Morning Thoughts: Giving out Sweetness

Last weekend, someone shared a special thought with me. For the past few days, the words have resonated with me, flitting through my mind as I go about the bustle and hurry of the workweek. The thought was so simple, almost childlike really. Yet the simplicity of the words are what make them so difficult to actualize:

When a deer rubs its antlers against a tree, it wounds the tree and causes it to leak sap. Yet that very sap can be used to make balm for someone else's wound.

This simple analogy perfectly captured an attitude that I have always found difficult to achieve. The ability to give out sweetness and kindness in the face of disrespect, hurtfulness, or rudeness. 

As long as I can remember, I've had a reputation as strong-willed. While having a strong will can have its benefits, it also has its downside: a temper. So when someone dishes out a nice heaping of rudeness or anger at me, my natural instinct is to dish it right back. It's even worse if someone directs anger at someone I love. There have been times when I've overheard a waiter, a clerk, or some random person mutter at my parents or Mark and felt the white-hot rage monster rear inside my chest. Who are you to talk to husband/dad/parent/sister/friend that way? streaks through my mind.

But after hearing the sweet deer-tree-balm-sap story, I felt so compelled to make a change. What if I could just "turn the other cheek," so to speak? What if--instead of letting my natural temper flare and spit out some retort--I said something kind? How would it impact that person's day? Would it change their attitude? Change their heart? Soothe their spirit? Sure, I realize that some people are simply angry and rude, no matter how much fairy-nice dust you sprinkle on their head. But then how am I to assume what they're going through or even assume that the one clash is indicative of their entire personality? Perhaps they're simply walking around with a wound I just don't see. 

And maybe the kindness I show could be a little balm to that wound, helping their day without any cost to me. 

Oh, August...

Do you hate August? Or do you love this final summer month? I know, I know. Technically, September is the final summer month since autumn doesn't officially begin until September 23rd. But I can't help it... as soon as I flip that calendar page and see all those "-ber" months, my mind instantly fast-forwards to boots, scarves, hot cider, and falling leaves.

But I ask again, do you like August? I used to despise this month-- too hot, too muggy, too sticky. However, as most of you know, I've been making it my personal mission to love each summer day as it comes, to relish the heat and warmth and birdsong. It all goes by too soon, you know? It passes by to be replaced with snow drifts, cold toes, and bare branches.

Even though we have been experiencing some unexpected cooler weather (translation: low 80's instead of high 90's), summer certainly lingers here. Heat oppresses the outlying fields, crackling the grass and drying the creeks. So much gold-white sunlight and washed-out blue sky, tinting our vision with this summeresque hue. Like some heavy-handed camera filter. By day, white butterflies flit among the flowers-- dried hydrangeas, prolific marigolds, blasted rosebushes. The butterflies are like a sudden, whispered secret: there, startling your senses, and then gone. By night, fireflies pulse in the trees, rendering the woods something magical and unknown.

As much as I love autumn, I don't want to think yet of faded leaves, pumpkin grins, or the first film of frost coating the ground. Not while the sun still warms my shoulders, not while ice cubes still chink and melt in my glass, not while each day still bleeds into the next, so full of sunlight.

Today, I just want to lie down, fade into the yellowing grass. The blades itching the backs of my knees and elbows. I would spread my hand, fingers wide and grasping. The sun would warm my palm. Feeling its touch, my fist would close, as if gathering the light. As if I could just grasp this day, this summer, and hold onto it forever.

Freedom and youth only last so long.

Mr. & Mrs. // Learning to Laugh

Awwww... look at engaged us up there. So stinking cute. And so oblivious to all that is lying ahead: all the ups and downs and laughs and cries and general crazy wonderfulness that is marriage. I know, I know. We haven't even been married three whole years yet. There's an old-timer out there somewhere scoffing and saying "honey, you ain't seen nothing yet." I'm not totally naive. I'm aware that there's plenty more challenges and adventures ahead that we can't even begin to imagine. What do we know?

Well, I feel like we do know a little bit. Today, I want to share one of the biggest lessons I've learned since getting married on that mild October day in 2012. It's a lesson I often forget to live by, but it's also a lesson that I have been actively trying to remember.

That lesson is simple: be willing to laugh.

