Mistake

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I’m ridiculously hard on myself and always have been but haven’t thought much about the reasons why I’m so hard on myself until recently. 

A few weeks ago, my husband made a mistake – a big, costly mistake.  In reaction he simply shrugged his shoulders and said, “Oh, I made a mistake.”  Immediately I felt myself tense up. I was shocked by his reaction. I thought to myself, are you kidding me?  THAT’S YOUR REACTION?  You make a huge mistake and you shrug your shoulders??!!!   Even typing this a few weeks later I can feel the tension building in my stomach and shoulders.  How can he react like that, so calm about his mistake?

I was startled by his response, along with being completely annoyed by his reaction (and the mistake), but I was simultaneously curious.  How is possible for him to react so casually about this mistake?  Why isn’t he taking this more seriously?  Why isn’t he yelling at himself or punishing himself?  And it was with this question that it dawned on me that I have some work to do around mistakes, especially because my children seem to be taking after me and are extra hard on themselves when they make a mistake. 

When it comes to mistakes, I am tough on myself.  I personalize it. I say the meanest things to myself, but usually not out loud.

And here’s where the hard truth comes out – the one that hurts to admit.  The one I am scared to share yet has colored much in my life without me even realizing it. 

I am a mistake.

Yes, you read that correctly.  I am a mistake.   A whoopsie, an “oh no I am a pregnant, 20-year-old un-married Catholic dating a Protestant” woman’s child.  I can’t say what I ingested while in-utero, but I suspect that the words screamed at my birth mother were not kind nor supportive.  The little I do know is that her parents were pissed, and she was sent out-of-state to have me and give me away.  No black marks on their perfect Catholic family.

So, you see, I really was a mistake.  

I was adopted and raised by loving, but flawed people.  My Mom is a perfectionist and so when I made a mistake or didn’t measure up, she’d get upset.  I understand now that my mother’s perfectionism had to do with her own trauma and anxiety, but as a child, I had no clue and would get very nervous when my mom got angry for fear that if I upset her, she’d give me back.  Spilled milk infuriated her.  She would get impatient with me when I didn’t behave in a way that she understood or when I didn’t agree with her.  I understand now that this disconnect had to do with the fact that we are not genetically related, as more research is done on adoptive families.

To me, a mistake was proof that I was damaged, and it confirmed my worries and belief that I was unworthy.  It was an earthquake, rattling the foundation of what was an already shaky sense of self.  One who was trying so desperately to please her parents, to do whatever they wanted to ensure their love, but would always slightly miss the mark.  I was fearful that a mistake would cause my parents to give me back – to return the damaged goods.  I felt like I had to be the perfect daughter in the mold they wanted – and when I fell short, which was frequently (because let’s be honest, who is perfect?), I was super hard on myself, figuring it was a character defect keeping me from this elusive perfection.

The amount of tension I feel in my body as I write this is incredible.  I feel sick to my stomach, afraid to even put this on paper.  If I’m brave enough to post it on my blog, which I don’t promote and that my parents may never see, will I still be punished for it?  Why am I terrified to share this painful truth?  I’m sure I’m not the only one who has felt like a mistake.

Whoever thought that revealing one’s self would be so challenging?

I’m doing the work, through journaling and therapy because I no longer want to go through life being hard on myself.  I certainly don’t want my boys to feel that they are anything less than the wonderful, flawed humans that they are. I am working to heal myself.  And while it is still cringe worthy when I make a mistake because old habits die hard, I’m working on being gentle with myself.   I’m going to post this without agonizing over whether it is “perfect” enough to put out there.

Here’s what I do know:  I’m here. If I was truly a mistake, I wouldn’t be here.  Maybe my birth mother and her family believed that I was a mistake, but I’m not.  She MADE a mistake by not using birth control – or having sex before marriage – however you want to look at it, but I AM NOT THE MISTAKE.   I am here for a reason, so that can’t be a mistake.  I can’t carry her mistakes or her shame anymore.  I can’t carry my mother’s anxiety and perfectionism either.   They’re on their own.  They’ll have to heal themselves because I’m focused on repairing myself.

I wish I could wrap this up with a nice tidy bow, saying that I’m no longer hard on myself, but that wouldn’t be honest.  Instead, I’m taking this day by day.  Every day is a new day to practice, to embrace my shortcomings and work on saying, “oh well, I made a mistake but I’m not a mistake.”

