Friday, July 23, 2010
The Intangible Gift of Knowing There
Tuesday, July 20th, the day after my big day, I was going about my life in the usual manner. I think I may have been cleaning a toilet, or some other inane but necessary task, and the doorbell rang. Figuring it was a neighborhood kid looking for some company, I let Liam take care of it.....
But there she was- a woman whose friendship I have coveted for a long time, someone I have yet to get to know very well, but someone I know, deep down, is going to be a big part of my life. We've had a few treasured conversations since we met eighteen months ago. And we are walking similar paths, parallel ones- right next to one another, me leading the pack only due to my experience on this trail before.
In all of my friend's insecurities and confusion, however, lies a most remarkable woman and mother, who parents her children with amazing passion and intention. Not by the books, but by her enormous heart. And her instincts have served her well and the gift of her brain is that she takes not the easiest road, but the one where she travels with fervor and excitement and grace. And these children of hers are already the product of her gift/her nature- they are all independent and smart and unique. Free to be kids, unfettered by unnecessary rules and fears.
Sometimes when we tell truths- we place freedom in the hearts of others, to tell their own truths and to live a much more authentic life. I am thankful for that in every flawed but fabulous friend whose imperfections I hold as their greatest strengths.
For everyone who thinks I am crazy, there is also someone out there who takes what I say and holds it as a doorway to themselves. And for this, and this alone, I reveal it all.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
A Gift From A Friend
Do not remember the past events, pay no attention to things of old. Look I am about to do something new. Isaiah 43:18
I promised myself that I'd be authoring posts that were lighter in weight and more of a reflection of the funny side of my life. But yesterday, amongst the plethora of blessings bestowed upon me, were these photographs, attached to my wall on Facebook, by a very good friend of mine. It took me a while, once I caught them, to fully understand the gift before me- time taken to capture the noses of all of her family members, just to validate what I had written about my own. I wanted to share these with you today, because it is these simple acts of love that make life so incredibly sacred.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Who Nose? Me....And Now You
Oh what I would do to have
The kind of faith it takes
To climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown where Jesus is
And He's holding out His hand
"You've got ta go dere ta know dere."- Zora Neale Hurston in Their Eyes Were Watching God
It was 1981 and I was in fifth grade. Just an ordinary day like the rest. The teacher was rambling on about some subject we didn't care for, I assume, and suddenly, the kid across from me blurts out "oh my God Judy. You've got a really BIG NOSE." And that was all it took- everyone got on the bandwagon, even my best friend, who I counted on, joined in the fun- at every turn I had kids sneering and laughing about my nose. Then came middle school. Nicholas Orem Middle School. And the barbs flew at me like artillery on the front line. The most painful of all of the memories, the one I see and feel when I am especially vulnerable, is the one where I was eating lunch in the cafeteria and about seven kids, whom I didn't know, encircled me and began taunting me "how do you see over that thing," "you are so ugly you should just die," "stupid white bitch with the big nose like Pinocchio..." the good Sunday School girl just took it all, staring down at her tray, tears flooding her face...she was turning the other cheek, or so she told herself...(the girl I am today would have thrown the hot soup on all of them and told them all to go fuck themselves, fervently reminding them of what losers they were and how they would never amount to anything...with their free lunch-gum smacking-remedial brained- piece of trash selves. and I would have had the shit beaten out of me...but I would have had more dignity. Today, I counsel all of my children to hit back. And hard. Sue me, but I don't buy the meek thing- kindness only works when you can also be kind and advocate for yourself. Jesus didn't take shit from anyone without being in control. He was humble, yes, but with a love of self that kept him from being a doormat. They don't teach you that in church and I think it is a big mistake. Blaspheme I do, but with good intentions). By eighth grade, things were worse, and I came home crying everyday, sometimes not even making it through the school day, going to the nurse's office and calling my mom to come and get me.
