she writes on sundays

To the tiny human makers

September 18th, 2016

To the tiny human makers,

My work wife and I had a rough week(s) and we were talking about so many things and being frustrated and lots of other toddler teacher life issues. And at the end of the conversation it boiled down to this.

We (I) love your tiny human.

I’ve held a lot of jobs in the tiny human field over the past 10 years. I’ve been: a Sunday school teacher, day camp counselor, camp counselor, preschool teacher, preschool coordinator for a church, toddler care coordinator for a non-profit, bible story lady, babysitter, VBS coordinator, “the kid person” on mission trips. I’ve written curriculum for programs and laughed and cried with babies to high schoolers on five continents. I’ve been “miss Meghan” “miss Meg” “Maggie” “MEG” and “Sox” or “Junapera”. And now, of course, for the last 15 months or so I’ve been “Teacher Meg” (or TEACHER MEEEEEEEGGGG) adding lead toddler teacher to my list of tiny human jobs.

I have the faces of hundreds of kids run through my mind of different nationalities, ages, fatherless, motherless, homeless, dual job families, families with stay at home moms, or Grandma’s.

I will not know where a majority end up in life, but every one of them are etched on my heart.

I currently work at a year-round full time early learning center. I have kids that I see 35-40 hrs a week. And above everything, all the things I need to do for them, my goal in each and everyday is to let them know they are loved.

I spend my day having little conversations here and there about mom and dad and grandma and grandpa and siblings.

Because I know how much you love your tiny human. I see it on your face at drop-off and pick-up, when you tell me how they slept or ask me the same. I see it when you get excited for Friday and spending time with them. Or when you tell me about their first steps or a new word they said.

So, during the day, while you are at work, I want you to know that I LOVE your tiny human. I’ll hold them when they are sad, make them laugh, I’ll help them get a nap. I’ll make sure they learn how to throw their food in the trash and not on the floor. And if they bite a friend I will give them words to say. (Same goes for tantrums, don’t worry, those don’t fly with teacher Meg).

And I don’t necessarily do all those things because it’s my job–I mean it is my job, but I do them because I love your tiny human. When they cry, real tears streaming down their cheeks, I hurt. When they finally do the thing, I get so excited for them (I’ve never been so excited about peeing in the potty in my life). When they laugh and say “I love you teacher Meg”, I melt.

I will love your tiny human, knowing that my presence in their life is a passing moment.

But they will forever be a tiny (or maybe medium-sized) human in my life.

Some of these kiddos I knew for a day, or a few weeks or maybe years. And as I said, I don’t know what happened to most of them, or where they are at now. Like the little girl in my JK class who I worked with on letters and numbers one day a week for four months at her house after school. Or the little boy at day camp that we called ninja and all fell in love with. Or Nay in Cambodia, the girls at the academy in South Africa, or any and every smiling face I met at royal family.

I’m grateful for social media and the ability to watch some of these kids grow up. Like I know that when he graduates high school I will be there to watch Nicky B walk (or probably do the robot or something amazing) across the stage and I’ll drink a glass of wine with his mom Rachel because she was and is one of my mom role models. I’ll be amazed for every year older Eric and Cathy’s boys get and be thankful for every moment on their couches. And I will treasure every smile of that tribe of kids from Rock Harbor that were in my three day class together. And of course, a certain then five year old boy who would say “hey good lookin’” to me (he’ll be president some day). Not to mention the all grown up day campers who are off to college.

I’ll support those kids from afar in their adventures like their families supported me. I’ll cheer them on every chance I get. Even when they don’t remember that I was their teacher or their counselor or that crazy lady with the Afro.

I will always love those tiny humans.

I don’t know how long I will be in the tiny human game, or if I will have tiny humans of my own, but for now, each day I will love your tiny human with my whole heart. I will impart to them words of kindness and life and thankfulness. I will encourage them to do good and make choices that honor who they are.

And a note to the families of the tiny humans that aren’t so tiny anymore: know that I still love your kids and you with so much in me. I get so excited hearing of the accomplishments and victories in their lives. I’m grateful to have been a small part of your lives and know that you were/are a big part of mine.

