I Choose

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAIt has been a strange year for me a year full of lessons learned and introspection. I have taken time to look what I wanted from life and what I have been doing with life to now, whether because I thought it was the right thing, out of obligation or because it was simply my nature. I suspect some choices we make will always be born out of our inherent natural instincts, others will be our history combined with our natural instincts; that is how we have inhabited the world through our history. If we have had trauma in our lives and who hasn’t, we will be changed and thus how we interact with the world.

One thing I know after this past several months, anger and bitterness is counter-productive. I made real choices in December of last year, they were scary as Hell but they were right for me and without them, I don’t believe I could have found peace for myself or been open to the opportunities that have been laid at my feet.

When my husband left without word, at first I was devastated, crushed by the blow. In retrospect, what I found was not a broken heart but fear and fury. Fear for myself, that I would be bitter, that I would not find a way through my anger to a loving heart, that I did not know how to love or be loved and so many other terrible fears, mostly fear that all he had said to me would manifest and I truly wasn’t worthy of being loved.

Fury that I could be convinced or convince myself that doing what was right equaled happiness or that life could be lived without joy. I was wrong, thankfully and happily I was wrong.

The next decision I made was not to work for toxic people who made me miserable. I have worked as an independent IT Project Manager in one of the most competitive markets for twenty-three years. In December I made the decision I no longer wanted live the life of a Road Warrior. I love my work, but 100% travel was killing my body and soul. I wanted the chance at a real life, with friends and maybe someday in the future at love. Being gone four to five days a week didn’t lend itself to this. I quit the job I was working and took a hiatus, I will grant you I didn’t intend it to be a six-month hiatus, but that is simply how it turned out.

Monday morning I start a new job with a great company (good reputation) that has promised 30% travel or less doing work I am good at and enjoy. This will certainly be a change, no more lazing about doing whatever the hell I feel like doing!


Cowgirls have To-Do Lists

Cowgirls have To-Do Lists

Now, let’s get to what I really want to say. I decided I am worthy of love. This one didn’t come quite so quickly, in fact it snuck up on me. I decided I have value and I can reach out and claim love when it is offered, I don’t have to be afraid, I don’t have to run and I don’t have slam doors. I decided not every single person wants to devalue me or my history, some of them simply want me just as I am. Sometimes people can be taken at face value, what they show you is what they are you can choose or not to accept them into your heart just as they can choose to accept you.

There are times I can be surprised, by myself and by others. I would guess most of you who read me regularly would be shocked to know I am still in many ways very naïve, sometimes shy and quite often a bit restrained. Though I have told much of my story here, there are many parts of my world and my life I have never told, a history that makes me what I am a history that created the complete me. Breaking down my many walls can be hard work, laying claim to a heart stilled by years of ‘doing the right thing’ rather than the joyful thing, this can be heroic work.

For many months a hero has been giving me lessons on what it means to be a grown assed man or for that matter a grown woman and to fully realize just how worthy of love I was. It began to dawn on me what I was missing as we talked through email, when he first told me this in response to an answer I gave about recognizing love:

You’d better get educated to what love is, and teach yourself to alertly recognize love when it does eventually come ringing your front doorbell ……….

As we continued to talk over many months, I knew I had found someone who did know me and was patiently helping me to discover myself through our discussions.

I know you. You and I have met and loved before. I know your soul and your heart. I know you and sometimes I remember.

There is more to these, more between these small statements, why they are important is they were the pein hammer knocking against a frozen heart, causing cracks to let light in and a few real blushes now and then. Through thousands of lines in e-mail, through longer and longer phone calls in the early mornings and late at night, through storytelling, through banter in various forums both private and public I was learning to be joyful, self-forgiving and more importantly self-accepting.

I was learning to claim myself, my whole and complete self and doing this I was learning I had the right to expect love, to claim it for myself. I was learning to choose for myself what I wanted and what I needed from love and for love. I was also learning to speak up, to say clearly “I choose” and “Mine” without stepping back from those statements afraid of being forward or pushing too hard.

Is this lesson complete? Not by any stretch of any imagination, I have a very long ways to go I think. I was caught unaware and am still stunned by the depth of emotions, yet and still, ‘Mine I choose’.

Some might say, too soon. Even I might say that using my pragmatic brain instead of a heart frozen and in stasis for far too long; yet and still I would say, ‘Mine I choose’.

I choose, because it is the only thing I am able to do with an unfrozen heart turned toward life and that wants love for as long as it is offered to me. I choose, because it is far better to live with joy than to live without it. I choose, because as he said we have met and loved before, I am his rib and he does indeed know my heart and soul.

So now you know my secret and you know my muse. Well you don’t know my muse, only that there has been one for the past few months as I write some of my musings, especially my poetry. Life has been interesting; it has offered me choices, different paths. I could have chosen anything and I chose, we will I think see where it leads.


