On being vulnerable

Opening myself up to being seen.  Truly seen. 


I am fearful.  Fearful that you won't like me if you really knew me. That you would see something that would make you shun me. That even though I apologize or repent that you would abandon me.


I can tell I am afraid because as I lose more weight, the desire to hold onto my shield is strong.  My shield has protected me for a long time.  Most recently, the shield has gotten heavier.  The insulation, that layer of fat protecting my heart, has grown thicker in the last few weeks.  Why? I ask myself.


Is it a comfort?  Not really. 


My integrity is out. I promised my brother that I would handle the paperwork surrounding my mother's death in a timely manner.  Yet each time I approach the pile, I find that cleaning the bathroom, shoveling the snow off the sidewalk, or organizing a holiday cookie drive is more attractive than keeping my word.  Then before I know it, the sun has gone down, it's time to make dinner, eat, clean, spend time with my man, get ready for bed and sleep.  Blessed sleep.


Finally I can avoid the office no longer. I venture in to get an envelope. A lilting pile of paperwork and unopened mail catches my eye. A heavy sigh escapes and deep sense of sadness pervades. I am unable to approach it. I see it, promise myself that I will do it today, this weekend, this month! 


Pride stands in the way. I can do it! I am strong! I said I would do it!  "My brother already has a bad opinion of me.  This will just make it worse!", I grumble.  Guilt and a sense of failure I wear like a cloak.  The pounds creep up and my sense of failure weighs heavily.  I am now convinced that each pound gained is physical proof that I am a failure.


"Enough!", I cry! 

"Call your brother and tell him you cannot do it!  You simply are not ready to deal with your mother's death.  You do not need to be superwoman!", a friend lovingly coaches.


I find the courage and call. As the phone rings, my mind swirls with fear.  Will he be upset that I have saddled him with the burden? Will he think less of me?  Will this be the thing that widens the chasm our relationship? 


He answers. Tears stream down my face and I struggle to speak. "Hi, it's me. I just wanted to let you know that I have been unable to do Mom's paperwork.  I know I can, but I am not.  Each time I try -- it will be days or weeks later and still not done. I do not want to disappoint you, but I promised to have it done."  "Just put it together in an envelope and mail it.  Don't worry, I'll take care of it.", he says.  His voice is sweet.  My dear brother.  The one I love so much and yet am so far from. 


It's been a month since that conversation and just today I asked my husband to sit with me.  To keep me company and ensure that I did not step away this time.  With his patience, I managed to put relevant sticky notes on the paperwork, make copies of letters, and label the envelope.


A weight has been lifted.
Tomorrow, I drive to the post office!

Hello Desire/Goodbye Guilt

Just found out in Bible Study that Eve was created last because something was missing.  God created woman in his own image. Woman was created because there was a finishing touch missing in God's creation.  Say what?


We are the cherry on the sundae of life.  How sweet!  


Also read that all of our desires were placed in us. Yes! Our desires. All of them. The desire to be beautiful, appreciated, special, adored, and loved. Loved most of all. 


God put desires in me? There are so many desires in me -- it was a relief to read that having desires was not a bad thing. Not a bad thing, but natural and God given. No more fear that I would be damned if I desired money, beauty, or a man.  That it would actually be odd if I did not have desires.


Definition of the word desire...

de·sire  transitive verb

1: to long or hope for : exhibit or feel desire for <desire success>

2 a : to express a wish for : request desire an immediate answer>

   b archaic : to express a wish to : ask

I desire many things -- health, weight loss, continued love/romance with my husband, financial abundance, making a difference for all, fame, respect, success, to love and be loved.

  

Do I believe God personally desires financial freedom?  No.  Don't think he personally needs money.  But I do believe that he needs money for others.  

Do I think that God desires to lose a few pounds? No. But I believe that he desires health and well being for all of us.

Do I think that God desires fame? No. But I do believe that he desires to be known.

Do I think that God desires to be loved? Yes. Resoundingly so. Absolutely. Without a doubt.

What a relief to be created because the picture wasn't complete without me.  To be created with desires just as God has desires.  A sense of calm and rightness has descended upon me.

Finding myself created as a woman.  A luscious woman of substance.  Freedom to be a woman who desires.  How fun is that?

Words

Words are very powerful tools to have in your toolbox.  Knowing what the words mean is vital as well.  Interpreting the words once combined into a sentence is a talent.  Spelling a word correctly is mandatory. Punctuation is a critical aspect as well.


"Why?" you ask?


Primarily because it shows a level of intelligence and thoughtfulness.  A well written sentence that can be easily understood and not mis-interpreted is like winning the Academy Awards of communication.  


Some people are natural born Oscar winners in the writing department.  Others?  Well do we even know of their work or character?  I do not speak of pulitzer prize winners or Nora Roberts, I speak of the everyday writer.


No.  We, ever so slightly, dismiss them as being inferior.  While it is a subtle distinction, don't we automatically think someone is less intelligent for spelling a relatively simple word wrong?  Either that or that they are lazy. That subtle distinction could mean getting or not getting a job.  A simple typo can ruin an otherwise inspiring sentence.  It detracts from the message.  A well written sentence can lay the groundwork for whether a book becomes a best seller, a letter to your Aunt is enjoyed, or your cover letter gets you an interview.


