Saturday night I attended The Vagina Monologues at Nicholls State University with my good friend Donna. I’d heard about them years ago, and I knew it was the perfect addition to my list of new experiences. (I find myself adding to this list constantly as new experiences come my way).
The play is not for anyone uncomfortable with vulgar language. At the beginning of the play, they warn the audience that some of the material may be offensive to some. I’m not easily offended. I’d like to believe I’m very open-minded. My family who listened to me tell them about it with raised eye brows today are somewhat wishing that I would be a little more close-minded these days. I will admit to being uncomfortable at times. I mean it’s not every day that you see a group of women demonstrate the different “moans” a woman makes during sex on stage, but most of my squirming came because I kept flashing back to a recent conversation with my daughter.
Just a few weeks ago, she was in the bath tub and began asking questions about her girl parts. (On a side note, she seems to always ask the hard to answer questions in the tub. She may have to start taking a shower.)
She asked me what the name of her girl parts were. In all her five-year-old superiority she told me that she knows it’s not her booty like we’ve been referring to that region.
I, the mother who did not blink to inform her son at three when he asked about his boy parts that he had a penis, just stared at her in that moment unable to say the word vagina. So I told her that she had girl parts and quickly changed the subject by making up a story with her favorite characters.
Quick save, but why couldn’t I say it? My mother and I have never once had a conversation about “girl parts” or sex. Even now, very distant from my teens, I still don’t mention the word sex in front of my mom. I have no past experience to draw from, but I told myself that I was brave enough to have that discussion with my daughter when the time came. Especially since I teach teenagers and understand that they experiment with sex with or without the communication.
So there I was watching brave college students demonstrate what an orgasm sounds like and explain what a vagina looks like, and what it would say if it could talk, and how it would dress if it dressed up, and I had never brought myself to say the words they used for vagina out loud. The words sound strange in my mouth, uncomfortable and awkward.
But for a moment, after listening to them I felt empowered enough to use the words, and you know what? They didn’t sound so strange after hearing them spoken aloud so many times. Donna and I laughed and repeated parts of the dialogue all the way home, nearly in tears as we laughed so hard. At one point, I told her I never thought I’d hear those words from her mouth, and probably never would have if we hadn’t watched the play together.
For one of my dream jobs, I’ve always wanted to write about oppressed women and make them feel empowered by telling their stories. I would have loved to travel the world and bring about social change. Yet, I couldn’t even say the word vagina to my daughter.
Maybe I just need to start with empowering myself, and in turn my daughter. So the next time my daughter asks, I will be ready. The Vagina Monologues provided a list of synonyms, but hey, I think I can start with the word Vagina. See it doesn’t sound strange at all to me anymore.
To read more, see http://mylife-in-stories.blogspot.com/2011/04/whispering-vagina-monologues.html#links
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Monday, April 4, 2011
The Best Laid Plans
I’m a planner. I have detailed calendars with events neatly penciled in, and I plan out months in advance what I’m going to do. This slightly annoying characteristic has really helped out with those thirty-three experiences this year. (No, I did not have one of those experiences this weekend. Apparently, I need to plan better. Go figure.) I did have this wonderful weekend planned. Each day of my weekend was lined up and mapped out for me. Then, of course, it all fell apart and gave way to spontaneous, random events instead.
First, plans fell through on Friday night, so I spontaneously decided to go to the movies by myself instead of staying home and watching one. It was a horrible movie. The movie was missing my favorite part which would be an actual storyline, but I learned that I don’t really care anymore if I have to do something on my own. Hello independence.
Saturday morning when I awoke, I thought it was to attend the Madhatter’s event in Thibodaux until I got a call that morning to confirm my seat for Sunday. A rearrangement of plans had to be made for I’d already made plans for Sunday. The result was I was able to spend the entire afternoon with my cousin Scott. We sat on his mom’s front porch for hours, relaxing. Something I hadn’t done in so long that I can’t remember the last time that I had, relaxing that is. For the first time in a long time, I had that childlike feeling of being able to just be in the moment instead of rushing off to accomplish all the things on my crazy list.
Plans for Saturday night fell through again and made it possible for me to enjoy a glass of wine (or two) with a close friend and much needed friend time. There is nothing like spending time with a girlfriend and talking about everything going on in your world.
After my scheduling mistake, Sunday meant I had two things to do, so it began with the Madhatter’s. Even with my teenage obsession with fashion, I’d never attended a fashion show before. I enjoyed the experience and plan to attend with my daughter next year, for she would love to watch now that fashion has become her obsession.
The second event of Sunday was to learn how to edit digital media. My list of what I want to know how to do grows daily, and I plan to continue pursuing new learning experiences. But then unexpectedly, I had dinner with two great people and another great time during this spontaneous weekend.
By far, the best experiences of my weekend were those things that happened when plans were rearranged. So the lesson learned this weekend is that maybe I need to slow down, just a bit. This over planning my weekend is not necessarily leading to the best experiences. Maybe the impulsive side of my personality needs a little more leeway. Hmm… not so sure about that one, but at least maybe I should learn to enjoy the little moments.
First, plans fell through on Friday night, so I spontaneously decided to go to the movies by myself instead of staying home and watching one. It was a horrible movie. The movie was missing my favorite part which would be an actual storyline, but I learned that I don’t really care anymore if I have to do something on my own. Hello independence.