 

What is Love

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe other day I asked a question on Facebook, just a small innocuous question…..

“What is Love?”

I dared people to answer the question, no debate or argument with other answers allowed. I wanted to know what some of my friends and relatives thought the answer was. Here are some of the answers:

Love

I thought all of them were interesting, some more than others. This is my favorite:

“The emotion which makes us hunger to give, even when we believe we hold nothing more.”

Given the diversity of my Facebook friends, I was somewhat surprised by how consistent the answers were. I honestly thought some of my ‘friends’ would have come up with something more, something grander. Then again, I sometimes expect a great deal when I throw the door open with general questions. I think when we ask these questions it stumps people.

What is Love?

How do we know it when we are touched by it?

Here is what I think love might be, these are just my thoughts mind you.

Love is the perfect storm, everything around you might be chaotic but inside the safety of love you always find peace without asking.

Love is the perfect counter balance, your weakness and strengths are balanced without constant power struggles to maintain the upper hand.

Love is a gift offered freely, nothing withheld, mind, body, heart, soul and spirit. Unbroken, unchained and without reservation, in the offering is freedom and the knowledge of the gift returned.

Love is absolute trust, our secrets laid bare without fear of judgment and complete knowledge we will be held closer for our painful opening.

Love is focused, love notices and remembers everything, love is vain about love itself. Love balances on the precipice of silence, always basking in the glow of its own light, jealous of sharing but tempted to preen and show its delight in its possession of Love itself. Love once sure of itself, certain of its circle and passion, love cannot help but crow and claim. Love is a claiming and a choosing.

That to me is love. I am sure there is more, I have been thinking about this a great deal. I know there is more, I have written about love and what I want in my future, I thought though this simple question was a brain teaser.

What is love to you?

Going Hard and Soft

Sleeping BeautyMen go hard for what they truly want, so if he isn’t going hard for you; you aren’t what he truly wants, walk away and be grateful for the heads-up.

I saw something close to the above the other day traveling through the Facebook pages of women I know. I thought to myself, ‘yes, this is probably true but for one thing’, the women they are chasing. You know, all of us, we are not always the easiest, softest or most accessible targets in creation for them to ‘go hard for’ or catch. So, if going after us ‘hard’ doesn’t seem to be happening, should we take at least part of the blame for our decision to demand political correctness over hard courtship.

Think about it ladies, what is it we want or what message is it we send when we talk about men, whether the men in our lives or the men we want in our lives. Do we send a mixed message? Does the man of our fantasy come with a pair of clippers we can use to emasculate him upon capturing his attention? Do we have a secret rule book we pull out and does it match up to what we say we want in a man? Are we truly prepared for what it is we want from a man or are we blowing smoke up our own skirts?

A few weeks ago I wrote a post that defined the beginnings of the Grown Assed Man I wanted in my life sometime in the future. I said then I wasn’t ready, since then I have been challenged in my thinking, part of the challenge was would I recognize that mystery man if he showed up on my doorstep, the other part though was what would I do if he did. I think all of us, women that is, have to consider those questions; this is especially true if we have a history, whether it is a love history, marriage history or any history involving men and our relationship to them. All of our history goes into making us, we wrap ourselves in layers of protective swaddling bought with our hearts and hurts, only showing what we choose only letting in what we think is safe. We have learned, from our sisters over wine and bitch sessions, ‘Grown Assed Men’ might not be the safest partners, in fact though we build our fantasies around strong, capable, smart and sometimes militant men, ones who will ‘go hard’ after us and make us feel desired in every part of our lives, these are not the men we allow to catch us, these men scare the hell out of us. These men, these hard, grown assed men, they tell us they want to own our hearts, our souls, our bodies and while we might want to polish the silver platter and hand it over, kneeling crawlingdown in front of them to do so, most of us won’t do it, we will run hard and fast in the other direction. These men are not what we have been taught to let catch us.

What we have learned, from our friends, from modern life, from hours upon hours of media, from divorce is to be hard ourselves. We have learned to show no weakness, as women we have defined ourselves based on our strength, our ability to take everything on without being dependent. We have learned that showing submissiveness, even in our private lives is a sign of weakness rather than strength and trust. What we are in the boardroom carries into all facets of our lives, from home, to money to bedroom; no quarter asked or given. As women we have armored ourselves against the world and told men to stand down and stand aside; don’t open our doors, don’t pull out our chairs, don’t stroke us, pet us, pamper us or otherwise treat us like ladies or cherished, don’t act like our protectors. Don’t behave as if we need protection or are in anyway ‘inferior’ or we will kick them in the balls, emasculate them with our sharp tongues. If we feel we are at all threatened by the strength and will of that grown assed man we secretly wanted but were scared to death to open up to, scared our friends would hate, scared we would give too, we will run like hell. What we run to is someone softer, some other model more complicit in our agreement to lie to ourselves about what it is we truly want.