Coming out of the Fog

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At 50 years old, I’m coming out of the fog and for the first time, understanding how my adoption impacted me.  I was the poster child for adoption success stories, or rather I told the story adoptive parents and birth mothers wanted to hear.  Frankly, I believed it.  What I’ve come to realize is that I’d been living in complete denial.

I never heard the phrase, “coming out of the fog,” nor had I known that I was living there.  My awareness came to light by accident, as it does for many – an event, a crisis, or a loss wakes them up to a new level of understanding. Two years ago, a birth cousin reached out to me on 23andMe and all that I previously believed about myself began to unravel.  I had never considered how my genetics played a role in who I am as a person. There was no space to explore that part of my story even though I always felt a little bit different from my family.  Ironically, it was my parent’s request for Ancestry for Christmas that prompted me to do 23andMe to find out more about my health history.

I was adopted domestically at almost three weeks old. I was told about my adoption while I was young, so I thought of it as a trait, like the color of my hair or eyes.  I looked “enough” like my family so there was no reason for anyone to think that I wasn’t biologically related.  My adoption was rarely brought up.  The one time I approached it, I was told that my biological mother had moved on when she gave birth to me and would likely be upset by my contacting her. My adoptive mother made it quite clear that she was my only mother.  It made me feel that the case was closed.  If I searched for my biological mother, my Mom would think I was disloyal and ungrateful, and I could potentially lose the only family I had.  This is not to say that my adoptive parents were bad or got it wrong.  They did many things right.   It is just that as I’ve come out of the fog, I can own that adoption impacted me.

I realize how differently I experience my place in the world when I look at my children’s behavior.  They have no problem expressing exactly how they feel – even if it makes me upset.  There is an underlying confidence, a knowledge that no matter what they do or say, they are supported and loved.  I did not have the same certainty growing up.  I was always a little bit nervous that I would say or do the wrong thing and it would cost me my family.  Because of this, I can read a room and know how to act to make other people happy. I know how to push aside what I think, feel or need, to put someone else’s desires before mine.  I’m quick to diffuse a tense situation and the first to offer “I’m sorry,” even if it isn’t my fault because tension makes me want to crawl out of my skin.  I say “yes” when I mean “no” because I hate disappointing people.  I don’t like the feeling of being left out. 

Adoption impacted my behavior in ways I never understood.  For example, my husband once commented on my near panic to be one of the first parents at pre-school pick up.  When I was 4 years old, my mother was late picking me up and I remember being inconsolable because I thought she had decided that she didn’t want me anymore. Consequently, I am never late picking up my boys. I now recognize that behavior stems from my abandonment issues – normal people don’t have that same underlying panic about being late to pick up their children.  I never once considered how my adoption colored my actions or my behavior. 

At 50 years old, I am a recovering people pleaser.  I’m learning that I can say “no” and the world won’t fall apart. I share my opinions instead of keeping them inside because I understand that I can have an opinion. I don’t adopt a “role” anymore to make someone else feel comfortable. I can be myself.  Adoption has taught me how to be highly adaptable, able to interact, connect and feel comfortable around all types of people.  I am a good listener. I’m learning that I can be myself.

Now that my eyes have opened, I know this for sure – adoption is complicated and impacts children, even those who were too young to remember what happened to them.  This fact can’t be glossed over or emphasized enough.  Adopted children need to know where they come from and have access to their genetic roots.  Adoptive and biological parents need to hold space for the child to explore her many parts of herself.  Children should no way be burdened by either parents’ insecurities or be forced to withhold feelings to make an adult feel better.  Parents should talk honestly with their children and provide them with the support needed to navigate this complicated experience.    

I’m still a work in progress.  I feel lucky.   I may not be the poster child for adoption as I once was, but I believe as I continue with my metamorphosis, I will grow into a better, well-rounded and more honest voice for adoption.  Let us make space for all experience and voices.

Weeds

Folks are always commenting about our lovely landscaping and I like to joke that we have nothing to do with it because the previous owner was a landscape designer.  We do have to maintain it, which was not a problem. Until now.

