Family Tree

I've been talking a lot about family lately.

What does family mean to you?

Now that we're all adults, having survived adolescence and the hurdles of young-adulthood (whatever that brand of chaos happened to be), I think it's fair to assume that most, if not all of you know who your family is. And, I think it is equally fair to say that you know what I mean by family. Because, you see, there's family...and then there's family.

Mine has found me piece by piece, and formed itself above, below and around me, beyond my control. All these wonderful people, buzzing about, forming patterns and hives around my head, have all landed squarely in front of me and claimed me as their own.

And I'm so stupidly lucky.

A long(ish) time ago, I wrote something about family trees. And I said that if a family were a tree, then I had always felt like a lone little leaf, floating on the wind, swinging back and forth toward the ground; only briefly a part of the tree, yet not fully landed either.

Well.

As it turns out, life gives you abundant trees if you know where to look. And it's hard not to look in the right places when trees are springing out of the ground practically underneath you as you walk.

And sometimes, a really big tree will show up on the horizon. And it'll have a deep and strong root system. And a beautiful canopy of leaves and shade and love and twirling wind. And it'll catch you, the lone leaf on the breeze, and set you down on one of the branches. And there you'll be.

This is M2.


















She's my mother-in-law, but I hate that term because to me, it's a verbal eye-roll... 'She's my mother IN LAW. Like, we're not REALLY related..' So, I've named her Mom 2. Or, M2 for short.

She's my tree.

























And she has the best laugh in the entire world. I'd bet on it.

Home Town

I always said I'd never move back to my home town.

I was so against everything that was familiar. I rejected the notion that I was a part of a place and time (and town) for a period of time and that would factor into who I became.

But. Home, dear friends, can be therapy.

My natural instinct is to shy away from anything public or open-forum when I'm hurting. I recall events and emotions very well after time has passed. Usually years. But fresh pain is sacred territory. And I don't feel right about sharing anything painful while it's happening because it's too much. Kind of like the first day or so after you've burned yourself. You can't jump in the shower without that familiar and unwanted sting.

I ignored this blog for a few weeks because of some things that went on that I couldn't control and/or have the clarity to write about. And that is silly. Because I'm human and you're human and it's all about the human experience, right? I feel what you feel. Even if one or both of us refuses to acknowledge it.

So let's talk about boundaries.

What is it about a proverbial line in the sand that raises hackles? Those that have been around the longest have an unspoken need and self-fulfilled right to anything going on in their loved one's lives. Thoughts, feelings and physical goings-on are all fodder for debate and discussion.

But, really: they aren't.

So when I draw an appropriate line to someone whom I respect and admire, and they balk, I'm left with a basket of messy emotions that I didn't choose to confront. I think I am guilty of expecting too much from some, and not enough from others. And when expectations aren't met, I am heartbroken.

Nonetheless, I deal with heartbreak exponentially better as an adult than I did as an adolescent.

I get out.

I breathe.

I look.

I document.

I smile.

I speak to strangers.

I take pictures.

And I write.

Thank God for Puyallup. My home town.

Writing

"Writing isn't about making money, getting famous, getting dates, getting laid, or making friends. In the end, it's about enriching the lives of those who will read your work, and enriching your own life, as well. It's about getting up, getting well, and getting over. Getting happy, okay? Getting happy." (Stephen King, On Writing)


Back in November, I wrote an essay about failure (re: here) I threw caution to the wind, sent it off to a contact at a website and she published it. One of my nearest and dearest friends, the same friend I had been lamenting to regarding the lack of creativity in my life and my deep and dire need to start 'doing what I love, ' (whatever that was), sent me a text after reading the article. And the text went something like this: "WTF? I didn't know you could write! Holy sh*t girl, you need to be writing!" Clearly, I'm paraphrasing. She'll vouch though.

About a month ago, I was assisting a friend with a photoshoot. Mind you, this girl is crazy talented. Naturally good behind a camera, and so patient with all my brain-picking and question-asking. During post photoshoot beers (and post God-awful downpour) she looks at me and says something like this: "You need to be writing." Again: paraphrasing.