Saturday morning when I awoke, I thought it was to attend the Madhatter’s event in Thibodaux until I got a call that morning to confirm my seat for Sunday. A rearrangement of plans had to be made for I’d already made plans for Sunday. The result was I was able to spend the entire afternoon with my cousin Scott. We sat on his mom’s front porch for hours, relaxing. Something I hadn’t done in so long that I can’t remember the last time that I had, relaxing that is. For the first time in a long time, I had that childlike feeling of being able to just be in the moment instead of rushing off to accomplish all the things on my crazy list.
Plans for Saturday night fell through again and made it possible for me to enjoy a glass of wine (or two) with a close friend and much needed friend time. There is nothing like spending time with a girlfriend and talking about everything going on in your world.
After my scheduling mistake, Sunday meant I had two things to do, so it began with the Madhatter’s. Even with my teenage obsession with fashion, I’d never attended a fashion show before. I enjoyed the experience and plan to attend with my daughter next year, for she would love to watch now that fashion has become her obsession.
The second event of Sunday was to learn how to edit digital media. My list of what I want to know how to do grows daily, and I plan to continue pursuing new learning experiences. But then unexpectedly, I had dinner with two great people and another great time during this spontaneous weekend.
By far, the best experiences of my weekend were those things that happened when plans were rearranged. So the lesson learned this weekend is that maybe I need to slow down, just a bit. This over planning my weekend is not necessarily leading to the best experiences. Maybe the impulsive side of my personality needs a little more leeway. Hmm… not so sure about that one, but at least maybe I should learn to enjoy the little moments.
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Experience #9 Search for Inspiration
This Saturday I attended the eighth annual Jubilee Writer’s Conference. Though I’d wanted to attend from the first time I heard about it, there was always some reason or conflicting event that arose. I love listening to authors speak for I find their passion for writing and telling a story contagious, and it always inspires me to write something or finish something that I’m working on.
It was exactly what I needed this year, at this moment. In the last year, I’ve found myself unable to complete a project. I go back and forth between several projects I’m working on, and I’m unable to complete any of them with my indecisiveness. At first, I was still able to get excited about an idea, but in the last eight months I couldn’t even manage that.
So when I made the list out for the year, I added the writer’s conference to the list in search of that inspiration to get me out of the rut that I’d fallen into.
Of course, I also realized that the rut was due to emotional turmoil more than anything else. A story must have emotions, and you can’t create feelings when you yourself are numb. But in the last month or so I’ve realized that the numbness has left, for emotions, and not all the nice ones, have returned.
So I went in search of inspiration, and I found it. Authors like Deborah Leblanc and Lisa Jackson all spoke and encouraged attendees to consider ebook publishing, for that’s where the future of books would be headed.
I worked for a long time on my novel, Muddy Bayou, and after many submissions and rejections, it made it all the way to a publisher’s desk where I never heard from it again beyond a she was still interested email. Yet, I still want to tell this character’s story. I still want to entertain others with her sarcastic wit and her unending ability to get into trouble while putting herself in places she doesn’t belong. But what was the use of writing the second story in the series if no one would ever be able to read the first one? So I’d tried writing other stories, but my heart still wanted to tell Raleigh Cheramie’s story (Yes, I’m one of those crazy people who think of her characters as real people.).
So after listening to the authors all day, I thought that this would be the way to do it. For all I really want is to tell a story to an audience. And that’s exactly what I would be doing. So now I have a new goal: to create an ebook. I have no idea how to do it, but I’m sure it will be like everything else. I won’t stop until I figure it out, and when I do, I’ll be sure to tell everyone about it. I’ll be the one shouting excitedly that someone besides myself can read my story.
It was exactly what I needed this year, at this moment. In the last year, I’ve found myself unable to complete a project. I go back and forth between several projects I’m working on, and I’m unable to complete any of them with my indecisiveness. At first, I was still able to get excited about an idea, but in the last eight months I couldn’t even manage that.
So when I made the list out for the year, I added the writer’s conference to the list in search of that inspiration to get me out of the rut that I’d fallen into.
Of course, I also realized that the rut was due to emotional turmoil more than anything else. A story must have emotions, and you can’t create feelings when you yourself are numb. But in the last month or so I’ve realized that the numbness has left, for emotions, and not all the nice ones, have returned.
So I went in search of inspiration, and I found it. Authors like Deborah Leblanc and Lisa Jackson all spoke and encouraged attendees to consider ebook publishing, for that’s where the future of books would be headed.
I worked for a long time on my novel, Muddy Bayou, and after many submissions and rejections, it made it all the way to a publisher’s desk where I never heard from it again beyond a she was still interested email. Yet, I still want to tell this character’s story. I still want to entertain others with her sarcastic wit and her unending ability to get into trouble while putting herself in places she doesn’t belong. But what was the use of writing the second story in the series if no one would ever be able to read the first one? So I’d tried writing other stories, but my heart still wanted to tell Raleigh Cheramie’s story (Yes, I’m one of those crazy people who think of her characters as real people.).
So after listening to the authors all day, I thought that this would be the way to do it. For all I really want is to tell a story to an audience. And that’s exactly what I would be doing. So now I have a new goal: to create an ebook. I have no idea how to do it, but I’m sure it will be like everything else. I won’t stop until I figure it out, and when I do, I’ll be sure to tell everyone about it. I’ll be the one shouting excitedly that someone besides myself can read my story.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
Experience #8 Sushi
Anyone who knows me knows that I will never be a food connoisseur. To come within ten feet of that definition, I’d have to be willing to try new foods.