And know this, if your child is in daycare, or preschool know and have the knowledge that they are loved a lot.

With love always,

Meg
the long game

September 3rd, 2016

I am 31 and have no damn clue what I want to be when I grow up.(And I’ve also discovered I’m way too much of an NF to figure out a tangible life job.)

I’ve been in the early childhood world for about ten years and I’ve acquired so many different skills like the ability to communicate with parents and educators, the ability to be have immense amounts of patience. My leadership style has grown and changed. My capability to read a room helped me as the bible teacher at RFKC.

And obviously I now have the ability to put 14 one year olds to sleep in under thirty minutes ( RIP teacher Meg and teacher Victoria nap time show).

But, that’s not what I want to be when I grow up. I’m thankful for the jobs I have held, and currently have that have caused me to grow and change as a person, but I’m not sure where this all leads me.

Last week, while curled up on my friend Tiffany’s couch, she asked me what the dream job was.
Ha.

Can I get paid for writing and sitting and listening to people and then telling them their potential?

Because, one of the other skills that I’ve realized I hold is seeing who someone actually is even when they don’t see it. Adults, teenagers and of course, the tiny humans.

(Though most of the time it comes out in the form of “man up or shut up” or reciting the “but was he a man?” dialogue from the mindy project )

Rewind to the past few months in the two year old room.

Two year olds mean business. And I have a few that are more than a handful.

I was on the phone with a parent a couple weeks ago telling her about something her tiny human did that day that caused teacher Meg to have a heart attack and she began apologizing for the fact that her tiny human is a handful and is always the one to be the first to test the boundaries.

I stopped her apologizing as quickly as it began.

I could easily see her becoming defeated, so, I said that said tiny human wasn’t a handful (and I will never confirm or deny if this is true), but to think about how when the tiny human is older, they will be able to take risks, and push the boundaries.

She responded that I was thinking positive.

But I mean, what would happen if we looked at tiny humans like that? Saw the things that may look like not great life choices and find ways to turn them positive and frame them in that way. What would happened even if we looked at teenagers, adults like that? What would that change?

I’ve been watching a lot of Girl Meets World lately. (Sidenote if you are caught up PLEASE CALL ME BECAUSE I HAVE FEELINGS).

On GMW they have a lot of lessons and life wisdom and warm fuzzies and a handful of mentions of the “long game”. The long game is just how it sounds. Being in it not for the immediate results but for what will happen at the end.
I have kids that I had in day camp that are out of college. I have preschoolers that are in junior high and high school. You don’t work in early education for the short game. Sometimes you get those immediate gratifying moments. But for the most part, you have to just know that at the foundation you are and were apart of that tiny humans life. I may never know what happened with them, but I will know that I will live in a little piece of their present in the future.

I want to live whatever I am doing in the long game. Be it working with tiny humans, or writing or sitting across from people or being in leadership or maybe one day being a wife and a mom.

Living in the long game is being present with who you are today knowing that it will be apart of who you are tomorrow. Living in the long game is taking care of yourself and your heart and soul and being so that ten years from now when something comes into your being you are prepared for it.

I’m 31 and I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

But I’m choosing (attempting) to be present and honest and living with my whole heart. Because it’s for today, tomorrow, next week and next year. It’s for Bellingham now. It’s for Bellingham later and wherever else I find myself. I’m choosing to live my life using the pieces of life I’m given and wrapping them into gifts I can give.

I’m living in the long game.
even living wholeheartedly takes margaritas.

August 16th, 2016

I want to post so many disclaimers on this blog. I want you to know that I am not tooting my own horn or think in any way shape or form I have it all together. I do want you to know that I am writing the following blog because I’ve realized in the midst of all the things that have felt hard lately, amidst all of the things that have felt hopeless or tiring or have caused me to want to pack up and flee Washington—I have come to realize something:

I am MORE than ok.

I believe for the first time in my life, with some bumps along the way, that I am living wholeheartedly.

