I am a garden enthusiast- actually a garden obsessive/compulsive, if I'm really being honest.  I get all tingly in nurseries, like some folks do while eating Godiva or trying on shoes.  I've had to avoid spending much time investigating my landscape, this summer, in order to resist the temptation to blow our vacation budget on hundreds of perennials.  And I totally would- in a heartbeat.

Today, in a conversation with my therapist, I likened myself to a bulb- filled with life and beauty-but desperately in need of planting in fertile soil, in order to thrive.  We only had about five minutes left in our fifty minute session, but she fervently pulled out her easel, art paper, and paints, and demanded that I draw this- this image of me- a horticultural specimen of sorts-longing to bloom.

At first I painted using long strokes, with a wonderful new brush, but as I got lost in my work, I found that I needed to be more intimate with the medium, enthusiastically forming the rest of my rendition, using only my fingertips.

With the enchanting melodies, of a meditation CD in the background, bringing harmony to my artistic endeavor, I began to feel a deep gratitude for the opportunity to, at once, and without premeditation of any sort, get messy and whimsical and creative.  We forget, or downright refuse, to give ourselves permission to live that way in adulthood-why is this? Which then begs the question:  Is it really any wonder why so many of us are on anti-depressants?

So here I am:  "The Bulb"

I heard a story today, on the radio, that nearly moved me to tears, about a father who quit his job so he could be in Omaha, this past weekend, to watch his son pitch in the College World Series.

But tonight I'm going to tell you about a father who inspires me even more.  At 10pm, my husband, who was waiting at the gate for his very delayed flight home to Pittsburgh, cancelled his ticket, ran out of the airport, got back into the rental car he had just returned, so he could drive thirty-five minutes to comfort his anxiety-ridden and homesick eight year-old son, who is staying with his grandparents for "Granny Camp" this week.

There are many, many hours, in my almost fourteen years of marriag
e, where I would like to strangle this man with whom I share a life.  At the end of the day, however, it is love like this- this most selfless and palpable, unconditional caring for our children, that makes me feel nothing but awe and overwhelming gratitude for him.

But I'm not defined

By mistakes that I've made

Because God says of me 

I am chosen and holy and I'm dearly loved

I am new 

But the one who is making everything new

Doesn't see me the way that I do 

Who I thought I was

And who I thought I had to be

I had to give them both up

Cause neither were willing

To ever believe 

I am not who I was, I'm being remade

I am new

Lily had gone ahead of me on the trail yesterday, so lithe and wonderful, determined to run all that was left of the four mile path we'd chosen.  Every once and a while she'd stop and look back, encouraging me to push myself beyond what I believed possible....and this song, "I Am New" by Jason Gray, began, and washed over me...reminding me of all that I have worked toward this last month, and all the potential that lay ahead of me.  I smiled and took off toward her, with gusto, meeting her at the half way point with arms toward the heavens, filled to the brim with joy.

I am inclined to wallow in the shame of having gained back all of the weight that I lost, last summer, when I was so strong and confident.  I could list, here, all of the reasons that this has happened-breakdowns, break-ups, sorrows, medications, the Pittsburgh winter....  Some of them may even be compelling.  But, in the end, it matters not because I am going forward-

Lily and I rewarded our toes with a pedicure, after our 4 mile run/walk.

 its the only choice I have.

We created affirmation statements during my weekend intensive at the "healing center."  After looking over my dream board, and pondering what I had written throughout the day, regarding my dreams and my truths, I decided that what I most needed to hear and BELIEVE was that "I AM POWERFUL."  So often I whisper words of weakness, over and over, to myself,  feeling destined to repeat patterns of loss and defeat, when the reality, for me, is that I am not weak..  Evidence abounds, to the contrary, in fact, when I am willing to look for it and own it.

We "performed" for one another that first evening, in groups, coupling our affirmations with song and movement.  Despite my trepidation to participate in what appeared, from the outset, to be a goofy, if not potentially humiliating exercise, I heard the beat of the Black Eyed Peas' "Imma Be", which I'd suggested to my cohorts at the last second, and I found the girl in me who knows exactly who she is...and I broke out on the makeshift dance floor like a fiend- forgetting all of the self-consciousness and loathing that usually surrounds me.

The Logo for the Center where I am finding myself again.