Two weeks later, I'm waiting for a plane to California. An older lady and I are splitting a table, and against my introversion instinct, we're chatting about life. And the conversation went like this:

Her: So what do you do?
Me: I'm in investments.
Her: ...(silence).... Hmph.
Me: Not what you thought, huh?
Her: I woulda' pegged you for a writer.
Me: I've heard that before... What about you?
Her: I'm a retired English professor.

This time, I'm not paraphrasing. That conversation is etched into my brain.

So, this post isn't about affirmations regarding me writing or what I write or when I should write or any of that. I guess it's a way of throwing it out into the universe that I get it.

I get it.

Now what?

Dearest

You are everything I could ever hope to be. And I wish I would have could have told you that. There was something so deep and dark and scary going on for those years and I was so afraid. Whatever tie I had to you was so easily drawn away and life was so intensely complicated. I felt like I was living my life incorrectly and that if you knew who I was, you would be disappointed. Now that I’m older, I know that isn’t true. And I know that you tried. But the heaviness of that life lingers. And some days, it’s too much.
 
It is an anchor in my heart.

I took on the burden of everyone. You and us and them. Everyone that left and everyone that never reached out. I took it as my own and held it and tried to keep it quiet. I was deeply and wildly lonely for you.

In my brightest and happiest dreams, I think that you can see me and that I make you proud. I hope that I shine like a jewel in your eye and all is right and well. Every time my hands create something out of nothing, I think that I’m honoring you. That’s why I keep a picture of you in my kitchen.  I look at that image of us and I think, ‘This is what she would have done.’

And I know it’s true because it always works. Just like you always worked. Never sitting, always fretting. The smell of the kitchen and clean laundry and starch and your soap. I can picture your hands, slightly knotted, feverishly working away to feed your family. This is what love looks like to me.

There is a piece of you that I hold that very few know. All those nights spent, feeling the safest and most content I have ever felt. Those moments settle in my heart and slow my world down for those few minutes before I fall asleep. And sometimes, I feel you there.

You are my deepest love.

My greatest hope.

And my dearest memory.

 

 

Grow(th)

 

There's something about permanent or continued responsibility that freaks me out. I get a little cagey when well-meaning people around me start to ask me about my plans for the future. And by PLANS, they mean 'start popping out kids, already'.

 

And while that subject deserves it's own post or ten, this is more about my apprehension toward the requirements that come with tending to something so it doesn't...you know...DIE.

 

Put that to scale and you have a recipe for a shutdown.

 

So imagine the paradox of really, really wanting to be as self-sufficient as possible in conjunction with practically shrinking into myself at the thought of being relied on to keep an entire vegetable garden alive. I know this all sounds a little, if not a lot, overdramatic. But this is serious business, my friends. Lives are at stake.

 

There are a million things that have lent their hand(s) to my personality. I know why I'm so opinionated, just like I know why I'm so great with kids. I know who I got my maternal instincts from just as well as I know whose sense of humor I have. My face is my mom's and my coloring is my dad's. I'm incredibly sensitive...although, I'm relatively certain I was just born that way. I'm a thinker and a processor, just like my younger brother (he's a lot funnier though).

 

But.

 

I don't know where my trepidation for permanence comes from. Not in relationships. But in responsibility. It's not laziness. I'm pretty ambitious and determined. And a really, really sore loser.

 

Well, then. It's fear. Right?

 

Not fear of failure or fear of the unknown. It's fear of disappointment. What if it's not all that it's cracked up to be? Something I've noticed about myself over the last 3 or so years (and consequently, something I'd like to change...or at least modify) is that I have impossibly high standards. And that leaves no room for error or growth. Which is ridiculous.

 

So my husband planted a garden and he patiently waited for me to stop hyperventilating over the responsibility. And reminded me of what's to come:

 

Growth. And lots of veggies.

 

 

 



Who Do You Love?

Do you tell your friends you love them?

You should.

I think it's been measurably easier for me to tell people I love them since I've been married. I know there has to be some sort of psychological connection, but I don't have the patience to analyze it right now. What I do know, is that for a long time, telling anyone I loved them was awkward and difficult. Somewhere between my brain and my mouth, the words would get stuck. I'm sure it has something to do with a painful adolescence and fear of rejection and blah, blah, blah... But the point is, I got over it.