“Wholehearted living is about engaging in our lives from a place of worthiness. It means cultivating the courage, compassion, and connection to wake up in the morning and think, No matter what gets done and how much is left undone, I am enough. It’s going to bed at night thinking, Yes I am imperfect and vulnerable and sometimes afraid but that doesn’t change the truth that I am worthy of love and belonging.” (Brene Brown)

I’ve had more times than I’d like to admit over the last year where I haven’t felt enough or worthy or wanted. More times that I’ve wanted to duck out or move or be alone (because good lord COMMUNITY).

Here’s the thing. I haven’t. Yes, once or twice I have ducked out because I needed a break from groups or couples or humans in general. But I used to go to sleep paralyzed with anxiety nightly second guessing everything I did or said. I used to wake up every morning with that same anxiety.

It doesn’t riddle my bones anymore.

There have been seasons where exhaustion and stress have allowed those things to creep in. But, I’ve realized over the past month that right now, in this time of my life, the only person I really have to be enough for is me.

And I think I am.

I was talking to my mom a couple weeks ago, reiterating a conversation I had with my friend Casey, about how it boggles my mind that people want to be my friend, or that I am someone people want around. I don’t say this to belittle myself in the least. I say it because I spent a lot of my life being quiet and shy and sitting alone. I never thought I was capable of making friends. Or that I was capable of being the outgoing one.

It’s not about being those things. It’s about being yourself. And for the first time in my life, I feel I am being myself. Not second guessing (98% of the time), choosing daily many things, not diminishing who I am in any sense. And that changes things.

Growing up we are told to be a good student, a good athlete, a good citizen, a good daughter. We are given parameters on what makes a good human.

But what about what makes a good you?

What if we all chose to, instead of living up to standards of enough-ness, chose to figure out who we were, piece by piece and be those things?

I don’t know all of who I am yet. But I do know a lot for 31.

I’m choosing to believe that I am enough for each day, even though some days I need to cry and battle that truth out with myself or with a sacred circle.

I’m choosing to go into each day and season with the thought that my enough for myself will change and grow.

But, I am also choosing to know it will only be defined by myself and lifted up with kind words from friends and maybe even sometimes tough love from those I trust.

I am choosing to go to bed every night knowing that I did the damn thing, and if I need to change something I will. Even if kids cry and transitions go to chaos and I feel as if I did nothing right, as long as I showed up and put my heart and mind into the day, I am enough and tomorrow is a new day.

I am choosing to live wholeheartedly, knowing that sometimes, it will need a margarita.

So here is my question to you–who are you being enough for?
When it’s not just a TV show

July 24th, 2016

Dear Julie Plec & CO,

In September of 2009 I had been on antidepressants for a little bit under a year, both of my parents had, had stints in the ICU and basically I just needed more joy in my life. I needed something that was mine.

I didn’t have a lot that was mine.

So, I settled for something that was “mine” on the DVR queue at my apartment that I shared with three other women. I saw a show that was starting in the fall and I decided to make it my thing.

That thing, was the vampire diaries.

At first, I was just a regular tv watcher. I would watch it every Friday after I got off work in the solitude of my apartment. And then I remembered Television Without Pity and recaps and found CIndy McLennan’s writing which took me to Twitter and I found myself apart of a fandom that was lead by the writing voices of Price Peterson and Thomas Galvin, the ladies of TVDnews and the ones that created the Love You To Death companion and of course Zap2It and Carina Mackenzie.

And I found myself interacting and laughing in a span of time where I didn’t know how to do that in the actual world. It gave me human interaction in a time where any actual human interaction brought me to tears.

It healed parts of me.

It reminded me that I was funny. It reminded me that I had something to say. It was the beginning of a big part of my life which is story brings us together. Fiction or non fiction. Vampire or ER Doctor; story brings us together.

The mention of story brings me to the storytellers, the ones who wrote the story, the ones who brought the story to life through so many different venues backstage and the ones who acted out the story. As a writer, I know pieces of the story were born out of truth, heartache, hurt, laughter and joy. Pieces were born out of whimsy, fun and love for characters.

