this book about Daring Greatly and you won't do this?"  

I laughed. Of course she's right.   "At least have a business card ready to hand to her if you run into her in the ladies' room," she said. 

I had a screaming case of the "who do I think I am"s.  Why do I do that?  Why do so many of us do that?  Scott Stratton, who wrote the book Unmarketing , and who I heard speak at a conference once, has a great line: "do you know who I think I am?" 

I have the opposite problem, but I'm working on it.

It took every ounce of guts I had to promote my book, and to keep talking about it to people.  I really, really want to put a question mark at the end: "I put together a book?"  

But I won't.  I'm learning from some awesome, strong successful women around me - who also sometimes struggle to own their talent, their creativity - to kill the question mark.  We have to prop each other up sometimes.  Because I can see their talent shining from a mile away, and it breaks my heart when I see them down on themselves, and I do my best to set them straight.  Thankfully, they return the favor, too.

My good friend Jessica Bern (the truly amazingly funny and talented co-creator of Two Funny Brains and an internet series currently in production called BlogThat) ordered some jewelry from me the other day, and I sent her the price and then said, "Is that okay?"

Here is her response:  "that is fine although do not ask another customer if your price is "okay" again. You hear me? Your price is your price. If they don't want to pay, fuck em."

THAT is a good friend. 

Daring Greatly is HARD, because you have to be ready for "No", or to have your expectations not met, or to feel small or less than is some way.  The reward, though, is the feeling that you're out there swinging, no matter what.  And that you can't force anyone to do anything for you - like buy your book, read your blog, buy your jewelry - if they don't want to.  It would be nice to have that kind of control over people, but I'm just not that powerful.

My precious Ego gets me into a lot of trouble.

So I'm bringing a business card (I won't have a copy of my book yet - or as my Mom put it "If God wants Brene Brown to have a copy of your book it will arrive before December 6th") to the conference and going to the restroom a lot.  You know, in case she's in there.   

Dreams have been launched from odder places, I'm sure.

On Being The Mom

"Okay, Mom," chirps the nurse, "here are your scrubs; you can go change there, with Greta, and meet us in the prep room shortly".

We're up early (5:45am) for Greta's tonsillectomy and adenoidectomy, which is taking place back at the very same hospital where I had my cancer related surgeries over the past year.  It's one of the best hospitals in the world, and for this I am grateful, but the flashbacks are still startling.  

I help Greta into a cute hospital johnny with 'tired little tiger' written all over it.  She is quiet, contemplative, but doesn't seem nervous. 

I pull on my blue scrubs and she giggles. "Doctor Mom," she says.

Trying to keep the atmosphere light, but realistic, I prattle on about what she should expect. The "rolling bed" (stretcher) and the bright lights of the Operating Room.   How the scariest part is lying on the operating table waiting for the anesthesia to kick in.  How it feels like you just blink your eyes and it's over.  

"Okay, Mom," she whispers. I can tell the nerves are building, but she's handling them like a champ.

"Are you ready, Mom?" the nurse chirps again.  "Let's get her onto this comfy rolling bed and head on down to the OR."

Only one parent is allowed to scrub up and go into the operating room. Steve waits in the same waiting room he sat and waited for me, three times.  We picked me to accompany her because I know the drill so well, but I have to work hard to keep my poker face. 

There is a slight delay before they can wheel her down the hall, so we stand there for about five minutes - Greta on the stretcher and me silently holding her hand.  I hear a sniff and look down to see silent tears running down her face.

"It's okay to be scared," I say, leaning close.  

She nods.  

"I was scared at this point, too, so I remembered that I was in the best hospital in the whole world for operations on ears, noses and throats.  People come from all around just to have surgery here."

She wipes her eyes. "Even Egypt?"

"Yes, even Egypt," I reply.

"What about Transylvania?" she quips, and I look down to see a sly grin on her face.  My heart swells at her bravery, and how she uses humor to deflect fear, just like her Momma.