After several days of rain and hot weather, the weeds multiplied by the thousands. Our beds are covered in green, and not the pretty kind. This situation is particularly frustrating because just a few months ago, my husband weeded and sprayed every bed before laying down mulch.  But now those gorgeous beds are being choked by massive weeds.

My morning run did little to clear my head so with time to spare, I decided to tackle the weeds with the “Fly Lady” approach –tackle the yard in 15 min increment because when I look around the yard, I get completely overwhelmed by the number of weeds.  Good god, maybe we should have stayed in our town house, beautiful yard be damned!

Just so you know, yard work does not come naturally.  As a child, my brother and I weeded as part of our summer chores.  How I hated it!  I wanted to play or go to the pool, not weed the yard.  So here I am many years later with a shovel and a yard full of weeds.  Fifteen minutes, I only need to do this for 15 minutes, I kept saying before I began.

I grabbed the shovel and went to work.  Hmmm… when was the last time I had my hands in the dirt?  The soil, rich and earthy smelling, had worms, lady bugs, mysterious seeds and rocks, scattered here and there. Some weeds were definitely harder to pull than others and I had to dig deeper or make my hole wider to get at the roots.  Other weeds were so pretty with delicate flowers making me question if they were really weeds.

I continued to dig and pull, finding myself in a bit of a meditative state and the fifteen minutes passed quickly.  After another five minutes, I had to put my shovel down and start my day.  That afternoon, while the boys played outside, I found myself at another bed and one hour later, I felt such a sense of accomplishment when I saw that I had cleared out an entire bed of weeds. 

This approach continued throughout the weekend and I’m happy to report that we only have one bed left to weed, which I hope to attack one early morning this week.

I surprised myself and found the whole process therapeutic and so unlike my experience as a teenager.  I was brought back to the earth, pulling weeds, one at a time as I cleared out space in each bed.  What satisfaction I felt when I walked past a weeded bed – “I did that,” I thought. “Look how nice it looks.”  

As I was digging in the dirt, I thought about how weeding is a metaphor for life –  how something so overwhelming and BIG and scary can be tackled just one task (or weed) at a time in small increments.   With some problems you have to work harder to remove them from your life and dig a little deeper, other times it is easier to make a change.  But easy or hard, you need to tackle whatever you are facing -one thing at a time.  You can’t clear a bed unless you pull each weed out.

And what about those “weeds” in our lives – those negative thoughts, patterns or behaviors which no longer serve us and cause us harm?  How often have I held onto an old way of being because it was comfortable and the way I always reacted to a situation?  What would happen if I cleared some space in my life for new things to blossom?  What if one by one, I pulled out the negative patterns and made room for new behaviors?

I have a tendency to want to change everything at once, and I know I’m not alone in that.  How many of us have pledged that we’ll exercise every day while starting a diet, consuming only certain foods in an attempt to lose weight? And how many of us are successful when we try to do everything at once? 

What I was reminded of in the garden was that that my hands will get dirty and I may have to dig deeper to remove something that is stuck, but if I take it one step at a time, I can confront the problems facing me.  New ones will certainly crop up, just like new weeds will grow in my garden, but a few minutes of work every day can keep my garden cleared of weeds and my mind clear.

Just like my garden, I am a work in progress.   

Looking back on a difficult time

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A friend called me with some sad news last night, which compelled me to pull this out of the archives.  It is five years old, and yet reading it again brought me straight back to that pain and anguish.  To say it was a difficult time for me would be an understatement.  About a year after this post, we found out we were expecting Peter’s little brother.  That happy news was dampened by my father-in-law’s cancer diagnosis and quick passing.  SO much has happened in our lives, both wonderful and challenging, since this post.  And I pretty much stopped writing (not that I ever really started in the first place.) I’ve come to learn that life is filled with moments – both good and bad, and I am grateful for the friends and family who have held me up during the difficult moments and have celebrated during the good times.  Our struggles are a part of us, but we are so much more than those struggles.  And so, to my beautiful friend, please know that I am here for you: as a shoulder to cry on, someone to yell at, someone to sit with you quietly – whatever you need right now.   I know there are no words that can make this right, but please know that I am holding you in my heart right now.