I’m not. I’m more of the, I’ll stick to what I know because I don’t even like most of the foods I force myself to eat due to nutrition. (Candy does not have nutritional value, unfortunately.) Why add more items to that list of foods I won’t eat?
I wouldn’t label myself picky, per se, but there is a running joke at my mom’s house about fine china needing to be made as divider plates because I don’t like my food to touch. On Christmas and Thanksgiving, I can be found eating out of a Styrofoam divider plate because there are too many types of food to try, and they can’t fit in a plate without touching each other. My mom always makes sure she has them on hand, though sometimes she tries to use her china in her china cabinet.
My mom also reminds me that when I was a teenager she’d make real, homemade hamburgers for everyone, but she’d have to take out a frozen soy burger for me since I wouldn’t eat the ground meat.
The list of food I don’t like is very long, so when I added sushi to my list of experiences for the year, I knew I’d need a little push. Perhaps someone to shove it down my mouth while I closed my eyes and attempted not to breath until the experience was over.
So I was introduced to sushi by an expert, someone who lived in Japan for a long time and was very good with chopsticks and quite patient with my lack of coordination.
And I have to say after all that, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. No gagging or eyes closing there. I’m not saying that I’m going to rush back, but every now and then might not be so bad.
Surprisingly, I found some of it, like the eel, to be very good, but others like salmon didn’t go down very well because of the texture.
The biggest obstacle was chopsticks. If I had to eat with those every day, I’d be half the size I am now and starving. If I ever choose to diet, I’ll impose chopsticks on myself and losing weight shouldn’t be an issue. My instructor was kind and patient though, and maybe if I practice for eight years I’ll get the hang of it.
All in all, it got me thinking about what else I need to try this year. May have to revise my list again. I always tell my son he won’t know if he likes something until he tries it. Maybe I need to take my own advice on this one. But I can’t promise anything.
I’m not. I’m more of the, I’ll stick to what I know because I don’t even like most of the foods I force myself to eat due to nutrition. (Candy does not have nutritional value, unfortunately.) Why add more items to that list of foods I won’t eat?
I wouldn’t label myself picky, per se, but there is a running joke at my mom’s house about fine china needing to be made as divider plates because I don’t like my food to touch. On Christmas and Thanksgiving, I can be found eating out of a Styrofoam divider plate because there are too many types of food to try, and they can’t fit in a plate without touching each other. My mom always makes sure she has them on hand, though sometimes she tries to use her china in her china cabinet.
My mom also reminds me that when I was a teenager she’d make real, homemade hamburgers for everyone, but she’d have to take out a frozen soy burger for me since I wouldn’t eat the ground meat.
The list of food I don’t like is very long, so when I added sushi to my list of experiences for the year, I knew I’d need a little push. Perhaps someone to shove it down my mouth while I closed my eyes and attempted not to breath until the experience was over.
So I was introduced to sushi by an expert, someone who lived in Japan for a long time and was very good with chopsticks and quite patient with my lack of coordination.
And I have to say after all that, it wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be. No gagging or eyes closing there. I’m not saying that I’m going to rush back, but every now and then might not be so bad.
Surprisingly, I found some of it, like the eel, to be very good, but others like salmon didn’t go down very well because of the texture.
The biggest obstacle was chopsticks. If I had to eat with those every day, I’d be half the size I am now and starving. If I ever choose to diet, I’ll impose chopsticks on myself and losing weight shouldn’t be an issue. My instructor was kind and patient though, and maybe if I practice for eight years I’ll get the hang of it.
All in all, it got me thinking about what else I need to try this year. May have to revise my list again. I always tell my son he won’t know if he likes something until he tries it. Maybe I need to take my own advice on this one. But I can’t promise anything.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
Experience #7 Mardi Gras Experiences
In Gheens, Louisiana there is a tradition that after the parade each year, the “Mardi Gras” come out and whip the children and many adults with switches. If you wish to not be whipped, you must kneel down and say “pardon.” (And be sure to put your French accent on that.) I know the tradition has been in place for at least a century. My uncle tells stories about how when he was young, the girls would go to school the next day with welts on their legs from the switches.
 |
| My childhood friend as a "Mardi Gras." |
The “Mardi Gras” remain along the highway, and visitors looking to witness the spectacle must line up along the road to wait their turn to be whipped by the “Mardi Gras” who travel by the trailer full.
I stayed a couple of times when I was a child for this tradition, and I have never remained after the parade when given a choice since. Imagine scarring a child like that?
When I was young, there were fewer rules in place than there are now. Back then, they ran down the streets, through your houses, and didn’t stop until they caught you. One year, I spent the entire time praying “pardon” as the Mardi Gras chased down and whipped my cousins vehemently.
The last time I remember being there for the yearly ritual, I spent the time locked in my nanny’s bathroom listening to the “Mardi Gras” rampage through her house trying to get through the locked door.
No surprise that I haven’t remained since I was a child. Whose parents subject them to this?
I thought this year I’d be brave and maybe stand halfway up the street and watch. My son who NEVER tries anything, walked all the way to the front to watch. I joined him in the front to make sure he knew what he was getting into, and he insisted he wanted to stay. So, of course, I had to at least be as brave as an eight year old, so I stayed.