Seth's Firetruck birthday cake, made by Lily and Liam, last night. Clearly somebody got a little carried away with the candles- he is only FOUR afterall!

Seth loves trashcans, especially the kind which can be opened with the touch of a foot. He's had quite the obsession with them over the years, at doctors' offices and hospitals.   He got a lot of exciting gifts today, from friends and family, but this was his all-time favorite-picked out by his sister and brothers.  He is one funny kid.

Seth, and his girlfriend, from preschool, "Cole" (Nicole).  We were so glad she was willing to attend his party, given that the last time she came over to play, Seth beat her over the head with a piece of train track.

Scenes from Seth's favorite birthday ever!

Dear Seth,

Just minutes old-such a wonder-so pensive and quiet

You turned four years old about thirty minutes ago- you came flying into this world (literally) at 12:17am on Monday, June 11th, 2007. Daddy had to catch you, mid-air, as you were taking a nose-dive toward the delivery room floor. Nothing in our lives has been the same since- but we wanted it that way- the YOU part, that is.  We wanted you with every ounce of our beings- all five of us.  From the moment you came into existence, as a line on the five pregnancy tests I took, we were your biggest fans.

Four years ago, right now, I was frightened to my core that you weren't going to make it.  You had been induced a month early, because the sonogram said you were already 9 and 1/2 pounds (technology can be sketchy like that). The high-risk team of obstetricians, who'd been following your development, along with our mid-wife, feared that you might suffer a similar fate to your brother , also a very large baby, whose collar bone had been broken in the birth canal during delivery.  But you were only 7lbs. 8oz- a peanut compared to ol' Benjamin, and you weren't crying or moving at all really.  You just stared.  I kept thinking you might be dead.  There were all of these doctors and neo-natal specialists surrounding you....and nobody was saying anything.  I remember yelling, over and over "what's wrong with him? is my baby going to be okay?  I just want to hold my baby...please let me hold him...please let him be okay!!!"

You shouldn't have been born on June 11th, 2007.  My body knew that,  and fought to hold onto you for two days after the induction first began....You knew you weren't ready either.  Together it felt like we barely made it through that birth- my allergic reaction to the epidural, our blood pressures plummeting....I felt like I was dying at one point.  Maybe you did too...Maybe that is why its been such a harrowing start in your short life, for you and for me.   Maybe that is why it seems like something may have happened there, in that hospital room, with all of those drugs and hormones and stress....for all of those days.

Seth the trash man, Spring 2011

The very funny boy

If you are old enough to read this, I hope that you are happy- living up to all of your potential- doing as you were created to do....maybe you are a trash truck driver or a fire fighter.  Maybe you changed your mind, somewhere along the way, and decided to play hockey (in which case, I hope you are good because we are probably broke), or go to med school, or become a bass player in a rock band.  Perhaps you are a starving artist or a missionary or a teacher.  Whatever brings you joy- that is all I want for you.  Its all up to you, my son.  From the moment I met you, during those first exhausted exchanges, you seemed to have a plan- and you've been following that path ever since...we were always just trying to keep up.

If you are old enough to read this, I hope that you have forgiven me for all of my short-comings- for the days, during your early years, when you could feel my anxiety, as I held you, and it made you scared, or insecure, and for the days that you missed me, when I was trying to get help. I hope that you have forgiven the times when I grew impatient with you while you demanded more of my time and energy than I could possibly give.  I hope that you feel all of my good intentions that I poured into you, every moment of your life...

Seth-finally walking at 19mos.

If you are old enough to read this, I hope that you are not wrestling with a label that tries to define you as inferior or lesser than your peers.  I hope that for all of the ways that you were slower to develop than the experts said you should be, that you have defied the odds and soared with amazing possibility.  I hope that, what were once considered your weaknesses, are now your gifts to the world- your stunning sense of direction and memory; your perseverance through pain and defeat; your stubbornness and passion for the ideas which you hold as your own.  I hope that for every milestone you didn't meet on time, there are two that you've conquered ahead of the class.  I hope that you feel good about where you are and what you have accomplished- I guarantee it is something spectacular- It already seems that way to me.