Spelling a word correctly, using it appropriately in a sentence, punctuating for clarification requires a level of integrity.  That integrity shows a level of character that I believe is desirable.  That integrity quietly tells people that you pay attention to detail, are educated, and that you care.


Amazing how powerful a word can be. 

Paul Bunyan, broken furniture, and bowling

Filed a claim for broken items from our recent move today.  What a pain the  _ss!  Eleven items either damaged or broken.  Three large pieces of furniture -- our armoire, an upholstered living room chair, and a sofa table are broken.  I'm talking large pieces of solid wood furniture.  What do they do to your furniture when you move?


Well the mysterious brutes who moved our furniture must have flung the pieces across the truck. The armoire, no little dainty piece of fluff, has two legs broken, the bottom caved in, and gouges across the front. The living room chair's right rear leg looks like Paul Bunyan picked it up by one leg, went to move it and the leg snapped off. Jagged pieces of wood protrude from the bottom like broken saber tooth tiger fangs. The poor sofa table is just broken. When Paul moved the chair he must have dropped it on the table and snapped off the left wing.


While the armoire slid across the truck floor, it banged up against the sewing machine and miraculously did not dent the case but broke the accessory holder inside.  Cracked pieces greeted me when I went to set it up. After it ricocheted off the sewing machine it hit the box of kitchen dishes and broke two glasses (actually that occurs as a miracle that only two glasses were broken).


Then as the armoire continued to slide to the rear of the truck it caught on the bed rails and rubbed the finish off and managed to gouge the wood. Finally it settled at the back of the truck where it nestled up against another box hugging it so tightly that the lamp and birdhouse that were inside were broken.


Those mischievous brutes must have had fun pretending to bowl with our furniture.  


Now we get to fill out paperwork to prove when we bought it, how much we paid for it, how much it would take to repair it (ha!) and how much it would cost to replace it. So fun. I didn't know that when I bought furniture years ago I should have kept the receipts for years -- just in case one day some large insensitive person would break my stuff and I'd have to prove that it wasn't broken when they picked it up.


I thought (silly me) that they would treat my stuff like it was their own. Oh... maybe they did!

Trust

They say that God does not give you more than you can handle. Well I must be one heck of a handler.  

We own two houses! Investors and landlords we did not set out to be.  Yet here we are living in Washington with two houses in Colorado.  One is rented and one is not. We would love to sell the house that my husband inherited from his divorce.  It's been for sale since January. It's now October! The question of the hour is not if it will sell but WHEN.

There is so much more we could be doing with our money than pay two mortgages.  Especially when we are paying for a house that we do not desire to own or live in.  Thoughts that flit through my mind are those that fantasize about paying off our debt.  Paying our two credits cards off, repaying loans to family/friends, getting the car a tune-up, new brakes, new tires, helping our children, and saving for the future.  We were so close.  So close to selling the house at the end of this month and then beginning our plan to become debt free.

I trust that all things happen for a reason and that sometimes we do not know what those reasons are.  Sometimes we won't find out for years.  Other times the purpose is immediately clear.  This is one of those times when it is not clear. 

What is the lesson to learn? 

Patience?  Trust?

I've been patient.  Knowing that at some point it will sell.  Sell to the right family for the right price and at the right time.

Then it must be trust.  Trust that God will not give me more than I can handle.  Trust that the consequences of not selling at this time will not cause undue distress or catastrophe in the other parts of my life.  Trust that there is a lesson for me to learn.  Trust that I am not alone.  Trust that I have a partner.  Trust that it will all work out. Trust that these fearful feelings will disappear. Trust that the tightness in my throat will go away. Trust that I can pay all of our bills this month.  Trust that my desire to eat away the problem is not the answer. Trust that this will end because I believe that God watches over me.

Ultimately, I don't know what the lesson is.  What I do know is that I will do my best.  The consequences I can accept especially since I have done my best.  That includes trusting the delay and the outcome.  All is well.

Muzak of my mind

Today I realized that I have been hiding out.  While busy, productive, and involved in some areas of my life (playing house, Church, bible study, water aerobics, and seeking employment), in other areas, I lurk behind the curtains and peek through the holes.

For example, today I logged onto Facebook (as I do most days). Diligently reading what everyone has written since the last time I was on.  I smile at their postings, cry when they struggle, am proud of their accomplishments, and always look at their photos. Sometimes I'll even offer words of encouragement.  Then it dawned on me. It's all one sided. I am spying on them. I am a voyeur!

In clinical psychology, voyeurism is the sexual interest in or practice of spying on people engaged in intimate behaviors, such as undressing, sexual activity, or other activity usually considered to be of a private nature.  In popular imagination the term is used in a more general sense to refer to someone who habitually observes others without their knowledge, with no necessary implication of sexual interest. 

Well I certainly am not checking people out in Facebook for sexual reasons.  However, because no one knows whether I've checked or not, it feels like I am spying/observing on their lives without their knowledge.  

Why don't I share more about myself? The root cause is one of my old demons -- self esteem.