I have to admit that when they got closer, I did step back from the road, oh, I’d say about one hundred feet or so. I did not take off running though. I can at least pride myself in that.
My son on the other hand took off running when the “Mardi Gras” jumped off the truck and chased the group of boys he was with and left his mom in the dust. He managed to outrun the “Mardi Gras” half way down the street and hide from him behind my cousin’s house.
I, on the other hand, was whipped by a childhood friend in his full Mardi Gras get up. I could remember when we were children that he was forced to the ground with all the “Mardi Gras” piled on top of him. It must be nice to eventually be the one with the power to whip others.
A lady never kneels, so I took the whipping bravely and even posed for a picture with my assailant.
So it wasn’t so bad after all. No need to be afraid for all those years. (Well, honestly when I was younger it was much rougher, so I probably did have reason to fear back then.) It was all worth it just to see my son try something new. Maybe these no fear experiences are rubbing off on him. I can only hope.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Scott's Story Unraveled
Okay, so this is veering off of my story a bit. I've been told several times in my life that I have inspired people. Usually, I don't see the outcome of that inspiration. My cousin Scott has hit a low point in his life, and when he was there he was inspired by the stories that I tell, and he asked that I share his story in his own words with our family and friends. So here's his words. Words that I hope we can all learn from, for at some point in time everyone reaches a low point, and it's those people who listen who help us reach upward instead of stay at the bottom.
To everyone who’s been wondering where I have gone to or what has happened to me, I’m asking my cousin Jessica to publish this story for me. I know I have changed over the last couple of years and for those that this has affected, I’m sorry. I’m especially sorry to my wife Lacie and my two lovely sons, Nathan and Kaleb.
I have learned much over the last week where I’ve been staying and working on myself. The main thing I have learned is that I never want to be the person I’ve become ever again because it has caused me to lose everything that I’ve cared about in my life. First my family then my friends and possessions.
I was always one to be the strong type and not to reach out for any help even though I needed it. Go figure I would wait until it would be too late, the story of my life. Like everyone else, I’m not perfect. I want all my friends and family to know that I have taken that first step and feel like I’m making progress.
I’ve been having a drug problem on and off for the last several years and this also led me to an anger issue. It took me recently losing my best friend and lovely wife Lacie Dominique and not being able to see my two wonderful sons Nathan and Kaleb to realize this. I didn’t want to see the problem I had. Maybe it was because I was too scared to reach out for help or because I’d wonder what people would think of me.
I never thought I could feel the way that I have felt in the last month. I was at an all -time low in my life and thought nothing could bring me back. I zoned out everyone and everything around me. I did not get out of bed for a week and did nothing but sleep. I did this because while I was asleep, it just didn’t hurt so bad when I couldn’t think about it. It wasn’t because I had no one there for me because my wife was after me to get help for a while; I just wouldn’t listen. My parents were also pushing me to go to work and move on so I wouldn’t lose my job, but none of that mattered anymore. My friends would call, but I’d just ignore the calls and text messages.
Finally, I decided to get some help. It’s something I wish I would have done a long time ago. It’s something I wish I would have opened my eyes to a long time ago because like I said it cost me the most important things in my life, and trust me there is nothing worth losing your family over. A little suggestion to anyone with a problem like I have is don’t wait until it’s too late to get some help or reach out to someone. There are no words that I can say to tell you how it feels to lose your wife and kids. It nearly pushed me completely over the edge, to rock bottom. With the help of family and friends and some people with the same problems, I’m feeling like I’m going to be able to overcome this and move on with my life. So I’d like to say thanks to everyone who has been there for me. “Getting help doesn’t mean you failed. It means you have support.”
-Scott Dominique
To everyone who’s been wondering where I have gone to or what has happened to me, I’m asking my cousin Jessica to publish this story for me. I know I have changed over the last couple of years and for those that this has affected, I’m sorry. I’m especially sorry to my wife Lacie and my two lovely sons, Nathan and Kaleb.
I have learned much over the last week where I’ve been staying and working on myself. The main thing I have learned is that I never want to be the person I’ve become ever again because it has caused me to lose everything that I’ve cared about in my life. First my family then my friends and possessions.
I was always one to be the strong type and not to reach out for any help even though I needed it. Go figure I would wait until it would be too late, the story of my life. Like everyone else, I’m not perfect. I want all my friends and family to know that I have taken that first step and feel like I’m making progress.
I’ve been having a drug problem on and off for the last several years and this also led me to an anger issue. It took me recently losing my best friend and lovely wife Lacie Dominique and not being able to see my two wonderful sons Nathan and Kaleb to realize this. I didn’t want to see the problem I had. Maybe it was because I was too scared to reach out for help or because I’d wonder what people would think of me.
I never thought I could feel the way that I have felt in the last month. I was at an all -time low in my life and thought nothing could bring me back. I zoned out everyone and everything around me. I did not get out of bed for a week and did nothing but sleep. I did this because while I was asleep, it just didn’t hurt so bad when I couldn’t think about it. It wasn’t because I had no one there for me because my wife was after me to get help for a while; I just wouldn’t listen. My parents were also pushing me to go to work and move on so I wouldn’t lose my job, but none of that mattered anymore. My friends would call, but I’d just ignore the calls and text messages.