Eventually we roll on down the hall, and I can feel her shaking a little.  Doubts creep into my mind; is this surgery really necessary?  I know in my heart it is, but now that we're here I want to say never mind.  Having had my tonsils out so recently, I know what recovery is like (albeit easier for kids) and voluntarily putting my kid through pain feels a bit barbaric to me at the moment.

"Okay, Mom," says the anesthesiologist.  "I need to speak to you over here for a sec."   

It occurs to me that I've been addressed exclusively as 'Mom' for the past hour.

I'm the Mom.

When did I become the Mom?  Suddenly it seems impossible that I'm in charge. Of anything, letting alone electing to let my kid have surgery.  

"She'll roll her eyes back and convulse a bit when the anesthesia kicks in," she explains. "That's totally normal."

My stomach does flip-flops. I want to run from the room.  I don't know that I can do this. I know I will, but I don't want to.  

"Once she's under you can take her stuffed animal and go to the waiting room," she explains.  "Don't worry, Mom. You're doing great."

I step over and hold Greta's hand as they slip the mask over her face and start the flow of cherry-flavored anesthesia.  She's awake longer than I thought she'd be -- first looking uncertainly at me, then blinking slowly, and then her eyes roll back and she gives a shudder.  

And she's out. 

Logically, I know she's going to be okay.  But witnessing that makes it seem like she just died right in front of me.  

"She's just fine, Mom," says the nurse.  "We'll be out to let you know how it went shortly."

I grab Bushy the Dog and head out to the waiting room.  On my way back down the hall I think of the parents with chronically ill kids who have to do this all the time. I think of how much better Greta will feel when this is all over and she's healed, how much better she will sleep.  I grope for gratitude, because I can feel myself slipping into a selfish kind of fear.  

Everywhere I look are memories of my own ordeal, and I have to remind myself that was my ordeal, not Greta's, and today is about her, not me.

Fifty minutes later I'm next to her in the recovery area as her eyes flutter open.  

"When will the operation happen?" she asks, and I smile and tell her I said the same thing when I came out of anesthesia.  

"It's all over, and you did great," I tell her.  "All the nurses said so."

She clutches Bushy in one hand and my hand in the other as she drifts in and out of sleep. 

"Good job, Mom," says the nurse.

I'm the Mom. I'm her Mom.  I get to be her Mom.  

I am so lucky.

Creative Alliance '12 - Leaving My Hammer At Home

I love this rumbling anticipation I'm feeling.

In two days I'm heading to Los Angeles, and then north to Ojai for the Creative Alliance conference.  It's not really a conference - more like a retreat - where creative women get together to fuse our energies, prop each other up, listen to our dreams and fears and walk away having forged new friendships that, by default, become a hybrid of a creative alliance and support group.

I went two years ago, to the last one, and my life hasn't been the same since. No exaggeration.

Before that conference I was a jumble of nerves, but for a completely different reason.  I had a bad case of the "smalls"; I didn't feel worthy to be there, in the presence of some powerhouse social media types, creative geniuses and bloggers I had admired from afar for years.  I didn't think I had anything to contribute, but 2010 was a year of a lot of firsts for me, so I went anyway.

Creative Alliance '10 cured me of the 'smalls'. Thanks to Creative Alliance '10, I put my hammer down.  You know, the one I use on myself?  Every now and then I'll pick it up again, and then one (or several) of my Creative Alliance friends will tell me to put the damn hammer down, remind me I'm worthy.

I found my own creative voice; realized I did have dreams and ambitions, and was already on my way to achieving them, through ventures like Crying Out Now and my jewelry.   I had wasted so much energy comparing myself to others, falling into that old behavioral trap of looking for ways I didn't measure up.  I didn't know 95% of the women there, and I had no idea what to expect.  I didn't exactly picture them pointing and laughing at me - I already knew they had too much soul for this type of behavior - but I did picture lots of heads cocked in confusion, thinking: you're doing what, exactly?

OH, my precious ego.

As we sat in the circle introducing ourselves for the first time, I felt my hands shake in nervous anticipation of my turn. I had a tendency to tell people about my business, my blogs, with a self-deprecating interrogatory slant, like a question:  I write two blogs?  And I run a small business?   Almost like I was asking their permission to exist.