2010

It is a beautiful Saturday afternoon and Peter is still napping, giving me a few moments to relax outside before the madness begins again.  I’ve “wasted” a good part of nap time chatting on the phone, reading parts of Oprah’s newest magazine and reading email.  Where does this efficient, “I have to always be doing something” persona come from?  I have some ideas, but am really not in the mood to analyze at the moment.  No, instead I want to type my first post for my new blog.  For years, I’ve wanted to write.  I’ve taken writing classes, joined a writing group, only to skip all the meetings except the first one.  I even taught a writing class to nursing students at a local university. And still, I don’t write. You see, I’m scared that no one will think my work is any good, or care about my thoughts, or find any relevance to what I have to say.  And yet, today, in Oprah’s magazine, in an article there was this very quote – “Accept that you’ll never get rid of self-doubt.  An adventurous person will always have moments of feeling like a fraud – it is a sign that you are creating new roles for yourself – that you’re evolving.”  (Oprah Magazine, June 2010, p. 141)  Oh it felt like a message to me.  Written just for me. And so, even though I feel like a fraud, I’m writing at this moment.  It feels scary and a little exciting.  So much crosses my mind that I’d like to share.  Little things – like the extraordinarily beautiful peonies that sit on my kitchen table or reading the paper outside before Peter wakes up.  And the big things  that eat away at my heart, like secondary infertility or disagreements with my husband.  Or the mundane – like how will I ever potty train Peter? The infertility feels like a huge weight holding me underwater.  We’ve been trying for over 20 months to get pregnant with our second child and have been unsuccessful to date.  I’ve put on a brave face for people around us and know that we’re truly blessed, but there is also a part of me that cries and hurts and screams because we’ve been unable to get pregnant again.  Everyone, and I mean everyone, around me has gotten pregnant with their 2nd or 3rd child (and they’ve all had their babies already).  Of course I’m happy for my friends – especially those who’ve had a difficult time conceiving or happen to be of “advanced maternal age” like me.  And then there are others -who seem a bit smug about their second (or third pregnancy) and say, “Well you need to stop trying so hard and you’ll get pregnant” or “You’re so blessed.” Do they not know that I already know all that?  That I try really hard to stop trying so hard and relax – except it is darn hard when you’re close to your period and you are focusing on every part of your body to see if there are pregnancy signs. (I’ve given up on pregnancy tests too early in the process as they throw me in despair when they are negative, which they’ve always been of late) As I write I worry about how people will judge my thoughts.  Are they going to think, ‘Oh get over it.. Get a life! Who cares about your infertility?’  And yet, I’m still compelled to write.  I can’t be the only one who feels this way.  I know there must be other women out there who suffer as I do each month when we find out that we’re not pregnant and then suffer again when we hear about someone else’s ease at getting pregnant.  Remember the “smug marrieds” from Bridget Jones?  Oh how that struck a cord with me at the time.  I didn’t marry until I was 35 and in hindsight, I am so glad I waited because I had so much growing up to do (but that’s another posting).  That said, it doesn’t mean that I didn’t suffer through the endless heartache of wanting to find “the one” while all of my friends were getting married in their late 20’s and early 30’s.   Like the “smug marrieds”, it seems like there are the “smug fertiles” out there  – the ones who “weren’t trying, but can you believe we just did it once and got pregnant again?” Or the folks who tell me to relax and it will happen. It is much harder to get pregnant than we realize, especially if you’re older than 35.  But this blog isn’t just about infertility because there is so much more to me than my infertility.  It is about trying new things – like cooking new recipes, growing a vegetable garden for the first time and trying new foods. It is about rediscovering old passions – like swimming, bike riding, spending time in nature and traveling to new places. It is about the simple moments filled with such grace and joy – my son’s and husband’s laughter as they play together, going on a bike ride with my family on a perfect spring day, laughing with friends or how great I feel after a 6 AM yoga class. And the things I hope to do someday, like complete a triathlon, make new friends, travel the world, potty train my son and continue to write this blog, as much as it may scare me.

Balance is elusive….c

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A friend sent forwarded me a mother’s blog about balance yesterday.  In it, the author shares how quickly time flies but she also acknowledged that in the moment, time can feel like forever yet when you look back, it seems like it happened in seconds.  There are workout slogans that promise that “Pain is temporary.”  Older mothers tell me all the time to enjoy this moment because before I know it they will be out of the house.  Why, when I know this to be true, do I find myself still struggling ‘in the moment.’  And why, when it seems time takes forever, can I not get what I want done?