Thank you for choosing to enter our lives four years ago today.  Thank you for accepting us as your family, with all of our strengths and our flaws. Thank you for adding to our joy and to our glory.  Thank you for bringing a little piece of heaven down to earth and reminding us, everyday, what real faith in God looks like.

Jesus loves you.  THIS I KNOW. And so do we- your lifeblood- your biggest fans.  So do we, Seth.  So do we.

~Mama

Could a greater miracle take place than for us to look through each other's eyes for an instant?
Henry David Thoreau


No one can lie, no one can hide anything, when he looks directly into some one's eyes.
Paulo Coelho


Sometimes you can't see yourself clearly until you see yourself through the eyes of others.
Ellen DeGeneres

Matthew 18:3 (New World Translation)  "Truly I say to you, Unless You turn around and become  as young children, you will by no means  enter into the kingdom of the heavens."

Though seemingly simple, the work that I found to be some of the most gut wrenching, during the weekend intensive, was to look into the eyes of my fellow classmates, for more than the usual millisecond. After making the typical introductions, we were asked to walk in a circle, some of us clock-wise, others counter clock-wise.  As we passed one another, we were to do so very slowly, stopping to look deep into the eyes of the person opposite of us, saying nothing.  I was surprised by how difficult this exercise became for me, how I almost immediately needed to look away, refusing to allow anyone to see what I, myself, disdain- wanting to retreat to the comfort of staring at the walls or the floor, instead. I found myself giggling at times or blinking a bit much.  I was always happy when it was over.  I was content with being unseen, though it wasn't really getting me anywhere in my life at home in Pittsburgh.

Adults in our Western culture don't spend much time making eye contact with strangers.  We pass one another on the sidewalks or the streets, at most saying "how are you doing", but generally, not even seeing the person whose lives, for a brief moment, are intersecting with ours.  For those of us who are survivors of trauma, who, as a result, also live lives ensconced by shame, eye contact can be very uncomfortable, if not unfathomable.  I believe that the eyes are pathways to the soul, where unconditional love travels deeply into our most hidden truths, envelopes them in a way that we can hardly comprehend.  To open ourselves to this love, we must trust that we are safe and that we are truly worthy of such a gift.  As children we take for granted this worthiness- we presume that we are lovely and deserving, then, somehow or another, it becomes foreign to us, and we shun such vulnerability.

I never conquered the unsettling feeling of this exercise while I was in Florida.  I believe that

My weary green eyes, ready for sleep Saturday night, in my hotel room, about 11:45, shortly after finishing the day's "work",  after 13 hours of  wading through a torrent of emotions, psychodramas, and, finally,  some breathing.

much of what I took away with me were lessons that will take a tremendous amount of practice to integrate into my life.  I am making strides, everyday, to move forward and stare into all that is mighty and loving.  I am beginning to see a softer reflection looking back at me- one of a child who believes that she is as she was made to be- powerful and lovely beyond measure.

I challenge you, dear readers, to spend time in awareness of your eyes- what they admire and where they settle, if they settle.  How does it feel, to you, to behold another, in silence?

My comfort zone resides beneath the clutter of "white noise", where dialog or music or chatter detracts from what might exist, otherwise, if my eyes were allowed to quietly and intentionally, inhale, then exhale- acceptance.

There's a girl in the corner
With tear stains on her eyes 
From the places she's wandered 
And the shame she can't hide 
She says, "How did I get here? 
I'm not who I once was 
And I'm crippled by the fear 
That I've fallen too far to love" 
But don't you know who you are? 
What's been done for you? 
Yeah don't you know who you are 
You are more than the choices that you've made 
You are more than the sum of your past mistakes 
You are more than the problems you create 
You've been remade 
Well she tries to believe it 
That she's been given new life 
But she can't shake the feeling 
That it's not true tonight 
She knows all the answers 
And she's rehearsed all the lines
And so she'll try to do better 
But then she's too weak to try 
But don't you know who you are? 
You are more than the choices that you've made You are more than the sum of your past mistakes 
You are more than the problems you create 
You've been remade 
You are more than the choices that you've made 
You are more than the sum of your past mistakes 
You are more than the problems you create 
You've been remade 
'Cause this is not about what you've done 
But what's been done for you 
This is not about where you've been 
But where your brokenness brings you to 
This is not about what you feel 
But what He felt to forgive you 
And what He felt to make you loved 
You are more than the choices that you've made 
You are more than the sum of your past mistakes 
You are more than the problems you create 
You've been remade- by Tenth Avenue North