Before our wedding, a family friend imparted this nugget of wisdom: learn to laugh at yourself, at your circumstances, and at each other. Of course, you have to time that last one right. I don't mean crack up at your partner when they're genuinely upset. That would just compound your issues. Let me explain,

Life is full of setbacks, failures, difficulties, and just downright bad days. Recently, there was a time when I let these various obstacles and difficulties truly weigh my spirits. I walked around grumpy, irritable, and taking everything way too seriously. Every joke felt like an intended slight. Every little disagreement had the potential to turn into an explosive argument. Everyday, I was genuinely upset and out-of-sorts, allowing too many things to burden and rob me of the simple joy of everyday life.

But then, one day, I just started laughing. My husband and I were in the middle of a mild disagreement, but one that had the potential to turn into a real, genuine argument. To be honest, I can't even recall the topic of the fuss. I do remember that I was being intentionally difficult and obstinate, despite knowing that my position was the wrong one. But then, something Mark said or did in frustration just struck me as funny. I started to laugh and just like that, my anger was gone. I realized how stupid I was being, how unfair. At first, my husband's expression was surprised--what was wrong with this crazy woman?-- and then he too began to laugh. And just like that--the fuss was over. Instead, we were sitting in the living room laughing our heads off. Once our cackling subsided, we were able to talk civilly, solve the issue, and move on.

While the incident may sound silly, it taught me that laughter is so vitally important not only in a marriage, but just in everyday life. Since then, I've learned (and am still learning) how being willing to laugh can make seemingly insurmountable problems seem trivial and doable. When I have a bad day and then get cut off by an angry driver on my way home, I could either rant and rave about it...or laugh to myself. When I destroy supper (which doesn't happen often, but has occurred at least once in my cooking life), I could either bang pots around in frustration or throw my hands up and laugh oh well.

Life is much too short to stomp through, unhappy and irritable. When you go that route, you not only upset yourself but everyone around you. Instead, just give in and laugh about it. You may be surprised--like me--to realize how much better it makes you feel.

Mr. + Mrs. // The Best Marriage Advice Ever

In all that you do, endeavor to make your spouse feel wanted, needed, and loved.

The night before our wedding, our officiant pulled us aside. Our rehearsal dinner was winding down, the guests starting to dissipate. Only our bridal party and a few family members remained, chittering and laughing over glasses of sweet tea, as excited as us for what the next day would bring. Noticing a lull in the festivities, our officiant--who also happened to be my best friend's father-- pulled us aside to a quiet booth tucked in a back corner of the venue. There, he proceeded to give us the best marriage advice anyone has ever offered to us. It's advice that I can't say that I've been faithful in remembering or living everyday... but I can honestly say that--on the days I do remember it--it has proven its worth.

"In all that you do,  in the actions you take, in the words you speak, in the decision you make... endeavor to make your spouse feel wanted, needed, and loved," he said. "Ask yourself: does what I'm doing make my spouse feel like she's wanted? Like he is needed? Does it make him/her feel that s/he is truly loved? If the answer to one of those questions is a definite no, then maybe you should rethink your words or what you are doing."

At that time, sitting in that booth clutching Mark's hand, I know that I didn't fully comprehend the entirety of his words. I understood that these were words springing from years of marriage experience and from godly wisdom. Yet in that moment, my mind brimmed with last-minute wedding worries: did we have enough napkins? Were there enough flowers in each centerpiece? Would the DJ play the right song when introducing us at the reception? The answer to that last one turned out to be NO by the way.

Now, after two and a half years of marriage, I think I'm beginning to comprehend what this advice may mean.

In short, it means to put each other first. To weigh your daily decisions and actions with your spouse in mind. To consciously choose selflessness. To be willing to make a decision you may not want to make or to do something you may not want to do simply for the other's benefit and joy. To seek your spouse's happiness above your own, to seek their comfort above your own, and to encourage them always.

When we're locked in a heated newlywed fight--whether it be the slamming door kind, the spewing tears kind, or the silent-but-deadly kind--this advice requires that you be willing to swallow your pride. To apologize sincerely, without having to be asked. To be willing to give some ground to spare the other's feelings. It requires bending your will in order to heal the other's heart. And I'll be honest: as a fiercely stubborn and proud person, apologizing first or admitting I'm wrong is one of the hardest tasks that I ever have to do. But then I pause and ask myself "Did what I say make my husband feel loved? Or needed? Or wanted?" If the answer brings guilt, learning to apologize and admit my own faults comes a little easier. As time passes, I'm learning that apology is just another part of marriage.