We moved shortly before I turned 14, and, as a result, I had the privilege of attending a high school where there were an abundance of kids with above average intelligence. Some of them even had noses like mine. The burn-outs and the rednecks gave me the same grief, if I walked by them on the way to school, as they lurked about smoking and talking trash, but, once at school, I was segregated from the lot of them, in classrooms of kids who were going places- who had goals and creativity and self-esteem. I had a normal teenage life. The scars remained, but I dealt with them, buried them, survived, thrived...
Five years ago, in the spring of 2005, I consulted the chief of cosmetic surgery at Georgetown. I figured if I was going to go under the knife to "fix" what was wrong with me, I was going to go to the best of the best. I had prepared myself for what I knew would be a painful session of asking someone to scrutinize my face- and paying dearly for it-but this time I was the one in control, and that made it okay. My assumption was that the Dr. would be as critical as the schoolyard bullies, just with more professionalism and a few nice words thrown in here and there for good measure. His assistant interviewed me first and, after hearing me tell the reason for my visit, appeared a bit confused. She said "hmmm...I'll go get the Doctor and we'll see what he thinks..." Are you sitting down, people? Really, have a seat, buckle up, because you aren't going to believe what comes next. He refused my business. He told me there was no way he would change anything about my nose. "I would consider it a more sought after shape, actually." "What?," I quipped "I'm sorry, I don't seem to have heard you correctly. Sought after? By whom? Because I've never met them and I've met a whole lot of people." "Have you been smoking a wad of crack on your lunch hour?!" "Do you know the things people have said to me, my whole life, the hell I've been through?!," I argued. He sympathized, said he was sorry but emphatically denied that I needed rhinoplasty, saying, "I will not operate on your nose- other surgeons would do it, for the cash- some will do anything their patients request- but I know what I know -in layman's terms, it has a bridge- I have clients who pay me to create those. It has sharper features than a nose that is flat, or wide, or turned upward. You don't want any of those noses, Judy. It would be a huge mistake." And that was it. I walked out of the office, called Tom, sobbing uncontrollably, telling him a miracle had just occurred or Georgetown had a lunatic on their hands. My husband had never agreed with my opinion to begin with, so he wasn't particularly shocked. He would have supported me but that was the extent of it.
I can't say that I don't consider, daily, getting a nip here and there, a tuk here, and there. Hard as I try, I still look at myself through the eyes of the hateful souls that were an unfortunate but, I believe, probably a providential part my youth- those whose damaged lives left them little else but to inflict similar wounds on someone, who deep down, they resented- for being something they'd most likely never felt: hopeful. Children aren't born monsters- they learn it, and for these particular youths, I'm certain there were sticks and stones and names beyond any I could ever imagine. The faulty half of me flips them the bird, in my head, every now and again and secretly hopes they've remained in their own puddle of misery. The faulty half of me believes they deserve it. But the half of me that knows my own spiritual dirt, and the grace that has cleaned me up, is more empathetic, maybe even forgiving.
So, without soliciting opinions or permission from anyone in my life, yesterday, I drove downtown, alone, to a tattoo parlor, called In The Blood. For some of you, this may seem quite the oxymoron, but it is a Christ-centered establishment, the idea of which both intrigued and comforted me at the same time. I drove around the block a couple of times, parked, edged my way past some guys on the stoop, and, for the first time, chose power over pity for all of this that has ached in me for so long. And the images of Jesus, in every art form you could possibly imagine, surrounding me on the landing and in the waiting area, soothed away all the doubt that may have ushered forth. Being amongst people whose unique, yet, quite honestly, somewhat grotesque body art, I could barely comprehend, I normally would have at least felt a bit out of place. But we've all got a story to tell, and while I never in a million years pictured myself at home in such a shop, I knew I needed to be there yesterday, with this overdue request. "I'm here to get my nose pierced," I said. And with all of the courage I could muster, I sat in that chair, unapologetically, and with no shame, and I took the pain of that needle so I could claim this part of this face that I own. And it was done. "How was it?" the man asked. "Oh, I've given birth to ten pound babies, with marginal epidurals, believe me, it was fine.". Then I thanked him and explained that the piercing wasn't a vanity thing- this jewel on my left nostril. It wasn't some whim to fit in with the trend or some impulse to hold onto my youth..I was finally taking back what those kids took from me a long time ago. Then I walked out, edged past the guys on the stoop, again, but this time, with my shoulders held higher than before and sporting the confidence of a superstar. Because this time, and with this simple gutsy act, I won. I won.