No one is interested in hearing what I have to say or what is going on in my life.  Which is total bullshit.  Yet the evil voice in my head runs the story on an endless loop.  It's so subtle and pervasive that I don't even hear it. The muzak of my mind.  ACK!

So I posted on Facebook that I had this realization.  I shared what my plans were for the day.  Friends came out of the woodwork and said hello, encouraged me, told me they missed me, and, in general, lifted me up. They noticed I had lost weight.  That I looked good. They showed their love for me -- all because I shared a small part of myself.

Time to record a new sound track for my life.  Time to share and spread the love.

Grieving - a wierd adventure

Tears are coming out of nowhere. A sadness permeates my entire body.  My eyes hurt.  Each limb feels heavy. The filter on my emotions has a hole in it.


Having the last parent die is different than the first parent dying. Each death is a different experience.  True. Thinking that you will grieve the same -- big mistake.


Now in my family I have a reputation.  You know the kind of reputation that follows you to your grave.  I am known as the family crier.  According to my family all the tears came to me. "Well you know you DO cry alot." "You cry at everything, Renee." "You've always cried alot, this is no different."


But it is different. Different from my perspective. My Mom died. The person I've known longer than any other is gone. Not available anymore.  


She and I had an interesting relationship.  The roles reversed.  I took care of her as if she were my child.  Granted a grown child with a mind of her own who resented being treated as if she had no freedom of choice.  She had freedom and chose not to exercise it. She relinquished it to me.  Then she relinquished it to God.  Now, she's truly free.


So I cry.  I gasp for breathe I cry so hard. The snot comes dripping out of my nose.  Between the tears and the snot, I soak tissues.  I cry for her.  I cry for all the things that she might do differently. For all the missed opportunities for her, for me, for others.


I cry for all that she accomplished.  I cry for her children, grandchildren, and friends.


Do people think has because I cry more than they do that the tears are fake?  Or that they don't mean anything?  Or that I am not hurting?  Do I need to stop expressing myself naturally in order for others to see that there is pain, upset, compassion?


One time my Mom said to me, "Well Renee, it doesn't seem like you are upset because you aren't crying."  I thought about that for a moment.  Realized that if I did not cry she did not take what I was saying as real.  I then verbalized the exact same statement but with gulps and tears.  "Bitch!", she spat.  


I laughed and said "Mom, it seems like if I don't cry you don't think I mean it."  


So I cry so people will know that I mean it.

On being in Spokane

Well it'll be a month tomorrow since we moved from Denver to Spokane. Much has happened in the interim. It is beautiful here. Big open blue sky that goes for miles and miles. No mountains breaking up the horizon. Spokane's sky occurs as vast and endless. The weather has been ideal. Hot, but not too hot. Cool in the mornings. Perfect 70s in the evenings. Two cloudy days which disappeared by noon.

Fairchild AFB has been here for awhile. Huge trees line the roads, well manicured lawns and open spaces. Everything is taken care of and clean. Our home on base has been remodeled. We are one of the lucky families. Our two bedroom has new hardwood floors in the main areas, new carpet in the bedrooms, and new tile in the kitchen and bath. All new appliances. A full basement. One car garage. Central air. Covered patio in back. I am present to how blessed we are. Stacy and I created our next home in our minds...

Ranch style, open floor plan with at least two bedrooms (1 for us and 1 for an office), room to store our things (full basement), hardwood floors, small backyard to relax in with minimal grass for the dogs to enjoy, and newer interior. Simpler, cleaner, less maintenance!

God provided exactly what we asked for and more. We knew that in military housing that privacy was at a minimum. Our home is at the end of the block (on a corner) that backs up to a park. My view out the office window is of a jungle gym (rarely used), green grass expanse, large column poplars, with maples in the distance, the perimeter road with green expanse after that. Beautiful.

My honey and I have been slowly unpacking boxes, getting rooms organized, and choosing which wall to hang things on. Some people call it nesting. When we got married, Stacy moved into my home. Now we have our home. While we will be in this particular house for only a year, it has been fun exploring our preferences together.

Finding out that he REALLY doesn't like my copper whale (which also happens to be one of my favorite pieces). It's been educational watching him test the waters with what he can say, how he can say it, and not hurt my feelings. It's almost like he's never had the freedom of spoken opinion before. I enjoy providing him a safe space to be him. Express his feelings and preferences. What works for both of us. (We found a spot for the whale that pleases both of us. Yeah us!)

Our home is coming together. Seemingly small things like, where to put the towels, which drawer will hold the silverware, cereal top shelf or bottom, curtains or blinds, oatmeal or eggs for breakfast. A myriad of small choices that comprise this life we have. Choices we make together that strengthen our bond. Each choice a thread. I just got present to that I am creating the equivalent of a 600 thread count sheet. Soft, strong, and comforting.

I love this life that I have. Thank you God for bringing Stacy to me, having him choose me, being all that I desire and need -- strong, compassionate, loyal, funny. Being loved unconditionally is such a delicious treat. Being trusted with his heart is a task that I treasure. I am honored to be his wife and his partner.

Mom died...

Anneliese Emma Pfeifer Miner died on August 1, 2010.