Lastly, it's important to note that this advice applies to both people in the relationship. These words aren't part of the wives-submit-to-your-husbands mantra. No. Ya'll know me better than that. Both parties should strive to uphold this advice. Because if each person endeavors to put the other first, well then neither one will miss out on much will they?

After all, I think our society could use a little more selflessness and kindness in daily life. And what better place to start that under your own roof?

What's some of the best marriage or relationship advice you ever received? Feel free to share! 

Our Weekend in Photos // Monocacy Battlefield

On Friday, winter dealt a final sucker-punch: four slushy inches of snow. (Final? It better be the final one, let's just say.) I awoke to yet another weather delay and moaned Not again. But on Saturday and Sunday, spring responded with sunshine and birdsong. The broad blue sky and tee-shirt weather begged us to spend some time outdoors, baring our winter-white arms. Sun-thirsty, we hiked not just once, but twice this weekend. 

Sunday, we explored one of the nearest historical parks Monocacy Battlefield. Plugging it into our GPS, we were startled to realize the battlefield was only seven minutes away from our house. We were even more startled when we realized it was practically right behind our local Target. Who knew that while I was buying Method dishsoap and Threshold throw pillows, there was a field of forgotten memories and buried musket shells only a few feet away?

We spent the day exploring the park's various sections. Split by the timeless Monocacy River and  the new Interstate 270, the battlefield consists of six regions: Monocacy Junction, Gambrill Mill, Best Farm, Thomas Farm, and Worthington Farm.

When reading about Civil War battlefields as a kid, I tended to visualize a wide, open field with grey-suited soldiers on one side and blue-suited soldiers on the other. As if the country had designated war-sites. Okay, here you go, this is a good spot to fight. Instead, the Civil War happened in people's backyards, across their farm fields, and literally on their front porches. The owners of the three farms barricaded themselves in their cellars with buckets of drinking water, hid, under blankets, and prayed that their homes didn't collapse under artillery fire. In fact, the first full account of the Monocacy Battle was written by a young man who, at the age of six, watched the battle unfurl from the slats of his cellar window.

As we walked between the farm houses, outbuildings, and slave quarters, I tried to imagine what it looked like then. Tried to imagine the smoke and the explosions and the yelling. It was so quiet and still while we walked across the barely-green grass. The only sound the winter-tinged wind and the distant rush of cars. Something tumultuous and life-changing and loud happened here hundreds of years ago, yet now it was so serene, Empty yet not empty. Like a graveyard, the battlefield seemed full of whispers and memories.

We laughed and walked in the sunshine. But every now and then, the portent of the place would settle over us, bidding us to just take a moment, listen to the wind, and consider what happened here.

Living in Maryland does have its perks. Like having historical landmarks only five minutes away. Have you ever visited a Civil War battlefield? If so, where? Did it make you a little goose-pimply or were you totally bored?

Deciding to Change

Some of you may already know about my decision to leave my M.A.T. program. Those closest to me know how long I agonized over the decision, biting my nails and complaining that quitting felt like failure, a concept to which I've always been a stranger. My husband knows how many sleepless nights I spent, tossing and turning, nearly crying with frustration and disappointment. When my health finally started to deteriorate--first sleeplessness, then ulcers, then arrhythmia, until finally my doctor, my parents, and my husband all said "enough is enough"--I realized that I was standing at a crossroads and the direction I took was entirely dependent upon me.

I either had to shoulder my disappointment and press forward, or I had to acknowledge that teaching secondary English was simply the wrong career path.

But if you quit, you're a failure. If you quit, everyone will think it's because you couldn't handle it. If you quit, you're a loser. You're just another loser who didn't finish her grad program. If you quit, what are you going to do then? Where are you gonna work? You graduated top of your undergraduate class! What are people going to think of you now? What will you have accomplished since college? Nothing. If you quit, you'll disappoint everyone...if you quit...if you quit...if you quit...

The self-deprecating mantra chanted in my head, over and over. Relentlessly making me feel ashamed and disappointed. Until one day, as I stood in a seventh grade classroom, a revelation swept over me. Cold and clear, it silenced my wheeling, battering thoughts and left a solid purpose in its wake.

The classroom consisted of thirteen seventh graders, mainly girls who were all attitude, ponytails, and lip-gloss, trying to hide the fact that they were really still children. With a soft smile, I remembered being a preteen, how boy-crazy and desperate to be a teenager I was at that age.