Men go hard for what they truly want? Why though would they want us in our bitterness.

Women need to begin to do the same, our going hard needs to be some self-examination though. If we are afraid of the fantasy of the grown assed man who will treat us properly, perhaps it is us not them. If we run to hard from that man showing up on our doorstep, we might need to look inside ourselves and ask why we don’t recognize what is standing before us, instead turning to what is weak and unable to cherish our strength and our spirit. If a man holds your door, wraps his arm around you to keep you from stumbling, acts as your strength so you can simply feel are you trapped or freed? As women we need to begin looking at the trap we have set for ourselves, with our demand we be treated just like them.

Our strength isn’t diminished by our softness, we are women our softness, our ability to feel and heal is part of our strength. We are the flip side of the coin, not the same side. Why do we want to emulate men, mystery-manrather than strengthen them? Yes, I know there are parts of our lives we are and should be absolutely on equal ground, work, education, opportunity and pay. This though is not what I am talking about and I would never suggest I don’t believe in equality in the boardroom, only that perhaps we have carried our demands for equality too far.

It is simply my rambling thoughts for the day. I don’t know what I would do if that Grown Assed Man showed up on my doorstep. I hope as I continue to explore my relationship with myself and my mystery man, I will figure it out.

Some Good Things

I want to do a bit of a feel good today, there are things I care deeply about and things others care deeply about and thus are giving of their time and energy to raise awareness and money for. Today I want to highlight a couple of them in the hope you will endorse them and if you are able, give.

My friend Kim Sisto-Robinson of My Inner Chick helps to organize every year a walk to fight domestic abuse in honor of her murdered sister Kay. Last year Red and I were there, despite the tsunami of my personal  life I am hoping to be there again this year. It is an important event, it is a meaningful action and despite last year being cold and wet, it left me feeling as if I took a stand and did something good, no matter how small.

Why is this important to me? As a Domestic Abuse survivor I know how hard it is to get out, how hard it is to find yourself and run. I also know if you don’t how if you don’t you can die and those who are left behind will never be the same, Kim’s writing is a testimony to the great love and great loss of her beautiful sister. Here are some of the pictures from last year, I hope I can add to this:

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Want to come walk the beautiful path in honor of Kay and all victims of domestic violence:  http://www.theduluthmodel.org/events.html

Want to learn more about DAIP or donate even if you can’t walk this year: http://www.theduluthmodel.org/about/index.html

If you are in a violent situation, please get help: http://www.thehotline.org/help/path-to-safety/


 

BeautifulNext up is my lovely niece who has decided to go to Jail for a cause, better this than the alternative! Angela has always been one of my favorites, wild child, adventurer, audacious and loving with a smile that brightens rooms and a laugh that is absolutely infectious. I have always secretly marveled at her daring and her ability to make the absolutely best lemonade out of lemons.

This isn’t the first time Angela has stepped outside of herself to do something for others, it is though the first time I can use my platform to help her. So if you have a few spare dollars, kick them her way for a good cause, here is what the Muscular Dystrophy Association does with your donations.

  • $1,480 Funds 20 minutes of research
  • $800 sends one child to MDA Summer Camp
  • $100 pays for a support group session
  • $74 funds one minute of research
  • $30 funds one Flu Shot

Help a girl out and help raise bail for my intrepid niece and MDA: Angela’s Bail Page

Unicorn Kisses

1960 LindaSome of you might know I am a collector of Art; specifically I am a collector of body art or more commonly known as a Tattoo. I received my first tattoo when I was just 17, yes, I was underage but people weren’t quite as careful way back then. I don’t remember the shop but I still remember the why and the where.  Tattooing was different those many years ago and Crazy Charlie, though he did a great job and I had that tat for many a year, I long since covered it up.

Over the years, I have covered a few of my originals; sometimes I cover them simply because I want something new and sometimes because the meaning is no longer meaningful. I have never, not once walked into a shop where I didn’t know what I wanted, never looked at Tattoo flash and pointed at something and said, ‘put that on my body’. Everything inked onto my skin has meaning, most is custom designed from art I take into the shop with me, but sometimes it is concept art I have worked with an artist to design for me. All of my art is specific and personal.

I get there are people out there in the world who take great exception to my decoration. Some who even feel the need to express their opinions to me regarding my personal choice to tattoo my body. I find their need pathetic frankly, this being especially true given their contribution to my life otherwise. Some of my favorites from the otherwise non-contributing members of my life:

  • What will they look like when you are 80?

o   Who cares? You will not be here and it is likely those who love me will continue to love me whether my skin is inked and sagging or not.DSC_0262

  • You will go straight to hell (Leviticus 19:28).

o   According to the standard you are using for my eventual afterlife residence, so will you; see you there save a room for me, preferably not next door you judgmental twit.

  • No one will hire you with all those tattoos, you look like a cheap slut.

o   Really? How would you quantify whether I am cheap or not? Someone has to pay for my rather costly artwork.