But the waves are calling out my name
And they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
And they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me
Time and time again. "Boy, you'll never win!"
"You'll never win!"
Time and time again. "Boy, you'll never win!"
"You'll never win!"
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
The voice of truth says, "Do not be afraid!"
The voice of truth says, "This is for My glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
The voice of truth says, "Do not be afraid!"
The voice of truth says, "This is for My glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
Oh what I would do to have
The kind of strength it takes to stand before a giant
With just a sling and a stone
Oh what I would do to have
The kind of strength it takes to stand before a giant
With just a sling and a stone
Surrounded by the sound of a thousand warriors
Shaking in their armor
Wishing they'd have had the strength to stand
But the giant's calling out my name
And he laughs at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The giant keeps on telling me
Time and time again. "Boy you'll never win!"
"You'll never win!"
But the stone was just the right size
To put the giant on the ground
And the waves they don't seem so high
From on top of them lookin' down
I will soar with the wings of eagles
When I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus
Singing over me
Shaking in their armor
Wishing they'd have had the strength to stand
But the giant's calling out my name
And he laughs at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The giant keeps on telling me
Time and time again. "Boy you'll never win!"
"You'll never win!"
But the stone was just the right size
To put the giant on the ground
And the waves they don't seem so high
From on top of them lookin' down
I will soar with the wings of eagles
When I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus
Singing over me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth.
-Casting Crowns
Stepping out of my comfort zone....if ever I've done that..really done that .this is it. And it is all I've got- my real truth. The part that I've told almost no one, because it hurts so bad and there is so much shame here. And I've told some icky truths, friends. And some of you have heard them. Or read them. This is a story a long time in the making. A tale that begins with a hell of a lot of anguish, but one that ends on Carson Street, in Pittsburgh, yesterday. As I lay here, composing this, watching my breathing, in and out, pushing myself to give it up, for the world to behold, I feel the weight of an enormous pain washing over me, then leaving.....
It was 1981 and I was in fifth grade. Just an ordinary day like the rest. The teacher was rambling on about some subject we didn't care for, I assume, and suddenly, the kid across from me blurts out "oh my God Judy. You've got a really BIG NOSE." And that was all it took- everyone got on the bandwagon, even my best friend, who I counted on, joined in the fun- at every turn I had kids sneering and laughing about my nose. Then came middle school. Nicholas Orem Middle School. And the barbs flew at me like artillery on the front line. The most painful of all of the memories, the one I see and feel when I am especially vulnerable, is the one where I was eating lunch in the cafeteria and about seven kids, whom I didn't know, encircled me and began taunting me "how do you see over that thing," "you are so ugly you should just die," "stupid white bitch with the big nose like Pinocchio..." the good Sunday School girl just took it all, staring down at her tray, tears flooding her face...she was turning the other cheek, or so she told herself...(the girl I am today would have thrown the hot soup on all of them and told them all to go fuck themselves, fervently reminding them of what losers they were and how they would never amount to anything...with their free lunch-gum smacking-remedial brained- piece of trash selves. and I would have had the shit beaten out of me...but I would have had more dignity. Today, I counsel all of my children to hit back. And hard. Sue me, but I don't buy the meek thing- kindness only works when you can also be kind and advocate for yourself. Jesus didn't take shit from anyone without being in control. He was humble, yes, but with a love of self that kept him from being a doormat. They don't teach you that in church and I think it is a big mistake. Blaspheme I do, but with good intentions). By eighth grade, things were worse, and I came home crying everyday, sometimes not even making it through the school day, going to the nurse's office and calling my mom to come and get me. We moved shortly before I turned 14, and, as a result, I had the privilege of attending a high school where there were an abundance of kids with above average intelligence. Some of them even had noses like mine. The burn-outs and the rednecks gave me the same grief, if I walked by them on the way to school, as they lurked about smoking and talking trash, but, once at school, I was segregated from the lot of them, in classrooms of kids who were going places- who had goals and creativity and self-esteem. I had a normal teenage life. The scars remained, but I dealt with them, buried them, survived, thrived...