She's my Mom. She is still my Mom. Clearly it was her time and for her quick release from this world, I am grateful. Thank you God. I prayed that there was no fear and that all those things people say (from near death experiences) are true.

That Dad, Oma, Opa, Uncle Sylvan, Aunt Ilse, Pete, Stefan, Brandy, Uncle Bob, Aunt Edith, other countless friends and relatives were there welcoming her. That she wasn't afraid. I pray that she smiled at the end. That wonderful memories rushed past her, love surrounded her, and that she felt peace.

At 83 it would seem she had a good long life. She certainly lived longer than anyone expected. After a near death experience in 2003 -- each day was a gift. I was privileged enough to have her live with me. Not that each moment was treasured -- but I would not trade any of them. The time I had with my Mom was precious. I actually got to know her. Her true self -- not the made up stories of who we think our parents are. Small conversations caught between loads of laundry. Her outlook on life. Snips of stories of life during the war. Glimpses of my grandparents. Conversations that have been passed down generation to generation. Pictures of past life. Her capacity for forgiveness. Her faith. A level of intelligence I am happy to say I inherited. Her temper. Her generosity.

A strong sense of survival. Of doing the best with what you had. That complaining never changed anything. Oh she complained about how dry the chicken was -- but she never complained about having to leave her home, or that her children didn't visit or call enough. Well that's not true. I often heard from her that she missed me and she would ask if I was mad at her -- because I had not stopped to visit with her in days. Even though I lived in the same house.

I marveled at how she never cried. Never. She felt sadness but tears NEVER escaped from her eyes. We spoke of that a few times. She said she didn't know how to cry. How does someone not know how to cry? I don't remember learning how to cry. I assumed it came naturally. Not for my Mom. Not when her Mother died, her Father, her grandson, or her husband. No tears. I wonder if people thought she was heartless.

Far from heartless. A quiet person with few friends. An underlying insecurity permeated her life. That she wasn't pretty enough. She was gorgeous -- amazing skin and thick hair. She wasn't vivacious like her sister. No she wasn't and that was okay. (I found a letter from my Mom to her sister unsent where she expressed jealousy of not being more like her sister and how she had made her sister wrong.) Sometimes it's easier for one person to shine. She stayed in her marriage even with all it's flaws. She honored her vows. She kept her promises. Did she lie once in awhile -- oh yeah. Did she exaggerate? Yes. Did she want to be treated like a queen? Yes. Was she perfect? No.

She had a wicked sense of humor. Loved a good looking man. Adored cats. Prayed for her family and friends every night. She worked hard until she retired -- then she did what she wanted. Which was nothing. It was her retirement!

How does one measure a good life. By our standards or theirs? I would hope a combination of the best of both. Embracing our strengths and letting go of too much judgement by some of how one should live one's life versus our own condemnation of not having done or been enough.

My imagination has her sitting in a comfortable chair reviewing her life. A timeless review of all that she did in her body during her tenure on earth.

I wonder what kind of daughter she thinks she was. Does her opinion match her Mother's opinion? Did she and her sister embrace? Did Dad find out that she loved him? Then I wonder if it matters or does it only matter when you are alive?

Since I believe that we choose our paths before we are born -- what lessons did she want to learn and what did she learn? Did she accomplish her goal? I pray that she is pleased with the path her life took. She sees the contribution she made and how she impacted all those around her. That whatever lesson she was to learn that she did. That the next phase of her soul's journey is fulfilling.

I love her unconditionally. I know, unfailingly, that she loved me and did her best. In the end that is all any of us can do -- is our best. Thanks for doing your best.

I shall miss you the rest of my days until we are together again.

I love you.

With upmost appreciation, gratitude and love,

your daughter Renee

On being married

Today is the day my husband returns from a year long tour of duty overseas. I am beside myself with emotion. A fluttering of feelings coming and going. It feels like just another day to a certain degree and not at the same time.

The normal stuff -- cleaning up dog puke, vacuuming the house, cleaning the kitchen, feeding the dogs, running to the bank, picking up some moving papers/bubble wrap, steam cleaning the car seats, watering the flowers.

The not so normal stuff -- shaving my legs (every square inch), scenting the sheets.

The insane stuff -- Will he be disappointed that I didn't lose 100 lbs while he was gone and that I don't look like a model? Should I have cleaned out the garage anyway? I never did watch any of the tapes he left for me, will he be annoyed? How long before we are back in our routine? Will he be disappointed that I rented the house for three (3) years without asking him? Will he care that I did online banking instead of ever writing a check? Will he notice the burn holes in the carpet from the fire place? Will he like how I rearranged the house? Will the cat like him when he returns? Does the yard look good enough? What do I wear when I pick him up? Will he like my long hair? Is the house clean enough? Should I wash the windows? Should I show cleavage? Do I have enough time to pull some more weeds? Will the smell come out of the carpet from where the dog got sick? Will he want to take the checkbook over right away? Pants or skirt? Will he be willing to go out to eat after he lands? Will we make love right away?

I love this man so much. Never did I believe I could love this much and so deeply again. Dreamed about, wished for, hoped for. Read about and witnessed in others, but never for myself.