Finally, I decided to get some help. It’s something I wish I would have done a long time ago. It’s something I wish I would have opened my eyes to a long time ago because like I said it cost me the most important things in my life, and trust me there is nothing worth losing your family over. A little suggestion to anyone with a problem like I have is don’t wait until it’s too late to get some help or reach out to someone. There are no words that I can say to tell you how it feels to lose your wife and kids. It nearly pushed me completely over the edge, to rock bottom. With the help of family and friends and some people with the same problems, I’m feeling like I’m going to be able to overcome this and move on with my life. So I’d like to say thanks to everyone who has been there for me. “Getting help doesn’t mean you failed. It means you have support.”
-Scott Dominique
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Experience #6 Something Permanent
So if it hasn’t become evident from previous experiences yet, I’ll just outright confess that I’m completely vain. I wear makeup and exercise every day, and I love trying new beauty products with all their fantastic promises. So when I decided to get a tattoo for this next experience, people who really know me thought I’d gone crazy, someone even mentioned a mid-life crisis.
I’ve never done anything to my body to permanently distort it, so why now?
The simple, but of course not so simple, answer is that it’s symbolic. As an English teacher, I love the idea that something can represent so much more than itself. This small, hidden away tattoo has a deeper meaning for me than just the year I’m leaving fear and, apparently for some, sanity behind.
The tattoo is symbolic of a lesson that came with a high price. A lesson in how and why things fail and fall apart. At the beginning of my marriage, I still believed anything was possible; that I could have all the goals in my life realized and not have to make any sacrifices. I went into my marriage believing that I’d found someone who would help me accomplish my goals instead of change them. I remember a conversation with an uncle right before my wedding. He questioned me on getting married so young, reminding me of all the goals I’d set for myself. I told him that it would be okay, that I would still accomplish them. My future husband understood what they meant to me.
Time wore on though and everything began to change. If I wanted this, I’d have to give that up. If I wanted to be happy as a couple, I’d have to give up wanting, wanting anything that would tear me away from the life he pictured for us. But I was guilty, too. I gave in little by little, persuaded by reason that it was what was best. That this was the life I was supposed to want. Reason dominated until the life I led resembled nothing of the life I wanted. Still, my head reasoned with my heart, I had everything someone could want, why was I unhappy? I must be crazy not to be happy with this life. I must ignore my heart telling me that something was wrong.
I continued to give, to give up, to try real hard to fit into the life I’d built with my husband, though I never felt as if I belonged in it. I always felt like an outsider because it wasn’t me. But I was supposed to want it. It’s what everyone else wanted, so I was told.
Then several traumatic events weighed on my heart. It’s funny how when we are feeling our lowest, our head turns to our hearts for the answer and not the other way around. If my life were to be over today, could I have said that I lived it? I think I’d only existed.
My heart told me it was time to be selfish. I needed to stop giving with nothing in return. I drew the proverbial line in the sand, and decided I was going to take some of myself back. I wanted to be happy, and it meant going back to the person I once was. My marriage ended when I wouldn’t allow things to remain still, unchanging. I needed something different, and I needed to be able to find it, but I’d given in for too long, and the life we’d created was too comfortable to chance finding a new way. I wasn’t worth the sacrifice of what we had built.
Looking back, I realize that it was all brought about because I should have never let go of my dreams from the beginning. I shouldn’t have given in. I should have taken the risk at the beginning of losing him and following my heart instead of years later. But even back then, I knew that he wouldn’t have followed me as I followed him. If I would have loved myself more, I would have admitted it then instead of years later.
I do try to learn from my mistakes, and this is one I hope to never repeat. But I still find myself giving more than I receive. Not asking for anything in return, afraid to ask for what I should deserve. Afraid that I will lose someone I love if I don’t give instead of take what I need.
So I had a reminder tattooed to me. A heart with wings to remind myself that the path to freedom and happiness is a journey through my heart. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, and I don’t plan to ever forget it.
I’ve never done anything to my body to permanently distort it, so why now?
The simple, but of course not so simple, answer is that it’s symbolic. As an English teacher, I love the idea that something can represent so much more than itself. This small, hidden away tattoo has a deeper meaning for me than just the year I’m leaving fear and, apparently for some, sanity behind.
The tattoo is symbolic of a lesson that came with a high price. A lesson in how and why things fail and fall apart. At the beginning of my marriage, I still believed anything was possible; that I could have all the goals in my life realized and not have to make any sacrifices. I went into my marriage believing that I’d found someone who would help me accomplish my goals instead of change them. I remember a conversation with an uncle right before my wedding. He questioned me on getting married so young, reminding me of all the goals I’d set for myself. I told him that it would be okay, that I would still accomplish them. My future husband understood what they meant to me.
Time wore on though and everything began to change. If I wanted this, I’d have to give that up. If I wanted to be happy as a couple, I’d have to give up wanting, wanting anything that would tear me away from the life he pictured for us. But I was guilty, too. I gave in little by little, persuaded by reason that it was what was best. That this was the life I was supposed to want. Reason dominated until the life I led resembled nothing of the life I wanted. Still, my head reasoned with my heart, I had everything someone could want, why was I unhappy? I must be crazy not to be happy with this life. I must ignore my heart telling me that something was wrong.
I continued to give, to give up, to try real hard to fit into the life I’d built with my husband, though I never felt as if I belonged in it. I always felt like an outsider because it wasn’t me. But I was supposed to want it. It’s what everyone else wanted, so I was told.