I sat in the back corner, my objective to watch the teacher, observing every aspect of her classroom management, strategies, methods, materials, curriculum. My primary focus was to ascertain whether the behavioral needs of one student, receiving special education services, were actually being met. All of these notes would eventually be compiled into a large observation paper and behavior-change-plan. Biting the end of my pen, I quickly realized that my project would end up being a tremendous mess, because the classroom itself was a tremendous mess.

Although the class consisted of less than fifteen kids, although an instructional aide and co-teacher were also present, chaos reigned. Students were up and down, in and out, leaving their desks and materials behind to wander who-knows-where in the hallways. (Without hall passes, although these were available on the door.) Those who remained behind chatted with their friends, chewed gum, tossed candy at each other, shouted, and played computer games. The two or three students who actually attempted to do their work were pestered by their peers into frustration, their hard work going unrewarded. Where were the teachers, you ask? At their desks, grading papers and occasionally shouting out "Be quiet!" "To your desks!" "Stop that now!" "This assignment is for a grade, people!"

Later, the teacher sighed and remarked to me that "This was just what teaching was...eventually you would burn out and just accept the job for what it is...you just had to get through each day and hope you taught them something." When I remarked that one student appeared to be particularly struggling with reading, she nodded and shared that, although he was enrolled in seventh grade, he was reading on a first grade level. To put this into perspective for you, this meant that this thirteen year old boy was reading the same material as my five year old nephew. And he was not alone in his struggle. Only one or two students in the room were actually able to read seventh-grade material. The rest struggled, every day, in every class. If you can't read, your work will suffer not just in English but in every class you pass through.

"We're supposed to help them, but what can you do when its this bad?" his teacher asked me. "You just have to get through the day. You have to figure out how to teach what you're told to teach, but on their level." Her smile bitter, she finished with "You better love this job, because if you don't, nothing you do will be worth it. Because you sure as heck aren't getting paid to do it."

As I stood there, listening to this veteran teacher, a hard thought burst onto my mind: I don't want to be like her. Disappointed in my job. Hiding behind my desk as more than twenty children, entrusted to me by their parents and the state, passed through my classroom learning nothing but how to sneak and play Minecraft. Shouting instead of teaching, bitter and unhappy. I didn't want to just stand up there, letting kids down, one by one. Anger bubbling in my thought, I wanted to demand, "If you hate it so much, why don't you just look for another job? Or DO something other than hide behind your desk and maybe they would learn to read, for pity's sake!"

Yet then, I remembered the snakelike whisper if you quit, you're a failure....if you quit, you're a loser...if you quit...if you quit...

My anger melted into pity for her and for her students. I thought of my other mentor teachers, of my professors, of my peer teacher-candidates who each clearly loved their job and, when faced with the same discipline and teaching issues, met and conquered the obstacles. They had the same teaching struggles, received the same pay, worked the same hours as this unhappy teacher...yet they did so with strength and grace and happiness. I realized that she was wrong. No, teaching was not what she described it to be. Sure, if you let it, it could become that overwhelming burden, but only if you let it. Clearly, other teachers were happy with their vocation.

I wondered: how much pain and discomfort do we put ourselves through when we're too scared to make a change? How much pain do we cause others, because we're too scared to make the decision that needs to be made? 

I drove home, walked in the door, tossed by tote on the couch, and walked into Mark's office. "I'm done," I said. I refused to let myself turn into that: someone who was in the wrong career, knew it, and sludged through anyway.

Teaching at any grade level is one of the noblest professions a person could enter. A teacher literally changes students' minds, permanently shaping and expanding their brains with new knowledge and information. Teaching is an art and a science, profoundly difficult and rewarding. Now that I know a measure of what my teachers went through, the hours they put in at home, the struggles they faced when politicians belittled their work and cut their wages, the extra effort they made to ensure that I received tougher curriculum, that my learning needs were met... I wish I could just hug every one of them.

Teaching is a tremendously fulfilling, challenging, and noble profession, but it is not for everyone. Therefore, I finally made the decision to leave my M.A.T. program because I owe it to myself, to my family, and to my teachers to follow the career path that is correct for me. To reach for the goals that I truly want to attain. To be happy and fulfilled in life. To stay true to who I am and never compromise out of fear.

Resolutions

A person I hope to be more like:

Although numerous names came to mind, one name stood out most clearly: my mom's. In this new year, I hope to become more like my mom. It's a change I joke about with friends all the time. Driving along, we'll make certain comments or use certain phrases, sounding just like our mothers, and we'll roll our eyes and say "Oh Lord, we're turning into them!" But really, being like my mom would be such a bad thing.