During the course of my marriage, my desire for new art was a point of contention. In fact the words, ‘If you get a new tattoo, I will leave your ass’, were often said. I wonder, why the hell did he ever marry someone with ink if he felt that way? During our first separation, I got new ink. Within a month of his most recent departure, I got new ink again; in fact, I have been adding the ink I have been thinking about for a decade.

Now to my favorite part of being part of the approximately 21% of all adults who are Tattooed in the US today:

Does it hurt?

Why of course not it feels like Unicorn Kisses!

Who does my work? James Yokum of Saints and Sinners, I love them all, but he has finished two of the three pieces I have added since December. We are in the process of adding my largest piece ever, four sessions, with two down and the third starting tonight. Does it hurt? My friend and favorite photographer Christ Hanna (he continues to be my hero and did a fabulous job under less than ideal circumstances) of Posture Studios agreed to something slightly different in terms of a photo session, here are the results:

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The meaning of this piece, why she is important to me:

  • Gerber Daisy = Innocence
  • Peony = Healing, Compassion, also the Greek God of Healing (Paeon)
  • Peacock Feathers = Compassion, Wisdom, Knowledge; also, in ancient times used for writing of importance.
  • Sugar Skull = often used to celebrate lost loved one, in this case I have placed it where I have lost an entire part of my body feeling due to my injuries. I am celebrating I am still standing, living and whole despite it all. In effect, she is I.

Victorious, yes I am that though I might feel slighty overcome at this moment in time. This piece in particular reminds me I have overcome obstacles including being told I would never walk again, let alone dance in high-heels. I am learning though life can be hard I am Victorious it is simply a matter of slipping on my stilettoes sometimes and dancing.

Right Shoulder

The Wheel of Fortune (beautiful isn’t she) reminds me I cannot control everything, despite being a bit of control freak by nature. Outside influences may direct my life and I must learn to let go of both my expectations and my demands even while not becoming complacent.

Left Shouder

The last one, it is a bit more complicated. Suffice to say it is another victory symbol that allows me too remember I remain in charge of my destiny. I rise above the ashes of failure and I am my own knight in shining armor.

Left back shoulder

Does it hurt? Yes, it hurts. It is no worse than many other things that hurt. Some people say you will never meet a person with two tattoos. Either the pain is too much and you stop at one, or you fall in love (grow addicted) to the sensation. Some of us who collect ink, we also know there is a correlation between this level of pain, chocolate and one other thing all of which sends the same hormone to our brains, which might account for the rising number of women who are inked.

Other pieces I have added over the years:

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Ours don’t come as easily, you have to work for it. Do you know what I am talking about? Feel free to leave your guesses in the comments section.

Some History you might find interesting.

Smithsonian History of Tattoo

PBS: Skin Stories

A Brief History of Tattoos

Tattoo Statistics, Pew Research

Tattoo Statistics, Harris Research more comprehensive

My Reserve Nerve

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAHave you heard the phrase before, ‘you are on my last nerve’? Most people have, it is a common expression, at least in the circles I run in. These days I am beyond my last nerve all wore out, it is blinking and causing the top of my head to tingle in anticipation of the next stomping. Yes, I am beyond my last good nerve, I have nary a single good nerve left. This is why there are folks about, hanging in the peripheral of my world who have now stepped into the region of MY RESERVE NERVE.

I only have one Reserve Nerve and I think it important I maintain this one in tiptop condition, doing so will prevent me from doing anything stupid or ugly. There are so many reasons I might do stupid, mean, unnecessarily ugly things right now; things that could have either short or long-term effect on my ability to earn a living in fact. I must watch my temper and my mouth; however, it is hard so very, very, very hard.

Before I go any further with my rage against the machine, let me first tell you a little about my real life self and the real life world I live in.

The Short and Not so Sweet

I work in a very specialized part of the IT world called ERP (Enterprise Resource Planning). For twenty-two years, I have been working with the SAP product, though I have worked with all the others.

For sixteen years I have worked as a Program and Project Manager, this is even more specialized than simply working within IT.

Since 2008, I have been independent with my own LLC and have rarely been without work for more than 30 days unless it was by choice.

The above being said not to stroke my ego, truly. I simply wanted to establish a baseline for why my Reserve Nerve is on active standby.

My Last Nerve Gone

In 1999, the market blew up with the fear all the computers would stop (remember the millennial clock). All the greatest minds ran to Congress and said we need to expand the H1B program, there aren’t enough qualified Americans to fill the IT demands in the market. This wasn’t true then, it isn’t true now.