How grateful I am to God and this man for opening my heart to receive such a wondrous gift. How grateful to my family and friends to their encouragement and patience as I learned. Grateful to all the teachers, counselors, gurus, mentors, coaches who've each contributed greatly to my life -- they helped me learn about who I am for myself and inside relationships. That I honor my word. Hold my partner to account. Be honest. Love like there is no tomorrow. Be humble and grateful for my blessings.

and now...

I leave for the airport to pick up my husband. Confident and in love. I am truly blessed.

Cheese Whore, That's Me!

It's official. I am a cheese whore and proud of it.

My friend Susan and I became best friends one night when we were going to go out to dinner. It was a little past the normal dinner hour and we hadn't really picked a place to go. We met at Common Grounds (a coffee spot in the Highlands). A nice folksy hip part of Denver. A plethora of nice little intimate restaurants and boutique stores jammed into a two block radius around 32nd and Lowell.

"Where do you want to go? What are you in the mood for?" she queried. "I don't know but I'd like to try someplace I've never been...but I'm not really that hungry. I would like to visit with you, someplace where we can hear each other, maybe have some cheese and wine. That would be good. ", I rattled.

A smile filled her face. She chuckled, "Have you ever been to St. Kilians?" "No, what's that?, I reply. "Come with me.", she beckoned.

We cross the street to a little place that from the outside looks like a pub. As we enter, we are greeted warmly by a grey headed man in his 40s. "How can I help you", he asks. I am mesmerized. Cheese, glorious cheese fills the glass fronted display. Creamy triple cream from France, a hard pale yellow with brown rind Manchego from Spain, veiny blue cheese from Portugal, a short wide round of brie from France, a firm tangy Cachel Blue from Ireland, a creamy round log of white bliss goat cheese from Greece, and at least another two dozen I'd never seen or heard of before.

In that moment, I was in heaven. Heaven on earth. Pavlov's dogs had nothing on me, as I began to drool. Susan giggled and a love affair began. It was safe to admit that I was content with some good bread and some cheese for dinner. Like kids in a candy shop we each chose one we knew we liked already and then we each chose one neither one of us had tried before.

Ah, a fellow cheese whore. Nirvana. Susan asks for her card. Seems as though serious cheese aficionados keep track of the cheeses they've purchased in the past. We cradled our purchases and thought of where we could go to get good bread. The Denver Bread Company was close but alas it was late. "I have some good bread and wine at home." Susan offered. "I'm in", I exclaimed.

We spread out our bounty on her wooden cutting board, chunks of thick hearty bread, a juicy sliced pear, and some walnuts. A bottle of wine, comfy chairs and food of the Gods. Three hours later we emerged from our stupor. Conversation flowed freely and time disappeared.

A pact was formed. Someone who loved cheese as much as I. A tradition was born that night that serves us even now. When the time comes for indulging -- there's nothing better than picking out two or three cheeses, grabbing a loaf of bread, and calling your friend.

"Hey, I've got some gooooood cheese. Sure hope you are available cause I could use some help eating it. I'm coming over. You better call me and let me know if it's not a good time cause otherwise I'll be there in five." When you get there they're on the porch with the wine ready and let you know that you have perfect timing.

You know you are a cheese whore when, you want to smear Cambozola all over your body and have your husband taste you.

Yup, I'm a cheese whore.

On being a Mom

Realizing that your child is older today than you were on the day he was born is an interesting mental space to be in.

My son turned 29 on Monday. I was 25 when he was born. Full of hope, promise, and dreams for both of us.

I still am. I now have a thirty year perspective on those hopes and dreams. His birthday is the anniversary of my being a mother. Reason to celebrate indeed.

For him, I prayed that he would be healthy, happy, and fulfilled. However that looked. Would he be smart? Funny? Would he find his way in this world? Would he always be late? Would his Father become his Daddy?

When I first met him, he was screaming. The nurse held him over me and I asked him, "What is that all about?" He turned his head, those charcoal blue eyes looked into mine, and he stopped crying. He's never been much of a crier since. He had all his fingers and toes. I felt like I had known him forever. He was a handsome baby (but then of course he was mine). He slept through the night from day one. He grew in the 90th percentile his entire life. Smart and funny. Stubborn and generous. Forgiving and compassionate.

Well he is relatively healthy. He got a mix of his parental genetics. He has ADD. Not sure which of us gave him that or if it was just a mix. Both sides provided strong influence for alcoholism within the family tree. He is smart. I'll take credit for that! His happiness comes in spurts. Overall he loves life.

Is he fulfilled? No. I don't think so. He is still finding his way. Which aren't we all? His path looks different than I imagined. My dream was that he would be a high school football star, popular, college grad, professional man, married with kids. ACK!

Is he funny? Oh yes. A sense of humor that is self-deprecating and sharp. He sees the humor and the pain in the world. Hugely sensitive and intuitive.

Will he find his way in the world? Yes. Like all of us, he finds his way every day. Some days there is no movement, others he is speeding towards his future, others he is reflective and methodical.

Will he always be late? I think so. Perhaps a better way to say it is -- He does things on his own time schedule. Always has! Since birth. Whether it is being due on May 5th and being born by c-section on June 7th. Graduating in June of one year or in June of the following year -- for no reason other than not turning in a paper. It will happen when he is ready.