Then several traumatic events weighed on my heart. It’s funny how when we are feeling our lowest, our head turns to our hearts for the answer and not the other way around. If my life were to be over today, could I have said that I lived it? I think I’d only existed.
My heart told me it was time to be selfish. I needed to stop giving with nothing in return. I drew the proverbial line in the sand, and decided I was going to take some of myself back. I wanted to be happy, and it meant going back to the person I once was. My marriage ended when I wouldn’t allow things to remain still, unchanging. I needed something different, and I needed to be able to find it, but I’d given in for too long, and the life we’d created was too comfortable to chance finding a new way. I wasn’t worth the sacrifice of what we had built.
Looking back, I realize that it was all brought about because I should have never let go of my dreams from the beginning. I shouldn’t have given in. I should have taken the risk at the beginning of losing him and following my heart instead of years later. But even back then, I knew that he wouldn’t have followed me as I followed him. If I would have loved myself more, I would have admitted it then instead of years later.
I do try to learn from my mistakes, and this is one I hope to never repeat. But I still find myself giving more than I receive. Not asking for anything in return, afraid to ask for what I should deserve. Afraid that I will lose someone I love if I don’t give instead of take what I need.
So I had a reminder tattooed to me. A heart with wings to remind myself that the path to freedom and happiness is a journey through my heart. I’ve learned that lesson the hard way, and I don’t plan to ever forget it.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Experience #5 Too Much Information
So after the initial excitement of my psychic reading last month, anxiety set in. The psychic had told me what my life would be like in six months and even two years from now. But how I would get to all those great things from the point where I’m at right now? I have absolutely no idea, hence the anxiety. Therefore, I decided to move an item higher up on my list of experiences that I had planned to do later in the year.
I went have my tarot cards read. Having read my own tarot cards for years, I figured that I could have someone else do it and answer all those looming questions.
It sounded like a good idea at the time. Right, not exactly how it happened.
Just like I did when I chose my psychic, I did some research before I went to New Orleans. I didn’t want to end up behind the St. Louis Cathedral with some random person, so I discovered the Bottom of the Cup Tea Room, which appeared to have a reputation. There were several reviews of the shop, and it appeared legit.
When I made it to the front of the clouded windows and barred door and it was closed, I thought oh no, I’ll have to find somewhere else. A sign on the door said to go one block to St. Ann’s and look for the palm sign. So I walked the one block… and ended up behind the St. Louis Cathedral.
I nearly walked right pass Gina as I studied her palm sign. Did I really want to have a street psychic read my cards?
It was as if she sensed my doubt because in a moment of hesitation as I debated walking on, she made eye contact and motioned me over.
The street psychics were out in full force for the benefit of the Mardi Gras tourists, and she’d taken up her post with all the others to appeal to the masses. I still would have preferred the quieter shop.
She was running a special that day, so she threw in a palm reading and a crystal reading along with the tarot card reading I’d gone looking for.
She then proceeded to cure this obsession I have with knowing my future. I no longer wish to know. I’m over it.
Whereas I enjoyed the experience with psychic number one and felt some excitement, this one presented information that made me think and sometimes stutter aloud, no, that’s not possible. That will not happen. I would never let that happen.
Since many of the things the two psychics said were contradictory, I shall see which one is correct, for they both can’t be accurate. I know which one I’d cheer for at this point, but only time will tell. My tarot card reading caused more than a tad of anxiety and one moment of terrifying panic. It was enough to make me not want to revisit.
I will finally do what I should have done in the first place. I’m going to imagine what I want my future to be, and then each day I’m going to ask myself what would make me happy today and bring me closer to that image. Though the great predictions give me hope that what I’m trying to accomplish right now is possible, I still believe that we each make our own way. Good and bad things happen, and it’s how we choose to react in each situation that determines where we end up in the future. I’ll make my own choices and see if either of their predictions are correct., but it will be I who decides what I want.
I went have my tarot cards read. Having read my own tarot cards for years, I figured that I could have someone else do it and answer all those looming questions.
It sounded like a good idea at the time. Right, not exactly how it happened.
Just like I did when I chose my psychic, I did some research before I went to New Orleans. I didn’t want to end up behind the St. Louis Cathedral with some random person, so I discovered the Bottom of the Cup Tea Room, which appeared to have a reputation. There were several reviews of the shop, and it appeared legit.
When I made it to the front of the clouded windows and barred door and it was closed, I thought oh no, I’ll have to find somewhere else. A sign on the door said to go one block to St. Ann’s and look for the palm sign. So I walked the one block… and ended up behind the St. Louis Cathedral.
I nearly walked right pass Gina as I studied her palm sign. Did I really want to have a street psychic read my cards?
It was as if she sensed my doubt because in a moment of hesitation as I debated walking on, she made eye contact and motioned me over.
The street psychics were out in full force for the benefit of the Mardi Gras tourists, and she’d taken up her post with all the others to appeal to the masses. I still would have preferred the quieter shop.
She was running a special that day, so she threw in a palm reading and a crystal reading along with the tarot card reading I’d gone looking for.
She then proceeded to cure this obsession I have with knowing my future. I no longer wish to know. I’m over it.
Whereas I enjoyed the experience with psychic number one and felt some excitement, this one presented information that made me think and sometimes stutter aloud, no, that’s not possible. That will not happen. I would never let that happen.