I have cried more over vampires then I ever want to admit.

I have laughed, I have “oh girl-ed’, I’ve fallen in love with the bad boy. I’ve thrown things at my TV.

I was sucked into your story.

And just like all those interactions I couldn’t have in real life at times, you guys gave me a space to have emotions I couldn’t have for myself, until I was able to once again have them.

You gave me space and a renewed creative drive to dive into story when I had lost faith in the world around me. You gave me space to put my foot down and make time for myself when it was the thing I was the worst at. You helped ground me after a year overseas when everything felt new and old and the same and different all at the same time.

Over and over again, the story of vampires found ways to heal me, to connect me, to spur on my own creativity and to be something that felt like it was mine.

So, I will raise a glass to season 8, the final season. To one more season of adventure and story and whimsy. To finding hope in the darkness and to being a bearer of light you didn’t know you had.

Thank you for all you have done and all of yourself you have given.

Always,

Meg
Lessons from a two year olds emotional vocabulary

July 17th, 2016

The week after I came home from camp was an emotional week, work was tough, personal life was tough and lonely and I really had no clue what to do or what I needed. Which, was of course, what everyone was asking me.
But I didn’t know how to ask for help, or what I was feeling or how I could feel better.

Last week, oddly enough, was also my one year of working at the Y. One year of working with the wacky group of humans I work with, and with the tiny humans I adore. And with all of my lack of emotional vocabulary last week, I thought of them and the fact that when they are frustrated, excited, impatient, or really, any emotion they can’t really do much about it but scream, yell, hit someone, bite someone or throw themselves on the ground and shut out the world.
Wouldn’t that be nice?

I spend most of my day saying, “I’m sorry you are feeling frustrated” or “do you see when you bite your friend it makes them sad? Can we try saying ‘more space please?’” Or of course watching a two year old throw a tantrum and saying “I see that you are angry, let’s move to the cozy corner so your body stays safe!”

I am trying to give these kids something to grab onto. My pet peeve quickly became hearing someone tell a child that they were “ok”. Because how would you like it if you were crying and sad and upset and someone came over an told you that you were ok? If you don’t have words to verbalize how you are feeling, then how in the world when someone know if they are ok.

And I also get it’s a fine line.

I am probably going to be one of the first to sit across from you and listen to what’s going on in your head and heart. And text you the next day. And help wheedle out the lies. But I am also probably going to be the first one to tell you to put on your big girl panties and dive head first into what’s going on. I can clearly see where you are and where you ACTUALLY are and I want to do everything in my power to get you there

And then of course, there is myself.

There was a moment, the Sunday after I got home from camp, that I sat in my room and silently sobbed. It wasn’t violent or painful–just exhausted and weary. And I didn’t know why. And that seemed to be my reprieve the rest of the week. Silent tears over many places of the week. Dealing with the anniversary of a death of a loved one, feeling gut wrenchingly lonely. Feeling completely and utterly unsuccessful at work. It all continued to pile on.

I wanted to run.

I had been too much before. Too sensitive. More trouble then good. Memories of losing friends over depression ran rampant in my head.

At some point between 2 years old and now,we’ve been told to limit ourselves because we might be too much.
And while, yes, we need to not thrust our emotions upon someone, we also need to learn how to land and identify them so they are no longer scary. There is a scene in the beginning of my favorite (not) guilty pleasure show where the main human character realizes that the new guy in town is actually a 140 year old vampire. And like most shows that deal with the supernatural; after the initial shock wears off, she (albeit probably stupidly) decides it doesn’t matter. Because once it is labeled it isn’t unknown anymore.

And that’s why I try to label things for my sweet kids. Because one day, they will be adults, sitting on the edge of their bed, crying and I want instilled in them from the beginning that they aren’t too much, that they can label how they feel and they can use it to better what’s in front of them.