Five years ago, in the spring of 2005, I consulted the chief of cosmetic surgery at Georgetown. I figured if I was going to go under the knife to "fix" what was wrong with me, I was going to go to the best of the best. I had prepared myself for what I knew would be a painful session of asking someone to scrutinize my face- and paying dearly for it-but this time I was the one in control, and that made it okay. My assumption was that the Dr. would be as critical as the schoolyard bullies, just with more professionalism and a few nice words thrown in here and there for good measure. His assistant interviewed me first and, after hearing me tell the reason for my visit, appeared a bit confused. She said "hmmm...I'll go get the Doctor and we'll see what he thinks..." Are you sitting down, people? Really, have a seat, buckle up, because you aren't going to believe what comes next. He refused my business. He told me there was no way he would change anything about my nose. "I would consider it a more sought after shape, actually." "What?," I quipped "I'm sorry, I don't seem to have heard you correctly. Sought after? By whom? Because I've never met them and I've met a whole lot of people." "Have you been smoking a wad of crack on your lunch hour?!" "Do you know the things people have said to me, my whole life, the hell I've been through?!," I argued. He sympathized, said he was sorry but emphatically denied that I needed rhinoplasty, saying, "I will not operate on your nose- other surgeons would do it, for the cash- some will do anything their patients request- but I know what I know -in layman's terms, it has a bridge- I have clients who pay me to create those. It has sharper features than a nose that is flat, or wide, or turned upward. You don't want any of those noses, Judy. It would be a huge mistake." And that was it. I walked out of the office, called Tom, sobbing uncontrollably, telling him a miracle had just occurred or Georgetown had a lunatic on their hands. My husband had never agreed with my opinion to begin with, so he wasn't particularly shocked. He would have supported me but that was the extent of it.
I can't say that I don't consider, daily, getting a nip here and there, a tuk here, and there. Hard as I try, I still look at myself through the eyes of the hateful souls that were an unfortunate but, I believe, probably a providential part my youth- those whose damaged lives left them little else but to inflict similar wounds on someone, who deep down, they resented- for being something they'd most likely never felt: hopeful. Children aren't born monsters- they learn it, and for these particular youths, I'm certain there were sticks and stones and names beyond any I could ever imagine. The faulty half of me flips them the bird, in my head, every now and again and secretly hopes they've remained in their own puddle of misery. The faulty half of me believes they deserve it. But the half of me that knows my own spiritual dirt, and the grace that has cleaned me up, is more empathetic, maybe even forgiving.
So, without soliciting opinions or permission from anyone in my life, yesterday, I drove downtown, alone, to a tattoo parlor, called In The Blood. For some of you, this may seem quite the oxymoron, but it is a Christ-centered establishment, the idea of which both intrigued and comforted me at the same time. I drove around the block a couple of times, parked, edged my way past some guys on the stoop, and, for the first time, chose power over pity for all of this that has ached in me for so long. And the images of Jesus, in every art form you could possibly imagine, surrounding me on the landing and in the waiting area, soothed away all the doubt that may have ushered forth. Being amongst people whose unique, yet, quite honestly, somewhat grotesque body art, I could barely comprehend, I normally would have at least felt a bit out of place. But we've all got a story to tell, and while I never in a million years pictured myself at home in such a shop, I knew I needed to be there yesterday, with this overdue request. "I'm here to get my nose pierced," I said. And with all of the courage I could muster, I sat in that chair, unapologetically, and with no shame, and I took the pain of that needle so I could claim this part of this face that I own. And it was done. "How was it?" the man asked. "Oh, I've given birth to ten pound babies, with marginal epidurals, believe me, it was fine.". Then I thanked him and explained that the piercing wasn't a vanity thing- this jewel on my left nostril. It wasn't some whim to fit in with the trend or some impulse to hold onto my youth..I was finally taking back what those kids took from me a long time ago. Then I walked out, edged past the guys on the stoop, again, but this time, with my shoulders held higher than before and sporting the confidence of a superstar. Because this time, and with this simple gutsy act, I won. I won.Monday, July 12, 2010
40
thirty-something and I'm running down a list of things I want to do before then. Its a different list than the one I would have created in the summer of 2000, when 30 loomed heavily on my horizon - like a storm. And I thought I was so old. The tasks before me are ones of loving myself, taking care of Judy, letting go. They are things of no concern to anyone but me- things I've put off for one reason or another. Stuff. And they're getting done- wow- they are getting done-and will be complete, at 9:30am next Monday, when I tell my parents "thank you" for making my life possible four decades ago today.