Since many of the things the two psychics said were contradictory, I shall see which one is correct, for they both can’t be accurate. I know which one I’d cheer for at this point, but only time will tell. My tarot card reading caused more than a tad of anxiety and one moment of terrifying panic. It was enough to make me not want to revisit.
I will finally do what I should have done in the first place. I’m going to imagine what I want my future to be, and then each day I’m going to ask myself what would make me happy today and bring me closer to that image. Though the great predictions give me hope that what I’m trying to accomplish right now is possible, I still believe that we each make our own way. Good and bad things happen, and it’s how we choose to react in each situation that determines where we end up in the future. I’ll make my own choices and see if either of their predictions are correct., but it will be I who decides what I want.
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Will her Prince Come?
My daughter recently paused in her twirling around the living room in her pink princess satin night gown to ask me if she could grow up to be a princess. At first I told her no, but since I always try to give factually accurate information to my children (Some conversations have gone astray this way. I should have learned my lesson with the where babies come from conversation), I added that the only way for her to be a princess was if she married a prince.
“So Princes are real?”
“We don’t have any in our country, but they do have princes in other countries.”
“So fairy tales are real?” I was straightening up toys, but the excitement in her voice made me look up and forget a moment that I’d asked them to pick the Wii games up earlier.
She laughed her loud laugh, her face glowing. “I’m going to marry a prince. I want to be a princess when I grow up.”
Ugh. Not quite what I was trying to get across. Had I not taught her that girls can do anything? We don’t need someone to arrive on a white horse and gallop off into the horizon to rescue us from our lives. I never had dreams of being a princess as a child, and I read Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I wanted to live in an apartment in New York City with a career that made me famous. (I know, I know, but I was a kid). Of course, I also dreamed of being unmarried without children, and I’m divorced with two children. I guess no part of that dream really came true. I don’t think I’d completely thought out that dream.
But her dream is cultivated by the Disney princess machine. Disney makes $4 billion dollars a year on merchandise to sell my daughter the idea that any girl can be a princess. She wears princess night gowns and clothes, watches princess movies and listens to princess movies. She has princess books, dolls and dress up clothes. She’s bombarded by the idea that a prince will come and rescue her and love her forever.
In the culture we live in, probably not the lesson to be teaching. Unless Disney starts bombarding boys with how to treat girls like princesses, I don’t think she’ll find prince charming when she grows up. I teach teenage boys today, and they don't impress me much with their ability to sweep a girl off her feet or even know how to ask a girl out without text messaging it. Love takes more work than the happily ever after of a princess story, and I’ve already taught her that it’s okay to give up. (No, I don’t think that’s what I did, but it’s how it’s interpreted by many).
So how do you tell a five year old that she probably won’t find a prince one day that will make her a princess?
Sigh. You don’t. You nod your head, knowing that she will discover that on her own before you’d like. I changed my dream from when I was a child, but I remember what it was like for everyone to tell me my dreams were unrealistic and I needed a reality check. Who knows what could happen if I just tell her that anything is possible as long as she isn't afraid to make it happen?
And besides, next week it will be a different dream that I will nod my head for. She’s only five and I’m sure tomorrow’s dream may be something more worrying. She does have an imagination like her mother, after all.
“So Princes are real?”
“We don’t have any in our country, but they do have princes in other countries.”
“So fairy tales are real?” I was straightening up toys, but the excitement in her voice made me look up and forget a moment that I’d asked them to pick the Wii games up earlier.
She laughed her loud laugh, her face glowing. “I’m going to marry a prince. I want to be a princess when I grow up.”
Ugh. Not quite what I was trying to get across. Had I not taught her that girls can do anything? We don’t need someone to arrive on a white horse and gallop off into the horizon to rescue us from our lives. I never had dreams of being a princess as a child, and I read Cinderella and Sleeping Beauty. I wanted to live in an apartment in New York City with a career that made me famous. (I know, I know, but I was a kid). Of course, I also dreamed of being unmarried without children, and I’m divorced with two children. I guess no part of that dream really came true. I don’t think I’d completely thought out that dream.
But her dream is cultivated by the Disney princess machine. Disney makes $4 billion dollars a year on merchandise to sell my daughter the idea that any girl can be a princess. She wears princess night gowns and clothes, watches princess movies and listens to princess movies. She has princess books, dolls and dress up clothes. She’s bombarded by the idea that a prince will come and rescue her and love her forever.
In the culture we live in, probably not the lesson to be teaching. Unless Disney starts bombarding boys with how to treat girls like princesses, I don’t think she’ll find prince charming when she grows up. I teach teenage boys today, and they don't impress me much with their ability to sweep a girl off her feet or even know how to ask a girl out without text messaging it. Love takes more work than the happily ever after of a princess story, and I’ve already taught her that it’s okay to give up. (No, I don’t think that’s what I did, but it’s how it’s interpreted by many).
So how do you tell a five year old that she probably won’t find a prince one day that will make her a princess?
Sigh. You don’t. You nod your head, knowing that she will discover that on her own before you’d like. I changed my dream from when I was a child, but I remember what it was like for everyone to tell me my dreams were unrealistic and I needed a reality check. Who knows what could happen if I just tell her that anything is possible as long as she isn't afraid to make it happen?
And besides, next week it will be a different dream that I will nod my head for. She’s only five and I’m sure tomorrow’s dream may be something more worrying. She does have an imagination like her mother, after all.