Last week I agreed with my college roommate Jess that I would write for ten minutes a day, but then life got in the way, as it always does.   Or maybe I’ve just gotten really good at putting what I need aside for other pressing matters, like my son needing my help to “go pee pee right now!”

It was a busy week – we were visiting my mother-in-law, so surely I should be able to set aside ten measly minutes to write, since I had another set of hands, but no, that did not happen.  Ideas floated up in my head, often while I was floating in the pool with the boys, but then I couldn’t find the moment to write these thoughts down later, my brain occupied by making dinner, chatting with my mother-in-law, moving kids to bed. Instead of berating myself as I’ve been known to do (at least in my head), I decided to just get up today and start again.  It’s not as if I’m being graded or have to turn this in.

Sometimes I miss those days of getting so absorbed in my work that when I come up for air, I can’t believe how much time has passed.  That happens to me now from time to time, and when it does, it feels great.  Now, there are constant interruptions – emails dinging with messages, phones beeping, children needing something immediately, colleagues requesting something as soon as possible.  Everything lately seems to be URGENT.  And I’m not the only one to feel this.

I remember when I had large gaps of space to fill in my evenings and weekends and how lonely that felt at times.  I envied my friends who were married and having children – they had the life I wanted.  Little did I know that I would miss some of that space – the time to ponder and dream and think without distraction.  I feel like it is so hard to string a sentence together lately, my mind racing in a million directions and my body shuttling us to all the places we need to go in a day.  But as I learned two years ago when I was training for my first race, it is simply one foot in front of the other.  One minute at a time.  Or as I re-learn in each and every yoga class – breathe in, breathe out.

Why is it so hard to find time to write?  Is it because it is something I really enjoy and it scares me?  Because I am afraid that I don’t have something to share, or that my thoughts will be judged? Am I afraid of having my light shine – like that Nelson Mandela/Marianne Williamson quote?  Or have I forgotten how to do the hard stuff in our world of convenience?  No, I’m not sure the last one is true, especially after slogging it out last Saturday in a downpour for 13.1 miles. Every step of that race was hard, but I was determined to finish – or at least get to the finish line as quickly as possible so I could get warm and dry.  And as a parent, it seems like there is hard stuff every day.

When it comes down to it, writing for 10 minutes is a good place to start.  I will keep aiming for 10 minutes each day and know that sometimes I will miss the mark completely, and other times, I will write for longer.  I do have something to say, but I’m not sure what IT is today.  I will aim for some semblance of balance – have the scales tip a little more in my favor, write a little more each day.  And when all else fails, breathe in, breathe out.

Take Ten

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One of my college roommates and I exchanged text messages last night, too busy to talk, but enough time to connect through text.  She had come across my blog and we bemoaned the fact that we don’t have time to write.  I had told myself that I would post something weekly, but I haven’t put anything up in a months, let alone write a thing.   I told her that I am so busy working/taking care of kids/making meals/cleaning up/vacuuming again/running to appointments that sometimes it feels like my head will spin off.   Recently I saw an article on the internet that said that “busyness” is the new “thing” or status symbol – I am too busy to….go ahead, fill in the blank.   Deep sigh.  Busyness just feels like my life.  Even meditating seems difficult lately, because there are constant interruptions.  Whenever I put Oprah’s meditation challenge on and Deepak Chopra starts talking, my entire family converges upon me.  I can’t hide from them.  The boys even come into the bathroom, “Mama, Gregory just took my toy!” “Mama, I can’t find my Lego piece!”  –  the cat even tries to get in, her little paw underneath the door jiggling and jiggling in hopes that she’ll be able to open it (it’s a sliding door, so I don’t think she’ll be successful).  Just yesterday, my three year old came in while I was in the shower and declared he had to “go pee-pee RIGHT NOW” (we are in the throes of potty training) but refused to use my bathroom.  It was the one time I was thankful we had a snow day so my seven year old could help him.

But I digress.  Jess and I agreed that we would “take ten.”  Life would ALWAYS get in our way.  She is a busy working Mom with three beautiful girls and I am a busy working Mom with two boys (and one who insists he is potty trained but poops in his underpants. EVERY DAY!) There will always be closets to be organized, beds to be made, laundry to be folded and sorted, dishes to be washed, floors to be vacuumed, work to be done, reports to be filed, underpants to be changed.  But if we just gave ourselves ten minutes each day to write, something that fills us both up – just ten minutes for ourselves, what could that do for us?