Will his Father become his Daddy? No. That has not happened and there is no sign of life there. A genuine sadness for me. I say that this missing makes him a better man and provides a desire to be the kind of Father he never had. He is great with children. He is finding a role model in my husband. What a blessing that is.

For me -- I wondered if would I see him grow up. Have an opportunity to see what he looked like as a man. Would I do good by him? I have! He is a handsome man who finally sees that. A tough big bear of a man with a heart of gold. Responsible for his choices. A man who loves deeply.

He has grown from a 10lb 3oz baby into a 6.8ft man. His heart and smile are infinite and easy to lose yourself in.

As his Mom, I now simply desire that he be proud of his choices, pick a way to make a living that enlivens his heart as well as his pocket book, and that he find a partner to share this life with. Grandkids would be nice someday too!

Going with the flow

Best laid plans. No matter how much I plan, create, and intend -- there always comes a time when I let go. Trust in God. Trust in the Universe. Simply Trust.

Crying seems to be my first reaction. Releasing the pressure. Tears -- my own personal pressure valve. Well tears have been shed, the facade of strength has given way to being with what is so. Here is what is so --

- It takes less than 5 minutes to be under contract to sell a house.

As long as it takes to read the offer, sign it and send it back.

- How ever it turns out will be the best in the long run.

However much that either looks or does not look like I thought it should.

- Renting the house out is better than losing the house.

- I do not know what this is going to look like.

- Choosing how I react to the uncertainty is my call.

Power in choice. It's the uncertainty that drives me crazy and makes me nervous. Choosing how I react is under my control. While I am prone to over thinking and sometimes over planning, I am reliable for being with what is so.

As of 11:28am on June 9, 2010, here is what is so:

- Neither of the houses is under contract or sold.

So what? That can all change on a dime. I believe. I know. I trust.

Pulling weeds. A life lesson?

Yard work. It's been in the back of my mind, the front of my mind, and generally nagging me for about three days now. Each day I thought about and planned on getting out there. Each day I found something else to do. One day I did nothing but "veg" out. It was 92 degrees and HOT! So this morning I wake up to a brisk nippy morning. Perfect for yard work.

Unsure of what the resistance is of late. Perhaps it's because we are selling this house and now the yard work occurs as a have to versus a want to. Anyone who owns a home knows that you have to do yard work. It's a given. If you're averse to yard work you do not buy a home with a yard or you plan on paying someone to do it. The notion of yard work then transforms, either into a want to or a non-concern.

As a homeowner, the have to transforms when you dream about what new perennial to add to the garden or how to outline the garden path with something interesting and low maintenance -- the chore dissolves into creation. Visualizing the outcome. Designing a little patch of organic heaven right in your own backyard. Merging a deck into the landscape seamlessly.

Now, I will not be here to watch the daffodils and tulips emerge, the peonies blossom, the cherry tree sprout it's small white fragrant flowers. No future to live into with this yard anymore.

What there is however, is a sense of pride. Presenting this house to it's best advantage. Honoring the love that went into this yard. Bringing all the thoughtful additions to the foreground -- a fluid lawn that ebbs and weaves around river rock. The split rail fence that was placed strategically to stop cars from driving across the lawn. Low water bushes to soften the expanse of rock and add visual effect. Creating a sense of lushness without using precious water.

Now the lawn is mowed and the weeds are gone. I am filled with a sense of fulfillment and pride. This lovely little house expresses love. Funny how weeding provides such mental solace. Each one plucked with a sense of purpose.

Where have all the poppies gone?

It's Memorial Weekend. Everyone is making plans to go camping, have friends over for BBQ, go to the lake, or just plain relax. It's not evident to me, at least not on the surface, that people really honor what Memorial Weekend is for.

It is to honor those who have fallen in service of this country. Fallen is a nice word for died. As in gave their life.

We've drifted away from the importance of the weekend. Yes getting Monday off makes for a perfect three day weekend. Yet, I wonder if any of those people who are so anxious to get away, stop for one minute to acknowledge those men and women who sacrificed so much.

I am patriotic. I was born into a patriotic family. My Dad was in the Army for 22 years. He fought in World War II and the Korean War. He co-founded a VFW post in El Paso Texas and an American Legion Post here in Colorado.

My first job was selling flags for the VFW. I sold alot of flags that Summer. It was a fund-raiser for the VFW post but it was also about honoring our soldiers and exhibiting national pride. We also sold poppies on Memorial Weekend. Poppies were started to wear as a reminder of the fallen. Proceeds of poppy sales were used to support the families of the dead. When I went to England on a vacation, we visited Westminster Abbey. It coincided with the date they honor their dead. The entire yard of the Abbey was covered in poppies. Each military unit had a section of the yard and had carpeted the lawn with poppies. I was moved to tears that the concept of the poppies was global. That soldiers everywhere fought a common enemy so that we are free.