And I'm glad I did.

Because love is important.

 

 

And who wouldn't love these weirdos?

 



Real Talk, Real Food

Like most women, I have had a complicated relationship with food my entire adult life. Don't get me wrong: I love food. I love everything about it. I love making it. I love reading about it. I love collecting recipes I'll never make. I love smelling it. I love serving people something I've made with my own two hands. I love eating. I love it all.

But somewhere after college and before 30, things started to go a little sideways.

So, let's get honest.

I was never body conscious growing up. I was a ballerina for most of my childhood and adolescent years; about 20 years as a practiced, tried and true dancer. Most, if not all of my confidence came with my skill and ability. I was (am?) a naturally good dancer. And because of that confidence, and hours of time spent at the dance studio, I never once flinched in the mirror at myself.

It wasn't until somewhere in my late teens/early twenties that I started to worry about my weight. I worried, but didn't really act on any of those thoughts. I don't think that I'm alone in that I had plenty of comments thrown my way about what I look like... Either by family, friends, acquaintances. Hell, even strangers. Women's bodies have long been up for public forum. Which is an entirely different topic, and I'm sure fodder for another post.

Nonetheless, slowly but surely, my confidence started to take a hit. Somewhere in my mid-to-late twenties, my waning confidence became pressure to improve myself. Some of this was due to a not-so-fantastic relationship I was in, but it was mostly due to the not-so-fantastic relationship I was having with myself. So this pressure, coupled with my intense perfectionism and Type-A personality manifested into a very structured and disordered way of eating.

In short: I starved myself.

*deep breath*

I starved myself and whatever I DID eat was quickly washed away (or so I thought) with laxatives and copious amounts of water and coffee.

This went on for roughly 3 years.

Coming out of that lifestyle and mindset is quite difficult. It takes therapy, patience, great friends, supportive family and re-learning the role that food plays in your life. I still struggle. But, it's bearable.

Fast forward to today, and what this post is truly about: food = health. About 5 months ago, I started experiencing this horrible, sharp yet dull, achy feeling under my left ribcage. It made it hard to take a deep breath. It definitely made it hard to eat a full meal. And it made me damn uncomfortable ALL. THE. TIME. After a dozen doctor's appointments, X-Rays and CAT scans, a brief (benign) tumor scare, and a few visits to a specialist, the culprit behind all this pain was one pissed off stomach. The entire organ was blood-red (it should be pink), swollen (it should NOT be swollen) and really, really mad. So mad that it couldn't get un-mad. There was no 'medical' reason why. No ulcers. No cancer (thank goodness). No celiac disease.

Just...you know, mad.

So after a month of 'prescribed' Prilosec with zero result, I took matters into my own hands. I had a chat with my super-awesome doctor friend and she suggested (as I thought), that my issues might be due to some food allergies, coupled with the damage I had inflicted upon my own digestive system years prior (this was my guess...she confirmed the possibility in a very gentle and caring manner). I did some research on 'allergy elimination diets' and jumped into it.

Two weeks in of no sugar, no dairy, no wheat, no soy, no nightshades and some various other 'no's,' and I'm feeling better than I've felt in... Well. A long time. I'm eating good, pure, REAL food and my body is happy. My stomach, for the most part, is happy. And you know what? Unplanned and unbeknownst to me, I've lost a surprising amount of weight. I add this in for one point only: what is it about what we eat that makes your body hold onto excess weight? Certainly, there has to be something hiding in the overly-processed convenience foods we all know and love so much (seriously: cheeseburgers ALL DAY).

It's a mystery I plan on diving into as I learn more and more about what my body does and does not like.

All this writing for the simple point of loving yourself. It's hard out there for a pimp woman. If there is one thing you take from my ramblings... take this: be good to your body. Now.

And if you want to know more about what I'm eating (because, let's face it: you have to get creative when all you can eat is lean protein, veggies, fruit and brown rice), holler at your girl.