When my turn came, I squared my shoulders and did my best to drop the question mark. Hearing myself articulate not just my accomplishments but also my dreams (saying your dreams out loud is hard, and vulnerable-making), to a room full of women I previously considered intimidating, was so freeing.  Hearing some of the biggest names in the social media world voice their own fears, or neuroses, put me instantly at ease.

We're all the same inside, I thought, us creative types.  Balancing on that beam of creativity and ambition.  Juggling mission and ego.  Creating from inside but still needing some kind of validation, especially from within our own community.

Those bigger, crazier conferences (that I shall not name) are so loud, and crazy, and full of egos clamoring for attention. Those conferences bring out the worst in me, and I won't say my own ego isn't tossing its hat into the fray, hoping to be noticed.

That's not what Creative Alliance is about, not at all. It's about finding your inner light, articulating your dreams, obstacles and fears to safe people who get it - man, do they get it - and forming a community that will pool their ideas and resources to help you achieve those dreams.

This year, I can't wait.

About half of last year's attendees are coming back, and there are many new women whose dreams, accomplishments and ambitions I can't wait to hear about.  I will leave inspired, filled up.

I have to push through some fears, though. I'm still not a big fan of flying, although I'm much better. The tools I'm learning to cope with cancer fear apply to flying, too, interestingly.  I have to land in LA, secure a rental car and spend one night by myself in an airport hotel. I used to do these things almost robotically, when I traveled for work in my previous life. Now I'm up at 2am rehearsing in my head how it's all gonna go down, as if I have any control over it.  That crazy brain squirrel is hard at work on his wheel, huffing and puffing away in the wee hours of the night.  Damn squirrel.