With progress and time comes so many wonderous things. There is a busyness to the world now that didn't exist before. With all that progress we have taken our freedom for granted. Pearl Harbor made the war personal. The attack on 9-11 was personal -- for a few months. What happened? Did we get lulled into a false sense of security? Did we forget what it took to get here? World War II was painful lesson in global peace. The War Against Terrorism has been long yet there is a sense that someone else will take care of it. Who is that someone? That someone is an American! One of us, not some stranger.

History teaches us not to forget.

Don't forget! There are men and women dying every day in the Middle East to uphold something we take for granted. Honor our fallen and our country. Fly the flag. Wear a poppy.

Say a quiet thank you.

I fly a flag every day. It has a light on it so I keep it flying at night too. Nothing fancy but a reminder of the great country I live in, a structural reminder of the men and women who got us here, and the ones who serve now to keep me save. It's also a reminder of my Dad who loved this country so much.

Back-up plans

Back up plans, contingency plans -- call them whatever you want! Right now they occur as the defeaters of possibility. Like the slow leak of life. You start out with a bright dream, one that inspires you and pulls you forward. Then over time, when the plans don't pan out quite the way you created, doubt starts to chip away at the foundation of your dream.

Now I have always been known as a dreamer, an optimist. I like that label. I encourage that opinion of me.

I have made miracles occur.

Some have faded into distant memory like having bought my own house. To many in my generation that was a huge accomplishment for a single mother. I raised over $100,000 for a bone marrow transplant for my nephew. Had no clue how to really do it, but forged ahead. Wasn't as popular in the 80s as it is now to have those kinds of fundraisers or get that kind of publicity -- especially from the Washington Post.

Some miracles are more recent... Buying mountain property. Made my lifelong dream of owning mountain property come true. Camping on that particular piece of dirt reminds me of how strong I am and that I can do anything! Building a cabin on the land is next. Right after our debt is paid off!

Getting married. Hey at fifty to have that deepest part of me fulfilled by the perfect man (thank you God for sending him to me) is a miracle. Words escape me when I get present to the miracle of this man who loves me to distraction. Reading all those romance novels doesn't even compare to the reality of being with my honey. I am a living romance novel. I created that.

So here we are selling the house. Last Fall, I created that the house would be listed in April, under contract in May, and closed by the end of June. As time elapses, my confidence seems to as well. It was listed in April (albeit the middle of April). Depressing news regarding the economy and a general lack of showings has shaken my confidence. An electronically generated comp report indicates that the value of the home is increasing. My confidence went on an up-swing. That combined with having a hard time letting go (even though it's my choice) is playing havoc with my mind. The mind is a dangerous place to go alone.

Reaching out to a friend, I am reminded that there are still 5 days left in May! It only takes a moment to be under contract. This is a lovely home waiting for the right family. That family will fall under it's spell and have to have the house, this weekend! A contract will be waiting on my fax before Memorial Weekend is over.

Family to be find this home and make it your own.

A perfect place to live and grow.

You will give Renee what she is owed.

Come with speed upon the wind and land at the door so both may win!

Then the back-up plan can go away and be what it was all along -- a safety net. Nothing wrong with a safety net. Thinking things through does not diminish the original creation. It's the way we are designed. Go with it. It's all made up anyway. Only I get to say how it goes for me!

Keeping my head above water

Ever have one of those days? Where you want to either sleep or eat your way through it? Today was one of those days.

Did I sleep through it? No! I got up early, got dressed and made it to work on time. Actually a relatively productive day. Quiet but productive.

Did I eat my way through it? No! I wanted to. I must have gone to the refrigerator at least 20 times. I did eat everything I brought. Devoured every morsel with relish. Scoured the cabinets for food that I could snarf. Fortunately there wasn't much to choose from. Thank God for healthy eating co-workers. Thank God for self-control. Thank God for divine intervention.

Sometimes there is divine intervention! An empty cabinet or boring food can be considered divine intervention. At least in my interpretation. Anything that intervenes with me over eating that isn't a conscious choice on my part is divine intervention. We don't know how it all works, so if by some chance there isn't any food to choose from and that is what stops me from over-eating -- I'll take it.

Now I did stop myself. Many times. I am proud of stopping myself.

What I am not proud of is that I still have this ongoing desire to binge and hide behind my weight. It's been a shield since high school. A layer of protection from getting hurt. From getting rejected.

Well all those reasons don't have power anymore. I am married to a fabulous younger man who thinks the sun rises and sets on me. I've come to a point in my life where not much really scares me anymore. I've got some mileage on me. I've had enough experiences to know that I can handle just about anything. I know that my word is powerful.

So I've come to the conclusion that my reactions to stress, sadness, and even happiness is to eat. Eat anything and eat alot of it. That's some realization. Years of habitual eating.

Years of habit to intervene with.

AND

This is what I do know -- that if anyone can intervene with anything, it's me!

Here's to building that dream.

The Art of Letting Go

Letting go. Why is it so hard sometimes? I've been thinking about letting this house go. Alot! It is clearly the choice I am making. It is clearly a good move.

Then why today when the sun was filtering through the leaves and the deck was looking like it belonged in Good Housekeeping was I second guessing the choice to sell?