My mom because she embodies Southern hospitality, knowing how to make everyone, even strangers, feel at home. Because she is hands-down the best cook I know; her French onion rice and cheesy broccoli casserole would drive you to sonnet-composing. Because she has always been selfless in raising her two daughters. Because she knows how to judge a horse and weigh the spirit in its eyes. Because she knows how to dress down Richt and Bobo and gave Gurley the sternest television-screen talking to I've ever heard. Because she can stop misbehavior with one eyebrow raise. Because she's unfailingly kind. Because she always knows when to speak, what to say, and when to leave words unsaid.

A good deed I'm going to do:

Pray harder. I know, I know... this question aims at a specific charitable deed to do, but I truly feel that earnest prayer is one of the best ways to help others. No matter your physical or monetary state, you can always pray. Even though they may be slowly answered, a prayer's words are after all powerful enough to breach heaven. I know that in my own life I've been held up by others' prayers; my name has been uttered in others' hearts and echoed in heaven's halls. Yet I myself fall short in prayer for others. This next year, every day, I aim to work on this resolution.

A place I'd like to visit:

For this resolution, I have two answers: Jamaica and Glacier Park. One hot, one cold. One luxurious, one rustic. Both beautiful in different, exotic ways. Can you guess which destination I picked and which Mark picked?

A book I'd like to read:

This resolution category is such a loaded question to ask of an English major. Here are a few of my wish-list titles....

• Where'd You Go Bernadette
• Unbroken
• Flight Behavior
• Casual Vacancy
• Edge of Eternity
• 1Q84

A new food I'd like to try:

How about a new restaurant? Mark and I have lived in Frederick for over two years, yet we have never tried Isabella's, a tapas restaurant that our friends consistently complement and rave about. So in 2015, I resolve to finally visit this tavern and finally eat some tapas so that we can FINALLY tell people that "yes, we love it too."

I'm going to do better at:

Writing. For this blog and for personal purposes. So often, when life gets busy, I just let writing fall aside. But when I do take the time to write--even just a few lines-- I do feel better. Writing provides catharsis and focus. In 2015, I aim to set realistic writing goals that will fit around my work schedules.

A goal I aim to achieve:

Short-term: As with any fixer-upper owner, it seems my main goals are renovation related. In 2015, we aim to renovate the kitchen, renovate the bathroom, create a fun and cutesy outdoor space, and repaint the living room. Long-term: Continue to workout. For the past four months, I've buckled down and gone with Mark to the gym nearly every weekday. I hope to continue this trend. While they may complain, my thighs, butt, and stomach all thank me for it!

What are your resolutions for 2015?

Home for the Holidays

Clutching luggage in each hand, one bag balanced on the  very edge of your shoulder, you kick the door with the toe of your boot. Thunk thunk thunk. A distant patter of footsteps, someone hurrying to greet you. The knob creaks and turns, and then the door swings up, suffusing the winter night with warm air and yellow light. It slants across the law, a distended rectangle reaching out to welcome you home. 

Panting, you heave your burdens--duffle and gift bags--over the threshold. As the chill ebbs from your limbs, you breathe hellos and how are yous, fielding hugs and backslaps. A bundle of fur bumps past your shins--the dog rushing in before you. His head low and his tail beating, he innocently displays all the excitement you feel as you let your luggage fall to the foyer floor. Your shoulders ache from the relieved weight as you think "I'll worry about those later." For now, you are home. 

This year, we spent Christmas in Virginia with Mark's family: the Hobbs and the Richardsons.

Every family has its own unique holiday traditions, but Mark's family always ensures that a few of my own family's traditions are observed. Every year, without fail, my own mom made sausage and cheese balls. After opening our gifts, she would pull trays of sausage-cheese balls, crumbly and warm, from the oven. Crispy and brown, they were always too warm to touch, but we grabbed them anyway, bouncing them around on our palms before dropping them onto a small plate. Too good to wait. My sister, father, and I would wolf them down, pausing only to douse them with Tabasco sauce. (Some families are wine connoisseurs. The Black family are hot sauce snobs.)

The first year that I spent Christmas with Marks, I passingly mentioned that I would miss Mom's sausage-cheese ball breakfast. To my surprise, I awoke the next morning to their familiar smell and found a small plate sat before me, complete with a side of Tabasco.

It's the little things that let you know you are loved.