So Now to My Last Good NerveNerve Ending 1

I made a decision at the beginning of the year I wanted to change my life; well actually, I simply wanted a life. Part of this change was a career transition. I wanted off the road, out of airplanes and airports and chasing contracts; I want a ‘real’ job with normal hours, a real paycheck and benefits. Yes, working independently has its perks, but not enough anymore. I will tell you it hasn’t been easy, obviously since nearly four months in, I haven’t gotten close and I am beginning to panic. One of the reasons of course is employers are leery of people like me, people who have spent so many years in consulting, people who have been independent for as many years as I have; they think we won’t make the transition. The other reason? Well that goes to a little problem called getting through the RECRUITER.

Anyone know the rules of the H1B? In brief, for a company to qualify to bring a temporary worker into the US on an H1B they must have done the following:

  • Attempted to hire within the US first and be able to prove there are no qualified candidates.
  • A temporary H1B is issued for highly qualified (must have a university degree) in a scarce skill, these include; Engineering, IT, Science and Math

That is the short list. Given the above, tell me why nine (9) out of ten (10) recruiters do not speak English as a first language and have no manners at all? Here are a couple of my favorites over the past week, just to give you a taste.


 

Me: Hello this is Valentine

Caller: Speak to Logar

Me: This is Valentine, may I help you?

Caller: Logar, I looking for a MM Lead saw your profile on Dice.

Me: Well then, you might have noted I am a Program Manager not a functional lead. I don’t think I can help you.

Caller: You don’t want this then? Click.


 

Me: Hello, this is Valentine

Caller: Yes, yes speak to Logar is he in?

Me: This is Valentine Logar, he is a she.

Caller: Oh, sorry. Looking for a Project Manager knowing FICO and Development.

Me: Are you looking for a Project Manager that has managed these aspects of a project or one that also does this work.

Caller: No, my client wants the project manager to do the work and manage the project part time. Good rate, all-inclusive $55 an hour.

Me: I am sorry I can’t help you.

Caller: What is your rate?

Me: It is more than that; however, I can’t help you I am not looking for a project at this time.


 

Caller: Looking for Valentine Logar

Me: This is she

Caller: Looking for Program Manager, long-term project in Detroit.

Me: Send me the specification let me look at them.

Caller: First must establish your credentials, is that okay.

Me: What do you need to know?

Caller: What is your rate?

Me: $85 per hour plus expenses or all-inclusive $120 per hour

Caller: Might be too high I will see. I can get cheaper from India. Are you US Citizen?

Me: No Texas

Caller: Oh, do you have the right to work anywhere in US?


 

My Reserve Nerve is All I Have Left

Nerve Ending 2If you don’t know, an all-inclusive rate means they expect you to pay your own travel costs. This is fine if you live in the same city the project is, otherwise just no. Yes, they really will just hang up if you say NO. Yes, they really will tell you straight up they can get someone cheaper from India.

I am stupefied by the entire process right now. I do have a few good recruiters, truly I do. The number of calls and e-mails I get daily from random out-of-the-blue, don’t know their ass from a hole in the ground though, well my Reserve Nerve is on active duty. My level of frustration is on high alert, especially as I find myself at the point where I know I will have to consider contracts as a interim solution while I look to make the desired transition.

I am nothing if not flexible! I don’t know why, but it truly does seem to be getting worse out here.

When I was Twenty-One

So young so dumb

So young so dumb

Elyse at Fifty Four and a Half asked a series of questions I nearly didn’t answer, despite promising I would. When I began answering them, I realized it was hard looking back. History, even our own sometimes causes us to assess who we are today, not always with a forgiving eye. Nevertheless, I promised and so I sat down and wrote. I hope some of you will also, if you do, please link back to Elyse’s original and mine if you like. Here are Elyse’s original questions:

What were your plans and dreams at 21? Are they different from the dreams you had at 31? At 41? Did you make any decisions at 21 that you would change if you could? Did you want to have children when you were 21? Would you change anything?

______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________

It was 1978, can you imagine it was thirty-six years ago and I was just a baby in terms of the world. In 1978, I was twenty-one years old and already I felt I had lived one thousand years; my soul was battered, my heart broken and I was without any real direction at all. I was truly a mess by the time I was twenty-one, I had survived though and I was standing something many had predicted I would not be doing. By 1978, I had survived being a street child, I ran away from foster care barely past my fifteenth birthday and hitch hiked across country more than once.

Saying Good Bye

Saying Good Bye

By 1978, I had survived my first husband who I was married to by Texas common law. He was violent to the point of nearly killing me twice in two and half years. His violence painted ribbons of blood on my body, left me with scars that will never fade, left me without a uterus and with only one ovary before my sixteenth birthday. I thought he was all I deserved, I didn’t know better. He kept me safe from the streets, from worse. Finally I ran, with nothing but my life I was still only seventeen.

By 1978, I had married (legally) my first ‘real’ and ‘true’ love and lost him through my own pride and his stupidity (he went to prison). I didn’t know how to trust his love for me; looking back, I realize he did see me truly and love me despite my battle weariness, my luggage. He didn’t know how to fix what was broken inside of me. I ultimately ran, again. Loving me wasn’t enough to hold me, certainly not through his incarceration. Loving me wasn’t enough to fix what was broken. Although we would remain married for five years, we only lived together for two, we talked, we wrote long letters; I would not return to the marriage though I returned long enough to say good-bye when he was released.