So many memories have been born in this house. I remember dreaming of, drawing, measuring, and planning that deck for instance. Attending a deck building class at a local lumber yard. Going through pages of graph paper, pencils, and erasers. Measuring the width of potential furniture. Preparing a timeline. Allocating $50 a paycheck to purchase the needed lumber, nails, brackets, cement until I had all the supplies. Tearing down the small 6x3 landing the builders called a deck. Thinking about the consequences of damaging the house when I screwed the first lag bolt into the siding.

The blisters digging the post holes, drilling 8 holes per board, screwing in hundreds of screws, lovingly sanding and staining each 2x6. How smooth the wood was. How I watched the $20 tree grow into the 40 foot behemoth it is today. It's strong branches and leaves provide privacy and shade to that deck now.

Now it is time for another family to treasure the cool breezes that blow through the leaves, to barbeque their hamburgers, have friends and family over for celebrations. Time for another couple to sit in the quiet of the night watching the stars.

May the next family make memories they treasure for years to come, for I am ready to build my next dream.

And so it begins

I've been a work in progress since birth. Today is another day in the evolution of self. A conscious work of human art. What an interesting way to look at my life. Each brush stroke creating a subtle and sometimes not so subtle impact on my life.

Each thought, choice, action has created this path I am on. So here I am. Looking at my life and being aware of the wonder of it all. How blessed I am. No -- I am not (as yet) independently wealthy, nor am I a paragon of physical beauty. I am a incomparable human being living her way through this particular life.

That is something! That is something no one else has quite like me. The same goes for you!

Later on I will provide you with a synopsis of my life thus far. Feed it to you in little bites or who knows -- sometimes I may regurgitate volumes. For now, I am aware of how my life is changing. Almost with each breathe there is a tangible alteration.

Yesterday I spread the remainder of my Father's ashes. I can't remember the exact day he died. September 27th, 2002. His ashes have quietly resided in either the hallway closet or my bedroom closet. On the top shelf. His recent sojourn in my closet had me greeting him each morning. "Hi Dad." The oblong black plastic box sat directly facing the closet entrance. Put there hastily when readying the house for sale.

Half of his ashes are spread up at our mountain property. It was the last place he went camping. Oh how hard he worked to get to that camping trip. His truck broke down and over-heated at least twice that weekend. At 79 he would still take off and head to the hills alone. On this particular trip he was joining me for our first and subsequently last camping trip at the land.

I remember hearing a car driving up the road to the property and stopping at the top of the hill. A voice booming out -- "Hello. This is Officer Brown, I am looking for ..." My heart sunk, I thought he was coming to find me and tell me my Dad was dead. But no -- he was delivering my Father to me. Dad had befriended him and this gracious policeman had driven 22 miles through back roads to deliver my Father to me. That was my Dad!

He made friends everywhere he went. There was a family joke that Dad would be in a town for less than an hour and know where every bar was and would know more people than you who had lived there for years. I have many stories to validate the "joke".

Dad loved the outdoors. Camping, fishing, hunting (which I affectionately called camping with guns)! I used to bet that the gun never came out of the case. It was just an excuse to go away with the guys and enjoy nature. He made friends easily. Enemies too! He was the kind of man you either liked or disliked immediately.

Yesterday, it was a quiet journey. Dad, Peggy, and I. Peggy is the widow of Dad's best friend, Jim. Jim is also spread at this particular spot overlooking the Rocky Mountains. Peggy was the only person who knew exactly where "their" spot was. Would have never found it without her. Although now it is engraved on my brain.

Those two old coots had an Adventure finding this particular location. Finding beauty in the midst of scrub pine and dirt. Rifle is a small town west of Denver (3.5 hours west). Past Vail, Glenwood Springs, past Silt, Dotsero, and then there is Rifle. With a Walmart at the interstate exchange, a big bank, small town, with a nice golf course. Drive through town, bear right to the bowling alley, turn right at the Correctional Center sign, go 5 miles and look for a closed gate indicating a State Wildlife Area. How did they even think to go back there?

It's not really a road, more a path that four-wheelers had made over time. Washed out from rain, with deep ruts. Dropped into low and began the ascent, jiggling back and forth. We get to the top and cannot see anymore road. Peggy says "there really is a road". I drove over the edge and felt exhilaration. The giggles exploded and Peggy and I shared a knowing that the men had definitely had an adventure finding this place. The road then climbed up a steep hill and twisted between gnarly pines flattening out at the top into a dusty field.

We turned left and I drove a couple hundred yards until it was clear that there was no where else to go. "This is it." The edge of field dropped sharply down into a ravine. One lone scraggly pine holding onto the edge for dear life. Wind blew us about. My eyes scoured the field and the ravine, nothing overly beautiful. Far off the edge of the field across the ridge was the Correctional Facility. Then I looked straight ahead past the ravine and saw the reservior. Turquoise water the sight of which I only ever expected at a beach in Bahamas.

I imagined Jim and Dad, in their camp chairs, spending a leisurely afternoon sharing stories looking at the view, watching the deer meander up the ravine, and having a drink or three. Friends sharing time and space. It was then that I saw the true beauty of this place. Why this was the place that both HAD to have their ashes spread here together. A shared experience memorable to both.

Tears fell as I walked to the car, opened the ashes and carried Dad to edge of the ravine.