When I told my daughter that I would be flying to Florida to attend a workshop, of sorts, on anxiety, she said "you are so lucky-you get to go to Florida to take a class?  Are you kidding me?" Six months of the

one of the few pictures of me in a tank top- neighborhood moms-first day of school 2010

Pittsburgh winter blues had left us all pretty jaded and desperate I'm afraid.  Myself and the kids, alike.  Ironically, however, the intensity of the work over the weekend did not allow for any real free-time to enjoy the Southern climate.  Most of the hours I was at the center, I was indoors, with the exception of our lunch outings and when working on our dreamboards in the backyard.

Friday morning, when I stepped out of my hotel room, toward the parking lot, to meet my ride, I was nearly knocked over by a wave of heat- it was already ninety degrees and it was only 9:30.  I was wearing a sweater  (A SWEATER, PEOPLE) because I'd been warned that the center, where the workshop was held, could get pretty chilly.  Honestly, though, I was happy to cover up my arms- they were flabby and jiggly and embarrassing to me.  Most people who are overweight don't wear tank tops.  We hide ourselves, clothed in self-loathing, and in attire unfit for the warm weather.

An amazing thing happened though, shortly after I arrived and began my "work."  I took off the sweater, because, while everyone else in the room was covered in blankets and freezing, I was sweating.  As a result, I spent the rest of my time there in tank tops.  At first it was because I was uncomfortably warm, but eventually, it was a conscious choice- a movement of my mind toward freedom.  I was completely free of the prison of self-consciousness that normally plagues me.  I stopped caring about my body because what I was experiencing and learning there, and what I was contributing to the group, had nothing to do with my outward appearance.  My beauty and value ventured forth from within, as did that of everyone around me.  The sweater never left my suitcase after that.

God is really kind of funny, such a distinguishable sense of humor.  Not only did he ensure that I wasn't disturbed by the chill in the room where I spent most of my time, he also distracted me long enough to allow me to forget my bag of make-up at home.  I had nothing to hide behind for three days.  I wasn't going to be allowed to sulk beneath the web of shame that normally surrounds me- like he knew I'd come too far to hold anything back.

I needed to be naked in my flaws in order to heal them and I felt nothing but love.

A friend of mine posted this story, from CNN, on her Facebook page today.  It filled me with sadness to hear of the horrors perpetrated on children, such as Kirk Murphy, believed to be too masculine or too efeminate.  One day, when accounts such as these, are put to page in history books, future generations will be sickened that our culture could have once been so cruel.

What a wonderful world it would be if parents would love their children unconditionally and if those children could grow up to be as God designed, without shame.

I support gay and lesbian civil rights.

My infamous neon dreamboard, that I'm certain knocked over a few old ladies, on its trip home to Pittsburgh.

Liam's Dream Boards

One of Lily's FIVE Dream Boards

"Oh my life is changing everyday
Every possible way
Though my dreams, it’s never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems

I know I felt like this before
But now I’m feeling it even more
Because it came from you

Then I open up and see
The person fumbling here is me
A different way to be

I want more, impossible to ignore
Impossible to ignore
They’ll come true, impossible not to do
Impossible not to do

Now I tell you openly
You have my heart so don’t hurt me
For what I couldn’t find

Talk to me amazing mind
So understanding and so kind
You’re everything to me

Oh my life is changing everyday
Every possible way
Though my dreams, it’s never quite as it seems
’cause you’re a dream to me
Dream to me" - The Cranberries



Had you been a fly on the wall in the West Palm Beach Airport, or in the Charlotte Airport, or on either jet that took me home to Pittsburgh, you would have wondered at the blond girl carrying the fluorescent green poster board, all banged up, crazy things hanging off of it....Of all of the items I was toting North, my dream board was the most important cargo of all- not because of its tangible value (it has none), or even because of its intrinsic meaning to me, but because I knew that the lessons carved into the spirit of that poster would have an enormous impact on my children.  Somehow this ridiculously bulbous piece of paper had to get to them intact.  Its that "Trickle Down Effect" made famous by that ever-so-popular, though not my favorite, Republican President of my youth, Ronald Reagan.   I spent the money, I made the trip, I did the hard work and weathered the tumult of emotions, but Lily, Liam, Benjamin and Seth would get the wisdom in spades.  