For me, Christmas can be described through its various tastes and smells.

Heady cinnamon. The buttery, velvety softness of chocolate-peanut-butter fudge. The tartness of cranberry. Sweet boiled custard, smooth and thick on your tongue, like melted ice cream. Juicy ham, spiced with brown sugar. The creamy whirl of mashed potatoes, drizzled with salty ham gravy.

The day after Christmas, Mark's maternal grandmother hosts a Maryland-style holiday dinner, and her dining room swells with family. Having lived in Baltimore before relocating to Virginia, Gram whips together a seafood feat that makes everyone's mouth water. Steamy shrimp, fried oysters, and lumpy crabcakes whose "one per person" rule would test a saint's willpower. Marylanders are as proud about their crab and seafood as Carolinians are of their BBQ or Georgians of their fried chicken. The pride is well-deserved.

Eating seafood at Christmas surprised me the first time I ever encountered it. Being from the Deep South, I associated tinsel with casserole, Santa Claus with chicken and ham. But after having been a member of Mark's family for three holiday seasons, this tradition now feels just that: traditional. It simply wouldn't be a proper Virginia Christmas without shrimp.

Recently, I encountered an interview article of the ever-vivacious and cherry-lipped Taylor Swift in which she remarked that some of us love to give gifts and some of us love to receive gifts. I definitely fall into the former category. I honestly derive as much or possibly even more joy from selecting paper, ribbon, and trimmings than I do from unwrapping my own presents.

However, this year, I received an unexpected gift that upended my giving preference. On Christmas Eve, my iPhone pinged with a text message: a video file of my father reading The Night before Christmas. As a little girl, I would snuggle on my parents' bed with my sister (along with a stuffed animal and a kitten or two) to listen to him read the familiar poem. Even though my sister now has children of her own and I'm married and living hours away--when we're all together for the holiday, we still curl up like little girls, ready to be read to.

It's funny how something as simple as hearing your dad's voice can make you feel both gut-wrenchingly homesick and content to your very core.Such is the magic of the holidays, I suppose.

What are some of your favorite Christmas traditions?

How did you and yours celebrate? 

Do You Happy? Or Do You Merry?

The time of gift-giving and tinsel-decking is upon us.

The malls, outlets, and post office overflow with customers. A jazzy , forcibly jolly Christmas jingle plays everywhere you go--so that later, no matter how you may try to rid yourself of it, you find yourself "dashing through the snow" in 50 degree, Southern weather. Among all your other to-do's, your mind churns with your gift list and baking ideas... how to find time for it all? At the next check out line, your arms heavy with purchases and your wallet lighter than when you entered, you flippantly remake to the clerk:

"Happy Holidays."

You can hear onlookers' mental tires screech as they register your words. And so ensues the great debate: to happy or to merry? That is the question.

 In a moment of unthinking holiday cheer, you wish your fellow human a happy holiday season, only to have the manner in which you wished come under close scrutiny. Did you say Happy Holidays? Well, surely you are an atheist attempting to spread your atheism by word alone. How dare you not say Merry Christmas! After all, isn't Jesus the reason for the season? Yet, conversely, if you say Merry Christmas, some view you as a Bible-thumping fanatic ready to bop someone over the head with said tome.

So, I asked myself...Which way do I typically wish people a happy holiday season? And why do I say what I say?

The answer: I use both expressions.

Why?

In my opinion, the two are somewhat interchangeable with "Happy Holidays" being a more general expression encompassing the entire holiday season from Thanksgiving to Hanukkah to Christmas to New Years Day.  On the other hand, as a professional in the education industry, I also feel compelled to acknowledge the varied holidays my students and coworkers may be celebrating. Therefore, I often say "Happy Holidays" as an encompassing, general expression.

As a Christian, I do celebrate and love the Christmas holiday. Therefore, yes, I'm also going to wish others a Merry Christmas--both as a sincere wish that they as Christians too have a happy Christmas but also just out of sheer joy for the holiday commemorating the birth of my Savior, a joy I wish to spread with anyone regardless of their religious affiliation. (Even though, historically, it's unlikely that He was born on December 25th.) I would never be offended if someone wished me a Happy Hanukkah, even though I do not celebrate Hanukkah. I can still appreciate that that holiday is just that, a holy day, to those celebrating it. Who am I to sneer at their kind expression or belittle their belief? I hope that I would not offend another by belittling their holiday just as I would prefer to not have my holiday belittled. Expressions of kindness and happiness occur rarely in this world. In my opinions, the holidays remind people to do just that: share a little bit of their own joy with others.