Before I know it, though, it will be over, and I'll be filled up again, full of dreams and ambitions and new friendships.

~~~~~~~~

A little bit of business:  Truthful Tuesdays is now going to be Truthful Thursdays, so I can participate in Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary's Just Write link-up, which occurs every Tuesday.

Also - I had to switch to a new email/RSS feed service (I barely even know what that means, so forgive my lack of technical expertise). Long story short, if you think you should be getting my new posts in your Inbox, but you're not, please sign-up again (right hand sidebar, just below BlogHer ads).  If you don't already get my new posts via email but would like to, that's where to sign up, but please be sure to activate your subscription by following the link sent to your Inbox, or else you won't get the updates.

Thank you.

Navel Gazing for Social Good

Please read to the end of this post. Because it takes me a while to get to my point. That's a head-scratcher, I know...

I have done a fair amount of speculating, sometimes even out loud here on this blog, about what is the point of blogging?  When the sound of my own voice sounds tiresome, even to me, and I wonder if this is all just narcissistic navel gazing.

By now most of you are familiar with the story: I started the blog to promote my jewelry business, wrote exactly two posts about jewelry (actually, art) and then started writing about addiction and recovery.  Within weeks a community had found me -  a community of women (and some men) who identified with my story, were struggling or sober, or just compassionate people who wanted to offer words of encouragement.

Being open about my recovery on this blog brought me many completely unexpected opportunities (like Oprah, USA Today and Redbook) and changed my life in ways I could never have dreamed possible. It also helped me build up a readership (impersonally referred to as a 'platform') that boggles my mind to this day. And the friendships?  OH, the friendships. I have found friends that are like oxygen to me; who fuel my soul.

I was running out of things to write about (at least in my mind) when my Dad died last June.  Writing about losing him, grief and trying to move on after such a staggering loss was so healing for me. And once again, a community of people came out of the woodwork to offer empathy and support.  It blew my mind, how many of you reached out to me, sent flowers, supportive emails, cards, words of hope.

I was this close to shutting the blog down last October. I was struggling personally, I was tired of my own voice, I just didn't feel that spark anymore.  It did feel like narcissistic navel-gazing, and the day I write just to hear my own voice is the day I stop writing.

Last October, as I was literally crafting a post saying I was shutting it down - I found the lump in my neck and wrote a post about it.   A few weeks later I was officially diagnosed with what I already knew was true:  I had cancer.

Once again, so many people came forward, offered words of hope, support, encouragement.  You offered your own stories; once again the community of people I needed to know found me.

Then it hit me, what makes my blog special, meaningful:  YOU.

I'm slowly figuring out why I have kept up this blog.  First, because it helps me. YOU help me.  So much. Second, because there are causes close to my heart that I want to bring awareness to - like recovery and cancer.

I worry - because that's what I do - that the people who come here to read about recovery roll their eyes at the cancer posts, and vice-versa.  I'm just going to get out of your heads and back into mine and write about what it meaningful to me.

Now that my youngest is heading into first grade, I'm thinking about what it is I want to "do" with my time. Building up my jewelry business is one.  But finding ways to support the recovery and cancer communities actually tops the list.  So you'll be hearing more about this - especially the cancer community - in the near future.

I'm hoping you'll support me in this.  Even if you haven't been directly touched by cancer in some way - the odds are (sadly) that someday you will.  Spreading the word about resources for those of us impacted by cancer helps everyone.

I had the pleasure of meeting the Executive Director of Friends Of Mel - a vibrant, inspiring woman who has helped so many with this organization. Local people (and, increasingly, across the country) are familiar with the story of the bracelet.  If you're not, please go here to read about it. It's incredible.

What started as one courageous, funny, giving woman making bracelets for friends, family and nurses while she battled cancer turned into a multi-million dollar organization that helps SO many people.  What many people don't know is where that money goes - for example, Friends of Mel is a sponsor of the Cancer Support Community I go to locally for yoga, for group therapy (and it offers SO many more resources than just those) - and it has literally saved my sanity.

There are so many more places like this that have received funds and support from Friends of Mel, and I will be writing more about them in the future, because this story just blows my mind; speaks to the difference just one person can make.

YOU are that just one person.  You've helped me survive the death of my Dad, cancer and the daily struggles of life. You've been there to celebrate the successes, the small victories that keep us going.

I hope you'll come along with me as I endeavor to support some causes that mean a lot to me.  I won't be asking you for money over and over. I'll be asking you to help raise awareness by spreading the word on your own facebook/twitter pages, help use social media for good.

And, of course, I'll still write about whatever is in my brain - kids, motherhood, serious, silly or navel gazing. I've come to terms with that.  I just love to write.

I have noticed that posts like this one don't get a lot of comments. For a while it devastated me (OH, my precious ego) but then I'd see you posting the links on your FB pages, tweeting about it, spreading the word, and that's what matters.  THANK YOU.

One last piece of business for you local people: there is an incredible conference called The Art of Life After Cancer coming up on September 15th at the Marriott, Quincy, in Massachusetts. But it's not just for survivors; if you have cancer, have had cancer, are a caregiver, were a caregiver or have been touched by cancer in some way, I can't recommend this conference enough.  Click here for the link for more info, and to register (only $25).  If this doesn't appeal to you personally will you please share this link on your FB pages? Especially if you're local?  I am finding the challenges of life after cancer to be as difficult in many ways as life fighting cancer.

You are an incredible, supportive community, and I am so grateful for you.  I am not turning this into a cancer blog, or a recovery blog.  It's just evolving into something bigger than me, and I'm grateful for that, too. We all have the opportunity to give back, and as Mel (please go read her story) proved one person can make a HUGE difference.  So please pass the word along.  If you can't go to the conference but want to help in some way, you can always buy a gorgeous bracelet for $20 to help their cause.

Thank you for all your help. Thank you for propping me up when I need it.

Thank you for being an incredible, supportive community with such huge hearts.

-Ellie

What Can I Say

This past weekend Heather and I went to Lexington, Kentucky to do our keynote speech to help raise funds for St. Agnes House.  I've talked a lot here about their mission - to provide a comfortable and affordable place for patients and their caregivers to stay while undergoing treatments of all kinds, but mainly cancer - but to see it firsthand was very moving for me.  Each room appointed like a bedroom in a home, not in a clinical, medicinal way.  Lovely, inviting common areas, where people can connect, console and share their journey together.  

The doors each have a dry-erase board with the name of the person staying there. I couldn't help but notice several of them had drawn smiley faces under their name.

It is a hopeful place. I wanted more than ever to do it justice, raise funds and awareness for such a worthy cause.