I showed up for the initial day of the weekend intensive with some trepidation as to what the experience would be like for me.  The night before was dicey- a shabby hotel room, a marginal part of town, dicey food alternatives, and zero cell phone reception. I could only hope that things would improve from there.   My first impression, when I ambled through the doors was that the place smelled like diarrhea and that I was in big trouble.  I have an amazing, though sometimes exquisitely annoying, sense of smell.  Perhaps changing diapers for the majority of the last thirteen and a half years has done me in...I don't know.  But I immediately wanted to jump on a plane and head home.  My therapist, I'd decided, was a ding-bat, and could not possibly be trusted any longer.  She sent me all the way to Florida to be steeped in the pungent odor of rectum.  And then I saw the Buddha on the floor of the gathering space.  "Oh, man, I am so going to hell..." I thought.  Then there were all these people streaming in who seemed to know one another already.  They looked normal enough, nobody was chanting or wearing superhero costumes or weird hair...but they weren't gagging at what I believed to be a leaky sewage pipe in the office- so I thought surely their senses had been brainwashed out of them.  Everyone was cheerful...while I was filled with remorse.  "I am never doing this again...Never...Ever...Where's Jesus?  Jesus, get in here now and save me....I'm so sorry about the Buddha...If there is purple Kool-Aid, I promise I won't drink it. I'll run."   Now I can laugh about this.  The  odor I smelled was sage, which had been burned prior to my arrival. There was nothing but water to consume and  Buddha was Buddha....he was not mentioned nor did he make the attempt to convert me.  


To begin " the process" we gathered in a circle, all eighteen of us, or so, and received our first assignment.  We were to journal about our desires for ourselves (physically, mentally, emotionally, with regards to relationships, career, money, and what we thought was our mission and purpose).  After which, we were to head outside, to the backyard, to build our dream boards.  And that is all she wrote, folks.  I was hooked.  This girl loves to collage- always has.  I spent hours cutting and pasting and building memory books as a child, and then again once my children were born.  To be given permission to do this, as part of my healing process, in the middle of the day on a Friday- unthinkable.  


I am a dreamer of big dreams.  I always have been. I remember a friend of mine telling me, about ten years ago, that she didn't understand all these dreams I spoke of- she "didn't dream" she said- she just did what was practical.  Mind boggling as it was, to me, somehow I bought her mindset, hook-line-and-sinker, and lost my ability to believe in the fantastic.  I forgot what it was like to want the impossible and believe it possible.  I threw away the wonder of what I could become and held tight to my  resignation that I was damaged goods- treading water- getting through my days- sometimes happy, sometimes bewildered- but most certainly washed up.  You don't dream when you are forty, married, four kids, junk-in-the-trunk, swallowed up by the mundane in life.  That is child's play-those days were over.  


One of the gems of my journey toward healing was my renewed faith in possibility and my own potential.  I put those dreams, in words and in photographs, to paper, and made them come alive again.  I spoke them out loud and heard the voice of my soul saying that I was steeped in greatness and all that lay ahead could be whatever I worked toward.  Then I carried the beauty of that energy to Pittsburgh with me, stowed away in the over-head bins on two crowded airplanes, then onto my kitchen counter, at three in the morning, when I finally arrived home, with a sign "hea kids- look at Mommy's dreams!!"  to inspire them that Monday morning. (Hours later, they crept into my room and woke me up, before leaving for school, saying "Mommy- we like your collage.  Can we make one too?")


Lily and Liam have spent hours, over the last two weeks, since my trip, walking back and forth to the library's used book shop, to purchase magazines, with their own money, to cut and paste onto their dream boards.  Benjamin bought a board but immediately tried to sell it to his sister because he was too busy living his dreams to bother putting them on paper (you have to laugh) and Seth cut out random pictures but lost the energy to glue them anywhere. But they have all been empowered to keep dreaming and to believe that they can achieve anything they can put into words. To be able to impart this kind of wisdom into the minds of my children is priceless.  And to know that it is never too late for possibility takes all of the hopelessness out of anxiety and fades it into the past, one dream at a time.


And so it is.