And so here I am, day one of “Take 10.”  My ten minutes to get my thoughts, however jumbled out on paper and start filling up my soul.

The timer just rang – ten minutes goes quickly when you are doing something you enjoy OR when you are trying to get kids out the door.  Have you ever noticed how quickly the time flies by during the eating-brushing teeth-getting dressed-going to the bathroom-getting your coat and shoes on- backpack on-c’mon let’s hurry we don’t want to miss the bus mornings?

So here’s my unedited “Take 10” or rather 13 minutes, a commitment to myself.

I can’t wait to see where it leads.

Thanks for the inspiration Jess!

“What if”

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Two days ago I woke up particularly worried and out of sorts. We’ve have had our share of challenges over the past year, and on Wednesday, my mind was in “panic” mode. While out for a run, my anxious mind kept churning out the “what if’s.” In this case, the “what if’s” were of the negative, life is over, doom and gloom variety. Isn’t it interesting how when faced with a challenge my mind likes to play out all of the negative and scary scenarios? Yet from experience, I also know that challenging times always lead to something better. But yesterday that knowledge wasn’t helping.

On a recent episode of Super Soul Sunday, Alanis Morissette said something along the lines that “we need to become comfortable with discomfort – walking in the dark.” I know this intellectually and yet it doesn’t make the discomfort any easier. How does one get comfortable with discomfort?

I continued on my way, looking at the river, noticing how the leaves are just starting to change, the “what if’s” still yammering away. A deep breath, another step, and more “what if’s,” but they weren’t as loud this time – I was getting a little distracted by my surroundings. I looked up at the sky. The sun was just coming up and the sky was littered with clouds, the sunlight reflecting off the clouds, everything basking in a pinkish/orange glow. It was beautiful and made me pause. And then I resumed my ruminating and worrying. A few minutes later, a bird flying overhead caught my attention, forcing me to look up, and again, I looked at the clouds. They were in a different pattern this time and the color had changed yet again.

“Your mind is like the sky,” floated through my head. That thought didn’t stop my mind; however, something about it made me breathe and calm down. And then I breathed some more. I stopped worrying, instead shifting my focus to how beautiful everything looked – the water reflecting the sun light, the trees gently moving in the wind, the breeze – so perfect for my run.
It is not an easy time right now and yet, the beautiful natural surroundings reminded me that we have so much to be thankful for, right here in this minute. And then another thought occurred to me. My negative “what if’s” are a self-protective measure, helping me to prepare for the very worst (which sometimes comes to pass and often doesn’t). But what if I started focusing on the positive “what if’s” instead and cling to the notion that all the negative crap in my life is not here to hurt me, but instead push me onto my right path? What if this seemed bad but was instead really good? How can things be bad when there is such beauty right outside my front door?

Great things in life don’t come wrapped in neat, little packages, as I’ve learned time and time again.

And so, I am going to work on transforming my “what if’s” by acknowledging the negative ones that float through my mind (Hey, bud I see you), while also making space for the positive “what if’s” (Welcome! C’mon in!). That does not mean things will change overnight, but maybe it will help me shift my focus a little bit. As I work on changing my mind and getting comfortable with discomfort, I will breathe, and remember to open my eyes to all the beauty that surrounds me, because even in our darkest moments, there is beauty if we are open to receiving it.

Life is what happens….

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“Life is what happens while you are busy making other plans.” John Lennon

While I grasp many ideas intellectually, often times I don’t live them. I used to be one of those people who believed that once X was in order, then everything else would fall into place. Over my lifetime, X has been many things – getting the right job, moving to the right neighborhood, going to the right grad school, meeting the right guy, having the perfect wedding, having a baby, losing 10 lbs. There is always an X to chase after and I continue to learn that things don’t fall into place X is achieved. Or maybe it does for awhile and then all hell breaks loose again. I naively believed that everyone else had perfect lives (especially those who were married when I was desperate to meet someone). If only I could have X, everything would be ok, my little mind thought. HA!