By 1978, I had returned to my father’s house for a short time during his recovery from multiple heart attacks and by-pass surgery. Originally it was to be a short stint that would ‘help’ us both, it turned into nearly two years during which time we reconnected and fought through many of our most bitter feelings. Despite some of our ugly fights, I remained a mystery to my father for nearly two more decades. This is one of my greatest regrets we missed so much.

The only one I didn't marry

The only one I didn’t marry

By 1978, I was without direction in my life. I had no understanding of who I was or should be. I knew where I had been and didn’t think I could escape my past, didn’t believe I had value in the world beyond, the world of ‘normal’. It was a terrible place I lived in my head. How do I answer those questions? Did I have dreams? Yes, I did but I don’t think they were the dreams of normal twenty-one year old women of the time. My dreams were more nightmares, too often waking me screaming at night in a cold sweat with fear palpable as if spread by a fog machine. At twenty-one I already mourned the future I thought I would never have and chased the early grave I dreamed of too many nights.

How much had changed by thirty-one, fascinating what a decade, a short ten years can do. Though I was still searching for ‘true love’ and parts of myself in the ether, I had begun the long process of repairing my broken psyche. I had my first hard fought college degree; I had another short-lived marriage under my belt by now and had begun another much longer marriage that would produce some spectacular outcomes despite eventually ending in divorce. I had two young sons, something I thought I would never have. I had a wife-in-law who would eventually become one of my dearest friends. I had the beginnings of a successful career and the foundations of friendships that continue to this day. I had also by this time met my biological parents and siblings, relationships I value to this day and meetings that helped me tie up questions I had all my life about who I was and why I was so different from everyone else in my family.

By the time I was forty-one, so much had changed in my life again. My world had been rocked back by violence with my kidnapping-carjacking and ultimately the shooting that left me for dead and ultimately disabled. That same incident left my ‘normal’ family shaken to its foundation and unable to recover though we would struggle to maintain a façade of normalcy for several more years, my socially acceptable husband ultimately followed his demons back into the bottle and away from his children and the stability of marriage. That divorce cost his children and me, but all of us including their other mother found our way back together to what is our new normal, our family is odd to the outside world, two ex-wives working and loving together but for us, we work.

My babies

My babies

I wanted children, yes of course I did. I married my forth husband because he was ‘normal’ and I believed he would provide the best opportunity for me to adopt. It was part of our agreement, part of personal vows. He lied. He had a history he didn’t tell me about, he would never be able to adopt. By the time he was forced to tell the truth I was so enmeshed in the lives of his children, so in love with them, I could not imagine walking away and starting over, a part of me always hated him for that lie. One day when my sons were teenagers my oldest said to me he thought his parents had children so I would have children, I always wondered if that might not be true.

I made decisions throughout my life I sometimes wish I could change, forks in the road I wonder if I had only taken the more heavily trod would I have been better off. Even as I think this though, even as I consider the alternative path, the person I might be had I chosen differently I think, ‘no, I am this person and I am not bad as I am.’

I wouldn’t change a thing.

From 1978, the memories pour back.

Choices are Terrible

1343863240_3320_fearFear is a terrible thing.  The stories we tell ourselves of what will happen if we do or do not do certain things can spin out of control in our own heads.  If we have any imagination our internal stories can cause us too cower in corners refusing to take the steps we know in our hearts are right.

What do I fear?

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  • Losing everything
  • Never working again
  • Being alone for the rest of my life
  • Never being loved again
  • Dying alone
  • Not achieving any of my dreams

What am I willing to sacrifice so this doesn’t happen?  Apparently everything at least that is how it feels right now, today as I face the nearly untenable return to work in a hostile environment leaving too much unsaid at home.  What is it in my personal psyche that will accept what is indefensible under any normal circumstance rather than take risks that are not grounded in facts.

Yes, some of them are grounded in personal  historical realities.

Yes, some of them are grounded in societal standards and those translate into well founded fears.

Finally, some are simply my own fears, my own personal insecurities built over years of hearing “not good enough”.

Somewhere, somehow there comes a time when it is important to separate what are unreasonable fears from what is simply the truth about choices we make and why we make them.  Is there a part of us that chooses jobs because we think, ‘this is something that makes sense and I can do this; be successful at this.’  Or, as we get older in a market that values youth and beauty do we think, ‘shit thank you Jesus, someone is willing to pay me now if I can only stay under the radar long enough to retire I will be good.’

