Sometimes it feels as if the waves of healing never lose their distinctive rhythm. Just when I feel one wave passing and I exhale into the calm ribbons that draw the current back into the deep, another resounding force crashes against the shore of wounds within my soul.
Ever heard the saying, “Positivity Is the Key”? How About, “Keep Calm and Stay Positive”?
Mantra’s like “If You Cannot Be Positive, Then Be Quiet,” and “Be Positive, Stay Happy,” and “Don’t Let Negativity Get You Down,” are rampant on social media outlets.
They pump us up. They feel good. Yet the consistent theme seems to be that we are always supposed to be positive, feel positive, stay positive. Negative feelings, it would appear, are not welcome, are not healthy.
The story is far too common. We fall in love. We get married. We start a family. Yet once the kids come along, we throw ourselves completely into being the best parents we can be, to give our children everything we didn’t have growing up. We forget that a lifetime ago we once stood before a preacher and promised to be a husband and a wife forever.
When he asked for my hand in marriage, I was excited, I was hopeful, and to be honest, I was slightly petrified. I had no idea what I was getting into.
Every January has the same rhythm, it seems. We’ve made it through another year of Christmas gatherings, we’ve swept away the confetti from the New Year’s celebrations. The decorations have finally been stored away for another year, just in time for the grey days of winter to settle in around us.
Everyone has made their New Year’s resolutions, some of which have already been broken and forgotten. Our “to-do” lists have grown long with all of the tasks put off from the previous year. The champagne has barely lost its sparkle and yet we’re off to the races for another year.
My favorite thing about growing up in Florida was the time my family spent at the beach. No, I’m not a sun-goddess. My fragile and freckled pale skin has never stood a chance against the intensity of Florida’s sun-saturated sky, but I still love the beach.
A few weeks ago, my husband and I attended a Halloween party. In addition to the hayride, the food, and festivities, there was an array of costumes for children of all ages. There were masks, wigs, full-body armor as well as an endless collection of light-sabers, fairy wands and Dorothy-red shoes.
Not long ago, I was sitting with a client who, shock of all shocks, didn’t want to be in therapy. He expressed whole-heartedly that, “Only people with mental illness need a therapist, but anyone with common sense can figure out their own problems.”
I blink and it is Easter. I blink again and it is fall.Time passes so quickly, quicker by the year perhaps. What happened to the time? Where did it disappear?
Lately, it seems like I’ve been hearing a lot of people talk about the need for “conversations.” In the wake of the Ferguson, MO tragedy, I’ve heard leaders saying that we need to have a conversation about race. I hear politicians every evening on the news talking about the need to have a conversation about immigration, the economy, education, gay rights and a myriad of other topics. I routinely hear parents discuss the need to have conversations with their kids about drugs, sex, and education. Couples describe a tremendous need to have conversations with each other about their relationship, finances, feelings.
I don’t want my kids to be happy. Sounds horrible, I know, but it’s true.
I have these dreams that have been tucked away in my heart for some time. As I drift off to sleep at night I often imagine what lies ahead. How he will grow. How he will build his life. I can close my eyes and envision a young, handsome man, growing strong and sure.
I dream that he stays, and that we build a life together.
I sat and listened to him fill in the missing puzzle pieces of his life. With each story, a mixture of joy and pain. There is the distinct realization that in every event, every experience, we were missing.
It was the Wednesday after Labor Day. I remember it distinctly — a day not unlike so many others before. I was finishing up after a long day at work. It was late. As is my custom, I called my husband as I drove home to let him know I was on my way.
It was already dark. I was trying to concentrate on the road as I waited for him to pick up the phone. He didn’t say hello. He hesitated a moment, then simply stated, “You’ll never guess who’s here.” I knew immediately.
As Avery and Jack entered the office, the tension in the air was evident. They politely found their respective chairs and sat for a moment frozen in awkward silence.
Something speaks to us, beckons us, calls us to leave the place where we call home, to step out into the unkown. We obey.The destination is unclear, uncertain. We take steps in its direction, we calculate the goal, but the outline of this new home seems just out of reach, out of focus against the landscape of the present.
I remember when my husband and I were first courting. He was my next-door neighbor. I travelled quite a bit and to be honest, it took me a while before I noticed him beyond the traditional neighborly wave as we passed in the cul de sac.Our relationship began casually, as neighborhood friends, but the more time we spent together, the more our relationship grew.
Some days life puts us to the test. These are the days that things don’t just rock along, days that don’t unfold as we had planned or desired. These are the hard and agonizing days.
It was a day filled with its usual busyness. I was between clients. I was hurried, trying to check-off one more item on my “to-do” list. It was the last phone call to return. A gentleman answered. The phone call resembled many others, questions, logistics, information.
Broken. I am broken. It is the most freeing word that can escape my lips.For most of my life I was on a feverish journey toward “Good-Enough,” desperate to arrive at the place called Perfection where I could find my worth, where I could lay down my struggle and be enveloped in peace.