While I'm sure that this explanation will seem insufficient to some people, it captures my reasoning for why I both Happy and Merry my fellows.

So which expression do you typically use? And why? Leave a message in the comments-I would love to know!

The Unsung Strengths

These days, a trend seems to have cropped up on the world wide web. A trend of self-bolstering, self-praise, and shoulder-straightening. It demands that people stop criticizing themselves, accept their flaws as beauty, and stop apologizing. With a hair-flick and a cocked eyebrow, it says things like #sorrynotsorry, #shinestrong, and #youareenough. These bicep-flexing blurbs seek to empower and embolden women in particular and fly in the face of our bizarre, perfection-driven society. After all, haven't we all had enough of a world that praises thigh gaps, labels curves as fat, and ridicules the soft mother figure?

Yet, at the same time,there's something about these advertisements and trends that gives me pause. For a while, I couldn't put my finger on what bothered me, but I gave it some thought today and realized what it is that makes my brow furrow every time I read or watch one of these seemingly-inspirational posts. My older sister, a working mother of two smiley, blonde-headed boys, helped me come to this realization.

In response to the "love your stretch marks" and "love your body" challenges circulating social media, my sister did the online equivalent of sighing and throwing up her hands in exasperation. While acknowledging that these challenges and calls-to-arms perform a good deed by empowering and praising motherhood, my sister dared to say something different. She put her hands on her hips and said "You know what, I don't like my stretch marks." When I first read her social media declaration, I thought "oh no! love yourself! you're beautiful and perfect!" Like I was some do-good fairy swooping from the sky to sprinkle her with magical strength-and-beauty dust. But then, I read on.

While acknowledging that she didn't like her post-baby figure, she made a very important and valid point: a woman is allowed to make judgments about her own body and, if she wants, take steps to change what she sees. Yes, disliking or unhealthily criticizing yourself is never a good thing. Looking down on yourself, on your story and identity, is never healthy. But self-criticism has its benefits. If you don't like what you see, change it! Your body is exactly that: yours. Dare I say it-- you don't have to love every aspect of it. Seeing room for improvement and taking strides to better yourself doesn't make you less of a woman. In fact, having the strength to say "I want to and will make a change" is perhaps even more empowering than the "embrace yourself for what you are right now" philosophies.

So, now I circle back to my original dilemma. To what was bothering me about these trending  posts, campaigns, and challenges.

It's not always healthy to praise your faults. Self-improvement is not an unworthy goal. Seeking to better yourself does not mean that you loathe yourself or are ashamed of your past. It's okay to look at yourself and think "this is not enough. I can do better." It's okay to strive for something beyond yourself, to reach out and upward.

Sometimes it's okay to say "I'm sorry." Sometimes, it's okay to be gentle and quiet. There's something to be said for humility and discretion: for the person who stoops to help, who puts others first, who is unassuming and unobserved. In our quest to better ourselves, we wouldn't want to forsake the unsung strengths--quietness, meekness, humility--for the sake of shouting our presence and worth from the rooftops.

While confidence and purpose are admirable and necessary, I hope I never become blind to my own need. It's through our lack that we learn and grow. Our need is what drives us to our knees, and there, in that exposed perspective, we receive a clearer vision. It's from our knees that we can be lifted up, whether it be through a God, a friend, a relative, or a stranger. But if we're always strong in ourselves, loving ourselves as we are, right now in this moment, we'll never be in that humbled, exposed place. We won't experience growth. More importantly, we won't experience one of the most intimate gestures of life: a hand held out.

In So Many Words 2.15

A kind and rather wise person once told me that our reactions say as much about our spirit as our actions do. We may strive to offer sweet words, well-meaning advice, a helping hand-- but the real test of the pith of our character is our reactions. When someone throws you an insult, slaps your ego right across its face, or steps on your toes, how you act in that moment says as much about you as anything else. And, let's be honest, stuff is going to make us so angry we could spit. We're wonderfully fallible and imperfect human beings, and anger is a healthy, normal emotion. But the manner in which we act upon that anger may not always be so healthy or gracious.

There have been so many times that I have reacted in anger--and tossed out some words as bitter and tasteless as vinegar. I've seen the pain on other people's faces because of those words. The bad thing about words: once they're free, there's no catching them again. There's just the hoping that you can repair them with  more words--butter-soft and sweet ones. And, when sometimes that doesn't work, we often find ourselves wishing we had swallowed the gall of our anger originally.