I wonder about this one, I truly do.  After twenty plus years in an industry that is unkind at best to women, one that I have fought hard to succeed in I find myself on the cusp of antiquity.  I still love what I do. I badly want off the road, badly want to find a ‘forever’ home that will value hard won knowledge and my years of experience.  Truly want to find somewhere to rest myself, on the laurels I have earned through years and 3 million miles in the air.  I still have it in me to work hard and contribute to success.  I still have it in me to mentor and lead.  What I don’t have in me any longer is surviving in hostile environments in silence hoping it will be better tomorrow.  I just don’t have that in me, I simply can’t find the strength or wherewithal to hope next week or this week will be better than the last one when I know the same people will be there and nothing has been done to change their bad behavior.

hazardous-waste-symbolsThe idea of getting in my car and driving four hours to an environment that is so toxic it makes me want to weep or scream every single day makes me weep now.

Funny though, when the environment I am leaving is as toxic it is choosing between two rooms one full of Sarin the other full of Rican.  Which is worse?

Dying alone seems a better choice, it is simply a matter of telling myself this isn’t the worse that can happen.  Never being loved is a silly fiction, I know I am loved it is simply a matter of definitions, love comes as a gift in so many different packages.  Being alone, how much worse could it be than it is right now when I am more alone together than I have ever been.

Losing everything, now this is a terrible one.  Terrible because I have been here before and I am too old to start over again.  Terrible because it is a very real fear, not just one I made up in my over active imagination but one I have lived.  Terrible because it truly does scare the hell out of me and causes emotional and intellectual paralysis.

Love is a sometime horrible state of being, we hope beyond all reason what we love and whom we love will be good for us and that in turn we will be good for them.  We hope, rightly or wrongly we can fix what is broken in ourselves and that our baggage will match theirs so our travels are along the same roads.  We hope we speak the same language, from our hearts and our minds; both are important as we walk along paths no others have medium_diverging_paths-270x180tread dragging our histories behind us.

Sometimes we fail.  Sometimes, despite all our best intentions we fail miserably.  Sometimes there isn’t enough love to fix what is broken inside of us.  Compassion, empathy, humor, self-confidence these have to be part of the mix we bring.  When we try to force another person into a mold, whether it is an image we have of him or her or of how marriage should work we are doomed before we place our feet firmly on the path.  When  we have no flexibility in our personal views, in our vision of the world we have doomed ourselves to a very narrow future and we doom our partner to unhappiness if they don’t agree.

What am I willing to sacrifice?  Myself? My pride?

What happens when we don’t tell, or worse when we do but the other person doesn listen or doesn’t hear?

I have to answer these questions soon.  Choices are terrible things, aren’t they?

I leave you with this from one of my favorite Broadway shows, I think it says what we should all ultimately strive for.

Conundrums Demystified

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERAThe other day I was sitting at Starbucks waiting for my customized travel coffee to be served up.  I stop each Sunday at the front end of my three plus hour drive to Houston for a Trenta (can someone please tell me why Starbucks is so pretentious they need their own size names), iced unsweetened soymilk 5 shots of espresso keep me the hell awake drink.  I stop in Huntsville for a similar sized Black Tea and Cool Lime (fully caffeinated) to make the last hour of my trip.

Anyhoo, there I was sitting and waiting when I opened last month’s Oprah magazine.  I know, I bitched about her magazine already, this time I actually found something I enjoyed (shocking).  Every month there is a feature called “Contributors”, most times when I read Oprah I breeze past this page not this time.  ‘Demystified’ was interesting, it was funny and compelling enough for me to tear the page out on the sly. Five contributors to the magazine answered four questions, or as the headline read:

Five creative minds come to terms with their most compelling conundrums.

I loved the ‘conundrums’ and thought it would be interesting to try to answer them myself.

Stolen directly from page 12 of the September issue of Oprah, I bring you Demystified.


I am so glad I learned the secret to…living with ambiguity and taking risks in my career and my personal life.  Had I always followed the path of safety I wouldn’t have seen the world nor had so many truly amazing opportunities to love and be loved.

But I hope I never figure out…how to live an unemotional life, not crying at movies or when reading a book.  I don’t want to grow so jaded or cynical I don’t respond to those emotional triggers intended to pull at our heartstrings, whether in a McDonalds commercial (“I had blue eyes first”) or at the real life wedding of a friend.

When I need help with life’s mysteries, I turn to…best friends, my own mind and books in that order.  I use to turn to my beloved step-mother who was my anchor for many years, since her passing I often replay out conversations in my mind and find many mysteries are resolved this way, she was true North for me.  My husband is a wonderful sounding board but wants to solve problems instead of allowing me to work my way through them.

My next challenge is figuring out… how to continue working, return to school for my Ph.D., maintain my marriage and actually have a life worth living while doing all of it.  Yes, I know sounds like I want it all, why not?  I keep asking myself why I would do this, why pursue an advanced degree at 56 years old, what the hell is the benefit?  But it is the dream.