~~~~

I'm not sure what to say about the keynote itself.  I'm still processing it all, really. 

The Ego is a fragile thing, oh so easily cracked and bruised. Heather and I wrote the keynote not from our heads, but from our hearts, infusing it with humor, truth and faith and not holding back. I won't speak for her, but I'm proud of it. 

So when we realized the turnout for the event itself would be lower - a lot lower - than expected, my Ego threw a major toddlery tantrum, and then curled into the fetal position and felt sorry for itself.  Heather and I sat on a bench outside the hall looking at each other with a kind of glazed expression - did we fail?

We hadn't even started, hadn't uttered a word, and I was grappling with the voice in my head that tells me I'm small, insignificant, that I'm not interesting/talented/compelling enough to draw a crowd.

Thankfully, Heather and I were there together, and we took a deep breath, reminded each other it was God's event - not ours - and that sometimes the Universe has plans you can't see.  Maybe there was one person in there who really needed to hear our message.  Maybe that one person was me.  

By the time we got rolling, I was fine.  I put my Ego into a time-out, and reached into my heart, my soul, with abandon.  We shared our truths, got the audience members to share some of theirs, made some new friendships. 

After, as I was thinking it all through, I realized that it didn't matter if we were talking to one person or one thousand.  Just the privilege of being there to speak our truths, to deepen my connection with Heather and meet new and interesting people was enough.  More than enough.  

A part of me still felt sheepish, small, in that insecure place in my brain - that mad, drunken monkey that I can never really get rid of and who cackles at me, makes me feel badly.  I've stopped pretending I'll ever make that monkey completely go away.

The Ego is a fragile thing.

Holli, Me and Heather

Thankfully, we were going to a Brandi Carlile concert that night -Heather, Holli and me.  Holli is someone who was a complete stranger to me (other than tweets and emails to plan this event) before Kentucky.  Over the course of three days we became friends - had a soul-clink that resonates right through me and makes me smile.  She is a rabid Brandi Carlile fan, and emailed us beforehand to say she could get us tickets.  I remember thinking:  I think I like Brandi Carlile?  I kept meaning to go to You Tube and listen to her songs before I left, but never got around to it.

It didn't take long into the concert (first song, in fact) for me to realize exactly who she is, and marvel at her extraordinary talent.  

It was a stunning, clear night, and we were sitting in an amphitheater under the stars. I took deep breaths of the of cool evening air, felt the music pulse through my chest, and felt such gratitude to be in the company of such soulful, funny, lovely women.  

Brandi Carlile Concert

It wasn't until she played her third song 'What Can I Say' that I felt my chest crack wide open, and the tears came pouring down my face. Pent up tears of two weeks of stress, fun, missing my family, going on adventures.  But also? This song makes me think of my Dad and how much I miss him.  What a blessing to be with safe people to hug.  

Look to the clock on the wall,

Hands hardly moving at all.
Can't stand the state that I'm in 
Sometimes it feels like the walls closing in

Oh lord what can I say
I am so sad since you went away
time, time ticking on me
Alone is the last place I wanted to be
Lord, what can I say?

I cried and I let it all go, at least for that moment.  I wallowed in the gifts of friendship, of souls clinking together under a starry Kentucky sky. 

~~~~

If you haven't already done so, will you please consider donating to St. Agnes House?  Not to preserve my precious ego, or make me feel less sheepish, but because it's a very worthy cause.  I promise - this will be the last time I ask. But after having met these incredible people in person - Holli, Laurie, Susan and so many others - I want more than ever to help them keep St. Agnes House going.  

OH - and please go read Laurie's post about the evening.  Laurie is the Priest at St. Michael's - the church that hosted the event - and she is a wise, insightful and oh-so-funny woman.  Hers is one of the most powerful posts I've ever read on Beautiful Messiness (the theme of the evening), truth, and God.