I tell them so often to “give themselves space.” (And sometimes teacher Meg also gives herself some space) I want my kids to know that taking a breath is ok. That being sad, or mad, or frustrated is ok–we just need to be able to say that we are those things. Because if you don’t eventually being happy, excited or joyful, also won’t register. We have to take the bad with the good and the good with the bad. We can’t just label the joy and the happy and pretend that everything else is no man’s land.

I’d like to say that I waited to write this because I had an ephinany or I suddenly feel 100% better. But the reality is, I am still learning and grabbing onto things and putting my hair up in a bun and grabbing some lacroix and doing the damn thing daily.

Because I also want my kids to know that life doesn’t stop. There are still people you have to show up for in the midst of showing up for yourself.

Let’s do this folks. Let’s have a little more grace, space and verbage then we did last week. Let’s practice telling the two year olds in our lives that they aren’t too much.

Let’s remind ourselves we aren’t too much, even when all we want to do is bite a friend.
What’s your brave?

July 12th, 2016

I wrote this blog a year ago as a submission for an online community. Before I could get all the kinks worked out, the website stopped pubkishing. A couple nights ago, I couldn’t sleep so I was perusing through my email and found this tucked into the sent folder.

It’s still true today.

Apparently I’m brave. I don’t really get it.I’ve been thinking about the word brave so much these days because the word has been used by others to describe the changes and life moves I’ve made specifically over the last 4 years.

But what I’ve come to realize is we cannot measure someone else’s brave.

You can only measure your own.

To be brave is to be vulnerable. To put yourself out there in a way that causes you to give something or even lose something.

It could be physically putting yourself in a situation where you know that you could get hurt. That’s why we call firefighters and policemen brave. But would they consider themselves brave? To them I bet it’s the job, it’s what they do. It’s who they are. They wouldn’t do it if it wasn’t. Some people call missionaries to somewhat dangerous places brave, because they are inserting themselves into a potentially life threatening arena. But to them, it’s just what was inside. It’s not a complete stretch.

Over the last four years I have quit a steady job, gone on a mission trip around the world living out of a backpack, I’ve gone to an intense discipleship program in the south of Spain and then moved to a city I’d never been too, in a new state, into a house I didn’t see before I signed a lease.

So because of all of those things people call me brave.

I can look at that list and pick one, the discipleship program, that was brave. There were instances around the world I deemed brave, but for the most part none of it hit my brave meter. None of those things were outside of who I have found myself to be. To me, it was just my life, it was jumping to the next cliff, already knowing it was there.

Brave is jumping blind, because you know beyond a shadow of a doubt you are supposed to jump.

At the end of February 2009 I did what I deem potentially the bravest thing I have done to date: I stepped into therapy for the first time.

I was in the midst of a season of depression, loss, hurt and I just didn’t know what to do with my hands. So, after a lot of hemming and hawing I made an appointment.

I was absolutely terrified and emotionally wrecked before even stepping into the office.

Going to therapy was not fitting with who I was at the time, it was asking for help, it was claiming I was not the glue, it was putting myself in a place where I’d be symbolically stripped naked.

And I chose to do it.

The same with going to Spain in 2014, it was brave for me. It was something outside of what I felt capable of doing but I got on the plane anyway

I have my own barometer of what is brave. I know who I am, and what I can do, what I can’t do and what I should do but don’t want too and for me that last place is where my brave lies.

Sitting down with a father figure of mine for the first time was brave and sweat inducing, while standing up in front of 100 kids playing a bad guy was super easy.

We can’t define brave for someone else.

I know my brave and I want to challenge you to know yours and not be afraid to claim it as brave.

Feel no shame in calling yourself brave because it’s something beneath the surface.

What I am saying is that I want us be our own brave.
So, what’s yours?
To my Royal Family

July 3rd, 2016

To the fabulous people of the Newport Mesa Royal Family Kids Camp:

Female LIT counselor and our dean (AKA my OC mom)
I’m at my church in Washington right now, holding back tears.

I’m tired, emotionally exhausted, a little beat up-it goes without saying that my heart is broken.

It was a tough week up on the mountain. Every five minutes felt like a battle I wasn’t ready for, every word I said was rememebered, the good, the bad and the ugly. One of the purple people asked me at the church, after all the kids had gone, what my biggest challenge was during the week. I didn’t even have to think about the anwser.