Thankfully I now accept that life happens and understand that there is always something to reach for -there is no “perfect.” Just last week, for instance, we were looking forward to a wonderful weekend packed full with fun family plans. On Thursday evening, my husband’s “gas pains” were instead diagnosed as a ruptured appendix and he was off to spend five days in the hospital.

In the hectic days that followed; with me running back and forth to the hospital and taking the boys to their various events (fun family plans gone), I was overwhelmed with the love and support I received from friends. Several brought dinner, some visited my hubby in the hospital, others watched the boys so I could go visit him alone, and another cut our lawn for us. While last weekend didn’t go as I originally planned, I may argue that it was better in some ways, because I was overwhelmed with gratitude for the love and blessings showered on us. And my husband did not need surgery. It was a nice reminder that things happen in their own time and space and if you look closely enough, there are blessings in EVERY situation.

A Work in Progress

Folks are always commenting about our lovely landscaping and I like to joke that we have nothing to do with it because the previous owner was a landscape designer.  We do have to maintain it, which was not a problem. Until now.

After several days of rain and hot weather, the weeds multiplied by the thousands. Our beds are covered in green, and not the pretty kind. This situation is particularly frustrating because just a few months ago, my husband weeded and sprayed every bed before laying down mulch.  But now those gorgeous beds are being choked by massive weeds.

My morning run did little to clear my head so with time to spare, I decided to tackle the weeds with the “Fly Lady” approach –tackle the yard in 15 min increment because when I look around the yard, I get completely overwhelmed by the number of weeds.  Good god, maybe we should have stayed in our town house, beautiful yard be damned!

Just so you know, yard work does not come naturally.  As a child, my brother and I weeded as part of our summer chores.  How I hated it!  I wanted to play or go to the pool, not weed the yard.  So here I am many years later with a shovel and a yard full of weeds.  Fifteen minutes, I only need to do this for 15 minutes, I kept saying before I began.

I grabbed the shovel and went to work.  Hmmm… when was the last time I had my hands in the dirt?  The soil, rich and earthy smelling, had worms, lady bugs, mysterious seeds and rocks, scattered here and there. Some weeds were definitely harder to pull than others and I had to dig deeper or make my hole wider to get at the roots.  Other weeds were so pretty with delicate flowers making me question if they were really weeds.

I continued to dig and pull, finding myself in a bit of a meditative state and the fifteen minutes passed quickly.  After another five minutes, I had to put my shovel down and start my day.  That afternoon, while the boys played outside, I found myself at another bed and one hour later, I felt such a sense of accomplishment when I saw that I had cleared out an entire bed of weeds. 

This approach continued throughout the weekend and I’m happy to report that we only have one bed left to weed, which I hope to attack one early morning this week.

I surprised myself and found the whole process therapeutic and so unlike my experience as a teenager.  I was brought back to the earth, pulling weeds, one at a time as I cleared out space in each bed.  What satisfaction I felt when I walked past a weeded bed – “I did that,” I thought. “Look how nice it looks.”  

As I was digging in the dirt, I thought about how weeding is a metaphor for life –  how something so overwhelming and BIG and scary can be tackled just one task (or weed) at a time in small increments.   With some problems you have to work harder to remove them from your life and dig a little deeper, other times it is easier to make a change.  But easy or hard, you need to tackle whatever you are facing -one thing at a time.  You can’t clear a bed unless you pull each weed out.

And what about those “weeds” in our lives – those negative thoughts, patterns or behaviors which no longer serve us and cause us harm?  How often have I held onto an old way of being because it was comfortable and the way I always reacted to a situation?  What would happen if I cleared some space in my life for new things to blossom?  What if one by one, I pulled out the negative patterns and made room for new behaviors?

I have a tendency to want to change everything at once, and I know I’m not alone in that.  How many of us have pledged that we’ll exercise every day while starting a diet, consuming only certain foods in an attempt to lose weight? And how many of us are successful when we try to do everything at once? 

What I was reminded of in the garden was that that my hands will get dirty and I may have to dig deeper to remove something that is stuck, but if I take it one step at a time, I can confront the problems facing me.  New ones will certainly crop up, just like new weeds will grow in my garden, but a few minutes of work every day can keep my garden cleared of weeds and my mind clear.

Just like my garden, I am a work in progress.