These thoughts have just weighed heavily on my mind lately: to learn to be good and kind even when doing that seems impossible or pointless. I don't know if that means anything to you, but it does to me.

Silence is Key

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Writing allows for catharsis. It gives us an opportunity to stand apart, to inspect our experiences and moments from an objective, third-party eye. Rather than just experiencing the moment with that visceral, first-hand, what-on-earth-is-going-on perspective, we get to ask questions: what circumstances led up to this moment? How did I react? Why did I react that way? What did I say, how did my expressions change? Did I gasp, start, raise my eyebrows? What was the angle of the sun-slant through the window? What shoes did I wear--why did I pick that pair? Was I sitting, legs-crossed, or standing, hands on my hips, mad and alert?

But why does writing down these seemingly meaningless details relieve the tension? How does recording the moment expunge it from our soul--if not completely erasing it, at least making it easier to bear?

Countless people journal, keep diaries, blog, write poetry, short stories, novels. Perhaps it is simply the mechanic motion of the pencil on paper, the rhythmic flow and scrape of the pen-point, or the ratta-tat of the keyboard, offering some soothing therapy. Yet I think the answer is something else: the key is in those questions. Writing gives us a chance to pick up a moment as if it were an object in the closet of our minds. Flip it around, turn it over, take the batteries out and peer at the insides--what's going on in there? We can break the moment down and recreate it again. And in the breaking down of the tiniest details--from the angle of the light to the lipstick you wore that day--we can find a tiny moment of meaning. The lighting can be a metaphor. Or the way you write a scene--adding imagery or dialogue--can connect your mind to your reader, drawing them into the moment. The moment, then, can be about truth and connection rather than just a confused jumble of firsthand emotion.

But then--here's the kicker.

Something happened--years ago--and you can't write about it. You've picked up your pen...more times than you can count. You close your eyes and pull the day back up to the light. And you start your work....you record--"once upon a time" "in the beginning there was." And then you stop. You realize you've got it all wrong. You know full and well that the event happened on a roasting summer day. You  distinctly remember wearing black and that dark shade being too oppressive for the heat raged that day. You remember sweating and the skin flaking on your shoulders later, burned from standing outside even for those scant minutes. Yet, as you sit and recall, you start to shiver, and you know, you know down to your core, that you were so cold that day. Why else would you remember goosebumps and shaking? How does that coincide with the truth--the August heat and sunburn.

My memory isn't flawed, in this instance. The real obstacle is this: I don't want to write about this experience. While I understand that writing provides an outlet, a release, and a way to take a bad experience and render it something good--a short story or poem capable of reaching out to another--I don't want to write  about that day. I don't want to write about the sun on my shoulders, the grass under my feet, the papers clenched in my fist, or the black sheath dress that I loved, but after that day, crumpled and threw away.

The simple truth is this: sometimes, writing isn't always the answer. Some things need to remain wrapped up and hidden. Not because I don't want to deal with them or because I can't handle them. But rather, because they are done and, now, should be left to lie undisturbed, at rest. Its just simply time to lay it down, turn away, and walk down the path laid out ahead.

And that, my friends, was a very hard lesson for the writer in me to learn.

Musings

A little thought for the day.

Lately, the awareness that some things are not worth carrying has become very acute. Some things just need to be set aside, or even tossed far, far away to a place where there are no fears of dust-gathering or unexpected toe-stubbing. Often,I feel that I've evolved, moved on past things--be they worries, fears, or grudges--only to realize I never cast the feeling aside at all. Sure, I might set it aside, but somehow its always close enough for me to be able to reach out and touch, reassuring myself that its still there, picking it back up again out of habit or familiarity.

Its so fearfully easy to become familiar, even relaxed with carrying a weight--small or large. Your body adapts to the presence, and before you know it, you're changing your center-of-gravity, your balance, your walk. Its not until you open your hand and let it go  that you even realize the weight itself, having mistaken it for your own self for so long.

But really-- life shouldn't be laden with things that don't matter.

Rather, I hope I can load my arms with the moments that truly matter: little or big. Little, like my husband's sudden, sweet kiss on my temple; or big, like witnessing my nephew's first days on this wide earth.

Some things are worth holding on to, while some things are not. I'm grateful for what I have learned about telling the difference and yet am daily humbled by how much I still need to learn.

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