I would love it if you answer the questions yourself, in your own blog or even here in the comments.  For ease here they are:

I am so glad I learned the secret to…

But I hope I never figure out…

When I need help with life’s mysteries, I turn to…

My next challenge is figuring out…

Not the Right Things

soapboxpileRecently I have been giving a great deal of thought to the idea of how we move through the world. Not our physical movement, though this is important but rather our emotional, intellectual and philosophical movement through life.

During one of my long talks with my sister Red this subject came up, it was a round-about, that is we got there because of something one of her young friends said to her. I suspect this discussion has actually been part of a much longer conversation about happiness, Red has written about it here. I couldn’t help thinking about the question of Happiness and about what her young friend said that truly set my head on fire, it was this:

“My parents didn’t give me the right things.”

I think when I heard this initially I went silent for a full minute. Then out of my mouth came, “What the fuck does that mean?”

No really I wanted to know and my inside voice simply escaped through my lips and out into the world.

I haven’t been able to let go of this one. It has floated around in my head for days now. I have considered the ramifications of what this means, especially if entire generations think this way. First, I had to think about what it could mean and what the right things might be.

  • The right DNA – pairing two adults with reasonable intellect thus producing offspring with reasonable intellect who would eventually be flung into the world capable of fending for themselves.maslows needs
  • The right physical environment – parents provided basic human needs while child was incapable of providing for self (see first or bottom tier of Maslov’s Hierarchy).
  • The right emotional environment – parents were neither emotionally or physically abusive and provided for child’s spiritual well-being.

So, after I considered what the legitimate potentials were I considered what this ungrateful wretch might be thinking and what other churlish snot nosed, pedantic, navel-gazing, self-absorbed twits might also be thinking. I looked around at young people I knew, my own sons and others their age (the thirty something’s), as well as, those younger and those slightly older. Part of me truly is trying to find a correlation between all the bad behavior in our schools, on social media, what we see reported everyday about bullying and the comment:

“My parents didn’t give me the right things.”

What could this possibly mean? To put this in perspective the young man who uttered this idiocy is twenty-three (23), he is a White American, raised in the land of plenty though not with great wealth, he had access to public education and certainly should he wish to do so could attend trade school or community college. I am not privy to his home life or his parents’ income, but as I understand it he was not hungry or homeless ever in his life, he was raised in a two-parent household, with access to an extended family. So, what does he mean his parents didn’t give him the ‘right things’.

Does he mean his parents didn’t drive him hard enough to achieve? This gets me to the idea of personality and temperament. Isn’t it in part our individual make-up and responsibility to suck it up and become self-driven, self-determining, to stand on our own two feet at some point? When do we stop blaming everyone else, including our parents for our failure to thrive, our failure to launch into adulthood? Many of us had terrible childhoods, traumatic teens and yet we find our way through and evolve into stable and self-sufficient adults.

great-white-shark-kids-649456_14762_600x450-300x210Where is the cutoff?

I know my grandparents, who raised children in the Great Depression wanted their children to have more and do better than they did. That was the great dream.

My parents and their siblings, they wanted to leave a legacy of dreams. They wanted their children to have opportunity, access to success.

All of us, my generation seemed to have split down the middle. Some of us handed our children the legacy of our parents and the rest, we somehow have screwed it all up. We gave birth to generations of selfish bullies and their victims, overgrown children in expensive suits, incapable of achieving true maturity; intellectual midgets with the empathy of Great Whites Sharks, the MEMEME generations.

“My parents didn’t give me the right things.”

All I could think was this, my parents didn’t give me all the things I might have wanted either, but my father did teach me to think and use my mind. My father gave me a moral compass and a work ethic by his example. I was never hungry, never cold, never without a roof over my head even if that roof wasn’t always welcoming or safe. The truth is, by the time I was twenty-three I was an adult; weren’t most of us? It would never have occurred to me to utter the words above. We all have stories, some of them are good, some not so great, some truly suck. We though, we are responsible for the outcomes of our lives, not anyone else. Yes, the world sucks sometimes. Yes, our upbringing can be a hindrance if we allow it; all I can say is so what get the hell over it at some point you and only you are responsible.

I see and hear these over grown children of ours, these MEMEME, do nothing, got nothing, pathetic, whining poor me children and I want to beat them about the head and shoulders. Yes, it is hard out here right now; I get it I really do. Yes, the economy sucks and education is expensive. Yes, we need to fix some things to make it better. However, if you had most if not all of the advantages barring inherited wealth you poor baby have absolutely no reason to complain so get off your narrow ass and do something with your life.

Stop blaming others including your parents for your failure to turn off the Xbox long enough to find a job. Sit down and figure out what it is you want to do and be and begin doing it and being it. Do not look to others to polish that silver platter and hand it to you. Do not blame others for your failure to pursue your opportunities; you are not a victim get over your pathological need to be one. The rest of us worked our asses off, try it.

I leave you with this, Malala Yousafzai a portrait in selflessness and courage.