One of the things you should know about me is that I have about ten years of early education under my belt. I never went to school for it, I’ve taken maybe 6 or 7 classes, so most of my knowledge is trial and error. Mainly error.

So when asked what my biggest challenge was–my response was easy. Seeing how the things I know of child development acted out to the extreme. Knowing that structure and rules= love. And knowing that those things will pushed at.

longest tuesday ever NBD
That they were pushed at–all week.

But you keep going. You stay. You remain. Then at the end of the week in the last five minutes the kid who deemed you “mean counselor meg who always says no” runs up to you to give you a hug.

my fellow world traveler
Camp is for the kids. That’s true. If it wasn’t for the kids-I probably wouldn’t do it. It wouldn’t be worth it. It certainly doesn’t always feel good, or make sense. But it’s for the kids so at the end of the day it does indeed make sense and is worth it.

But for me camp is also a family business. Coming to camp is coming home, coming to something that feels like the most wacky normal ever. Coming to camp is coming to family.

I was also asked by purple people why in the world I would fly from Washington.

It’s easy. This is the camp my family goes too. It’s my people. My home base.

family.
You guys inspire me. Year after year. I beam thinking about the amazing people that take a week out of their lives to be on a mountain, eating camp food and sleeping on duct tape for a chance to make a kid smile.

I’m grateful to be apart of your family.

Thanks for always welcoming me home.

With love,

Junapera aka mean counselor Meg.
(Special shout-outs to: Michele for my caboodle, Becca, Kim, Tyler and Priscilla for outfitting my room, Kinda for the same and also lanyards, Krystle for helping my dream of being a gospel back-up singer come a little more true, Casey for being Casey, everyone for never making fun of my makeup when I let the kids do my makeup, teen staff for being the best, Sue for regaling me with a story that made me almost fall to the ground in laughter and tears, Brooke for not judging my morning vocabulary, the ladies of Cedar for being the best, Lauren for being a kindred soul at camp, Ryan for not putting me in a headlock, Sarah for being the best surprise buddy a girl could have and for riding the struggle bus, airplane and coaster with me and of course to my second family the Choi’s for letting me out of dog sitting 7 years ago so I could come to camp.)
a thankful thirty

May 24th, 2016

I have been sitting in front of my computer for a a couple days trying to explain what thirty has been. I turn 31 on June 1 and as per my writing tradition I’m looking back on thirty and seeing what’s up.

This is the first year since I was 26 that I spent 90% of my year in one place.

I haven’t stayed for a long time.

And that’s what 30 was about really.

30 was about staying.

And good lord, it’s been difficult.

And that’s what I was going to write about.

But here’s the thing: when I focus my topic on that–it’s what I am going to see. So instead: here is a list of 30 things I am grateful for in thirty. Serious, lovely, funny, food based. And of course, in categories.

Days of the week:

{all these days of the week activities don’t happen every week, but they happen enough with people I adore, to remind me that I live a very full life}

1. Dawson’s Monday’s

2. Red light Tuesday’s

3. Woods Wednesday’s

4. Happy hour Thursday

5. Beer Friday

6. Mimosa Saturday

7. Brunch Sunday

Daily gratitude:

{a mishmash of three things}

8. LaCroix (hydration obsession)

9. Washer/dryer (adulting)

10. My long hair (self-control to not chop my hair)

Places:

11. Orange County (always in my heart)

12. Bellingham (a whimsy, weird town full of wacky)

13. The Liberty house (a place of comfort and piece)

14. The table (a place to land)

15. My own room (the first since I was 18)

16. The yellow house (home)

Words:

17. Group text (hometeam, pegarina, triumvirate, PNW birds, three wines, “but the children love the books”, sister tables, the choi’s)

18. IMsg/what’s app (ways to connect with: India, Memphis, Mijas, Oxford, Jacksonville, Nashville, Atlanta, Kingsburg and everywhere in between)