Monday, February 7, 2011
Experience #4 Does Hair color Make the Person?
For experience number four, I decided to get a makeover. I’m sure if you are following this blog, you may be getting the impression that the experiences on my list are superficial. I promise there are many other pursuits that will come in the year that don’t involve outer beauty improvement.
When I added a makeover to my list of thirty-three experiences, I didn’t have this fantasy of transforming myself into someone I wasn’t. I’ve spent my entire life as a blonde, except for the last two years.
After the school shooting nearly two years ago, I wanted to disappear, go unnoticed. I didn’t want people staring at me as I wondered what they thought. Did they think I was brave, or that I had done something to be the chosen target? Did they think I could have done something differently to prevent the student from dying? I didn’t want anyone to look at me anymore. I didn’t want to imagine the questions that formed behind those stares. I’d always been aware that my long blonde hair garnered attention, so I chopped it off and dyed it deep brown. The hard, impersonal color attracted me as it matched the numb hardness on my insides. I would not allow the anger, the shock, and the unhappiness to break me, and as each new person praised my strength, I grew harder on the inside and deepened the color of my hair.
Numbness eases little by little as time passes though. Slowly, I dealt with all the emotions that this random event created, so the idea of returning to my natural honey blonde has been toying in my thoughts for some time.
So when I considered what I wanted to accomplish next on this list of experiences, returning to the old me was high on that list. So I did the whole makeover this weekend and left the last of the lingering fears behind.
But when I look in the mirror, it feels as if there is a wig where my hair once was. I don’t quite feel like that blonde I was two years ago. Maybe I never will. Because though I’ve dealt with the emotions of that day, I will never be that same person again. I’m not the same blonde that went to work that morning believing that nothing bad can happen.
So as I stared into the mirror, I started thinking about how important hair color is to a person’s identity. Many would argue that it’s just superficial. But when we describe someone to people, we say, “Oh, you know, that girl with the brown hair and green eyes.” We start with that simple identification.
Not too long ago, I was washing my daughter’s hair as I dyed my own. She studied the deep blackness of my hair as the dye worked, and I scrubbed her golden brown hair that defies a color category. “What color is your real hair, Mommy?”
“Oh, it’s the color of yours, just with more blonde.”
She stared at my dye-soaked hair a moment longer before returning her attention back to her bath pouf.
I wanted to tell her that her hair was beautiful, but the words caught in my throat. My hair is her color, and I’ve dyed it long enough for her to not know that our hair colors are nearly identical. How can she believe her hair color is beautiful, if I don’t show her?
Hair color may only be an extension of our superficial selves, but it is one I’ve always identified with who I was as a person. I may not be that blonde anymore, but when my daughter looks at me and sees her hair color and other parts of herself in me, I want her to know that those parts are special and that she doesn’t need to change anything about herself for her to be beautiful and unique. I can at least be strong enough for her.
When I added a makeover to my list of thirty-three experiences, I didn’t have this fantasy of transforming myself into someone I wasn’t. I’ve spent my entire life as a blonde, except for the last two years.
After the school shooting nearly two years ago, I wanted to disappear, go unnoticed. I didn’t want people staring at me as I wondered what they thought. Did they think I was brave, or that I had done something to be the chosen target? Did they think I could have done something differently to prevent the student from dying? I didn’t want anyone to look at me anymore. I didn’t want to imagine the questions that formed behind those stares. I’d always been aware that my long blonde hair garnered attention, so I chopped it off and dyed it deep brown. The hard, impersonal color attracted me as it matched the numb hardness on my insides. I would not allow the anger, the shock, and the unhappiness to break me, and as each new person praised my strength, I grew harder on the inside and deepened the color of my hair.
Numbness eases little by little as time passes though. Slowly, I dealt with all the emotions that this random event created, so the idea of returning to my natural honey blonde has been toying in my thoughts for some time.
So when I considered what I wanted to accomplish next on this list of experiences, returning to the old me was high on that list. So I did the whole makeover this weekend and left the last of the lingering fears behind.
But when I look in the mirror, it feels as if there is a wig where my hair once was. I don’t quite feel like that blonde I was two years ago. Maybe I never will. Because though I’ve dealt with the emotions of that day, I will never be that same person again. I’m not the same blonde that went to work that morning believing that nothing bad can happen.
So as I stared into the mirror, I started thinking about how important hair color is to a person’s identity. Many would argue that it’s just superficial. But when we describe someone to people, we say, “Oh, you know, that girl with the brown hair and green eyes.” We start with that simple identification.
Not too long ago, I was washing my daughter’s hair as I dyed my own. She studied the deep blackness of my hair as the dye worked, and I scrubbed her golden brown hair that defies a color category. “What color is your real hair, Mommy?”
“Oh, it’s the color of yours, just with more blonde.”
She stared at my dye-soaked hair a moment longer before returning her attention back to her bath pouf.
I wanted to tell her that her hair was beautiful, but the words caught in my throat. My hair is her color, and I’ve dyed it long enough for her to not know that our hair colors are nearly identical. How can she believe her hair color is beautiful, if I don’t show her?
Hair color may only be an extension of our superficial selves, but it is one I’ve always identified with who I was as a person. I may not be that blonde anymore, but when my daughter looks at me and sees her hair color and other parts of herself in me, I want her to know that those parts are special and that she doesn’t need to change anything about herself for her to be beautiful and unique. I can at least be strong enough for her.
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