I was pregnant July 19th, 2000. About six months along with my second child. I was ushering out the twenties with dread, though I'd planned a big celebration to help that along. The 30's were going to amount to much more, I said...more money, more education, more inches off the waist, more safety, more security, more success, more kids.
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The money is relative, on paper its not so bad, but we have more bills-more to lose. We've still got one salary, by choice, but its less by a quarter of what it was a year ago. The economy has hit us hard. And I've never known financial worries like I know now. And it may not get better anytime soon. More education-I've never made it back to school, but I've learned volumes above what I ever got at a University, from the wisest of souls who've traveled through my days up 'til now. I still find myself longing for a title in front of my name- something that will prove that I've done something. That will come, in time. I think. As for my waist- there's more junk in the trunk instead of less (and I'm being kind when I say that), but I can haul ass five miles a day and feel incredible. And just today, I scaled Ashland, one hell of a hill in my neighborhood, with my 35 pound son in the jogger. So its all good. More safety- yes and no. I inhabit a house on a cul-de-sac, surrounded by upper middle class folks who drive nicer cars than me and who have no need for much of anything I can think of. It looks pretty. And we don't fear for our lives when we leave the front door- no drive-bys or crackheads or other realities we've faced. But a mother was struck and killed by a car, just down the street, a couple of weeks back, jogging with two of her three small children. It shouldn't have happened here, but it did. Safety can be a rouse. More success- not by the standards of our culture. Not even by my own standards- but I'm redefining that term and choosing to believe that I've made it. The rest will be a bonus. As far as more kids- I'm cruising toward 40 with four children in tow. If you had asked me, at 29, which of the "more" would not be negotiable, it would have been this. I chose every one of them. And at the end of the day, that is all that really ever mattered to me. I got the only thing that mattered- and that makes me a very very lucky girl.
There will be no party- I felt no need for one this time. Tom offered- I declined. Instead, I asked for the gift of intimacy that comes with dinner and a few close companions, a few times next week or next month. Today, it is about who I want beside me- for my birthday- for my life. They are the people whose presence makes me richer than I could ever have imagined when I was younger. When I was 20 or 30. They are the voices I deliberately save on my cell phone, telling me about their days, then throwing in an "I love you". Sometimes twice. Never for any special reason. Just because they do- love me.
I sat in my therapist's office last week- crying- and she wanted to know why. "Why the tears," she asked? "Because I'm happy," I said. Because I don't want to go back. Because I wouldn't do anything different. Because I finally like the girl who stares at me in the mirror. The one with all of the same imperfections that were there at thirty. The unfinished product. The one who's gained more wisdom in this one decade than I had in the three that came before. The one who's learned to put one foot in front of the other, breathe, and press on, even when that seems like the most impossible of tasks. The one who tells truths- which sometimes are not all that pretty. But she tells them anyway- with all of the shame and the self-doubt thrown to the side. And like a warrior, she loves herself
Staring down the barrel at 40.... if for some reason I never make it past this place, where I am now, I will have lived a much fuller life than I ever could have dreamed. And that, my friends, is the icing on a most delicious birthday cake.
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About Me
- Judy Sombar
- Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, United States
- Forty-three year-old, mother and staunch advocate of four young children, passionate warrior of truth and self, finding the soul in each day, sharing my struggles and triumphs as I live them. Mostly I do this for me, so my thoughts don't race as much at night as they used to. But I also give this to those of you who need to know, in any or every way, that you are not alone.
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