19. Email (wisdom, sanity, challenge, joy)

20. Snail mail (thoughtfulness)

People:

21. My parents (belief, trust, love)

22. Jess (always)

23. Melissa (truth, growth, change, sarcasm, real)

24. Royal family (safety, belief, family)

25. The Y (laughter, growth, trust, blessing)

26. Tribe (near, far, never met, known my whole life, spent five minutes with, likeminded, HA)

27 Abundant Life (blessing, growth, challenge, laughter, home, me)

28. bellingfamily (who would have thought: my people)

29. PReed ( singing in the car to that one tow’rs song, yelling, dreaming, dancing in the hallway. Love. Chick emoji.)

And what is #30?

Both/And.

I’m grateful for this year, because it has caused me, pushed me, challenged me, aggravated me, to live in tension. To live in the black and white.

To live in a world of both/and.

So, thank you thirty, for your difficulties. Thank you for making me step out in ways I thought I couldn’t, for not scolding me when I didn’t.

Thank you for beer and friends and tiny humans and coworkers for bringing me sanity.

Thank you for being a year where I was placed in a place that I was cared about in before I was even known.

Thank you for knowing better then I did sometimes that I would stay where my feet are.

Thank you for prayers and prophecy and a culture that makes that daily practice.

Thank you for tables, this yellow house and people who know who I am when I don’t.

Thank you, thirty, for bringing me to Bellingham, even when I have kicked and screamed.

Here’s to 31.

I’ll have more eloquent words for you. But for now: see ya in a week.
I don’t like to be lost (a short story)

May 16th, 2016

(When I can’t write, when I can’t make sense of what is going on in my head- I have found that something that helps me is to make it up. To write fiction and see what truth comes out. It’s been a while, but here is a short story that showed up as I let the story come out.)

I like to adventure. To explore.

I like to know exactly where I am going.

I’m good with directions and with knowing which way is north.

I don’t like to be lost.

It was a Saturday. I woke up, made my coffee and stared at the mountains behind my house. They were mountains I climbed on a regular basis, normally by myself, with a fully charged cellphone and trail maps in the back seat of my car.
I don’t like to be lost.

It had been an emotionally charged week. I had a mishap on a project at work, I’d burned my hand, ran out of gas…

Oh yah, and my boyfriend of two years had broken up with me.

And by broken up with me, I mean I ran into him and his other girlfriend at a restaurant.

I ran out of the restaurant before he could say a word.

I don’t like to be lost.

So I packed some snacks, checked the weather, made sure my phone was charged and clicked my dishwasher on before I walked outside to drive up to a familiar place that I had been going to since I was 16.

The drive took the same amount of time that it always does. I parked in the same spot I always do. Threw on my backpack, locked my car and trudged down the same trail.

I knew the map, and the phone and the trail guides were nestled into my backpack, but I also knew I wouldn’t need them. I also knew they wouldn’t help me if I got lost.
I had a feeling the lost was coming. In this town I’d lived in all my life. In the job I’d been in for 12 years, with the friends I had, had since high school.
I’ve fought the lost off for a long time. By always being prepared. By never risking.

And it came anyway. And my maps, and plans and access to google wasn’t going to help it.

It took me thirty minutes to get the spot I always stopped at. To look at the view that felt like peace.

But I could still feel the lost coming.

I didn’t think the lost was possible here. I didn’t think that feeling of directionless was possible when you knew where you were going.

I knew where I was going. And it was still there.

I had a feeling it would still be there Monday, when I walked into work and Thursday when I went out for drinks and next Saturday when I stared at the mountains again.

I needed to make a decision. I needed to not be lost anymore.

My backpack buzzed.
I shoved my hand in the pocket to find my phone knowing that when I pulled it out it would be Declan calling. As he had been, everyday since Wednesday.

I couldn’t answer. I was letting the voicemails pile up.

They’d make me feel more lost.

Not just from him but from our mutual friends, from his sister.

Everyone trying to help me not feel lost.

But it was too late.

I put my backpack back on and retied my shoes to start the trek back to my car.

The tears were halfway down my face before I even realized I was crying.

I was lost.

Every plan, every hope, every dream, every vision I had ever had.

Gone.

A life that was so entwined, now was missing a piece.

And I was lost in the middle of my home.

And I wanted to run. To run fast. To end up somewhere where no one knew me.

To end up somewhere where lost wouldn’t feel so hard.

I’ve heard stories of people getting lost in the woods, or the country, or being in a foreign place and not knowing the language.

But this. Getting in lost when I was in the exact place I knew I was supposed to be?

This isn’t something you tell a story about.

I heard footsteps coming up the path towards me so I quickly wiped my eyes and prepared to give a smile and a wave as I crossed paths with whomever was in front of me.

The minute I was out of hearing, the tears started falling again.

I made it to my car without anyone seeing me and as I pulled out of the parking lot I had the urge to turn left instead of right.

All of my life I’ve always turned right. Whenever I have met a fork in the road, I choose the right path. The path that won’t cause me to get lost or lose my way.

But, maybe I needed it. Maybe I needed to live in the lost.

My autopilot found me in my driveway.

Home.

Lost.

My phone buzzed again. I knew it was him. I knew to get myself out of the lost I might need to get more lost.

I closed my eyes, took a deep breath and reached for my phone.

“Hey”.
Starting from scratch

May 8th, 2016

I met a magical whimsy unicorn in October of 2012.

Her name is Betsy Garmon. And she is absolutely wonderful. She’s one of those woman who makes the gritty look lovely. She turns the things that seem torn and broken in your life into art and hope and dreams.

last day of the world race in december 2013

I have learned and continue to learn so much from her. One of the life lessons I learned from her that keeps flashing in neon lights above my head these days is to hold space for myself.

I’ve been told on more then one occasion over the last few months to have grace for myself, to not be so hard on myself, to take care of myself.

If we want to discuss broken records in my life this is one of them.

Here’s what it is: I know how to do it. I do. I know how to live well.

I’m not sure though; if I know how to live intentionally.

A favorite quote of mine is by Mary Anne Radmacher. I saw the words for the first time summer after my junior year in college in a tourist shop in time square on a magnet. My choir was in New York to sing at Carnegie hall and it was my first technical week being the president of the choir. And I was terrified.

I remember reading those words and thinking how lovely they sounded before even knowing what lovely was. I truly believe I wanted to do those things but didn’t have the means to do them.

Now, I believe I have the means, but not the ability.

My whole self is tired these days. I could potentially state that this is the most tired I have ever consistently been in my life.
I’ve been trying to figure out why my receiver has been unable to receive lately. Well,more so than normal. It’s been a struggle. Nothing sticks. And I want them too, more than I can describe. I’ve searched for a reason my walls go up and I haven’t been able to find it.

But what I keep coming back to is eventually if I can’t find a way to hold space for myself how will I continue to do it for others?

We live in a weird world friends. A world that says to look out for yourself, but also tells us to cram as much as possible into our lives and to earn money so we can retire and do nothing. We live in a world that has for the most part lost the art of the kitchen table and breaking bread together.

And if we aren’t going to slow down to eat our food how are we going to slow down to sit in space with ourself? And we aren’t going to do that, then how are we going to live fully alive?
I know that I am not living fully alive these days. I can feel it in my bones. I’ve been a little terrified of the silence and of sitting with God and even sitting with some of my friends.

I don’t like feeling like I don’t have it all together for everyone.

And if I am being real and true, I don’t know if I know how to make these a daily practice.

I feel as if I am starting from scratch on the taking care of myself.

And that’s why I’ve wanted to say all these things I’ve said in the last few blogs I’ve written. The depression, the ugly, the hurt, the tired.

I’m coming to the realization that it’s ok to feel like I’ve already “done this”. Because I haven’t. It feels the same but it’s not.
I don’t have answers, I barely have words.

But I’m choosing to say the ones I have.

I’m choosing to do things that feel hard.

I’m choosing to sit in silence even when it drives me nuts.

I’m choosing my space.