Graveside Visits

The holiday season means trips to the cemetery for me... I have lost too many people at this time of the year; couple that with the fact that I have lived away from my hometown for the past fifteen years (yikes), and this time of the year finds me near the graves of many of my near and dear.

Lately, I only make it to one cemetery or the other (my grandparents are conveniently now residing in two separate cemeteries)... the main objective of the trip is to see my mother's mother, father and brother, but I also always drop by to wish Jaime a merry christmas and to make sure he knows that he is still alive in my heart.

Jaime was my first crush...in junior high. He played on the basketball team and I was one of the managers. The thing about being so close to your crush on a regular basis is that you really can become friends. It was clear that he and I were never going to be a couple... nice to look at but not really my type, and I was definitely not his type. On the other hand, we were good friends...he, like many of the guys on the team, developed serious brotherly feelings for me. When we went to the same high school, away from most of the people we knew, our bond was sealed. Although we didn't have any classes together and didn't spend endless hours together at basketball games anymore, we were still buddies.

Our senior year, during our Christmas break, Jaime and his friend Raul were in a car accident, and Jaime didn't survive. It broke my heart then and still makes me cry. I can't believe it has been 19 years since my friend Jaime went to live with god.

Every year at Christmas, I go to visit Jaime... It makes me feel better to see his picture on the headstone and see the decorations his family has put out for him. He was the oldest and on the outs with his parents when he died, but they have never left him alone there in the cemetery. This year, I found a lonely balloon stuck in the flower holder and a chip in his picture. I can almost not describe the sincere sense of loss that I felt when I saw his lonely grave. It was like losing him all over again. It hurts to think that Jaime is not the center of someone's world; that his loss is not as deeply felt as before. Maybe his family has moved away; maybe they, like my family, have just stopped going to the cemetery. Maybe he lives in their hearts even if they can't be there to decorate his grave for Christmas.

Christmas without Tamales

Sometime earlier this week, my sisters decided that my mom was too sick and tired to make tamales. Note, they didn't decide that we could make them instead.

Tamales or no tamales is not what makes Christmas. I guess I have learned that the hard way. Living far away from home for so many years, I had to do without tamales quite a bit. One year I even made my own, by myself... and maybe that was when I learned that it wasn't about the tamales.

What has always marked our Christmases is the making in group of the tamales. It takes all day and all night between the preparation, the assembly and the cooking. And in between all of the people wander in and out of the kitchen; some help, some steal olives, some fix drinks, and some entertain the cooks. Growing up my favorite part of Christmas was that we got to have the whole family in the house, but there was little pressure to do any one thing. Of course, all the moms and tias complained that I didn't take my place on the assembly line, but in some way that was entertainment for them too.

A few more important facts to note: my mother never celebrated Christmas as a child. Her family was poor, it wasn't their tradition, and they didn't put up trees or sit around and make tamales all night. My mom created the tradition after she was married as a way of bringing together all the various pieces of her family: her brothers (she's the only girl), my dad's siblings and all of the cousins.

It took me a long time to figure out that my mother hadn't been celebrating Christmas this way her whole life. She guards every piece of the traditions she's created very fiercely. She doesn't like to vary the menu or the way anything is prepared in the least. She takes it as a personal insult if anyone suggests that she add or take away ingredients. Though, for the short time I was a vegetarian, she did learn to make a new kind of tamale for me that she then added to the tradition as though it had always been there.

Over the years, the guest list has become more and more limited... more because as the cousins have grown up they have their own family gatherings, but also because my mom is unwilling to give up any piece of her guardianship of tradition. So the house is no longer full of people, but there is also less drama. But there are fewer tamaleras to help with the making and cooking of the tamales. None of us girls are wildly interested in cooking, but some of that has to do with the strictness with which my mother guards everything.

So, it should not have surprised me when my sisters decided that we would just have something else and that rather than coordinate with each other, we would all just make whatever we wanted. When it was five o'clock, the chosen eating time, and there were no appetizers, there was some backlash. And there was too much food and nothing went well together. It was a little like Charlie Brown's Thanksgiving... popcorn and peanut butter sandwiches... on the other hand, it was very sweet to have everyone around the table to eat together instead of some stuck in the kitchen cooking (though there were three of us stuck in the kitchen for a while).

It was also nice to not have my mom whirling around like the tasmanian devil all day. She was nervous in the service... that's what I call it when she just doesn't know what to do with herself. I made her go for a walk with my sister and I to run our last minute Christmas and trip shopping. Then I took her to the cemetery to visit one set of grandparents and some other relatives and my friend, Jaime. Every Christmas I try to visit Jaime and my grandmothers... I lost all of them (in different years) at this time of the year. When we got back there was still time for all of us to sit around and finish wrapping our gifts. It was a chore no one was looking forward to, but somehow, like making tamales in group, it was more fun together.

So, it turns out Christmas will come and go without tamales... and traditions and recipes can be tweaked, and the sky will not fall.

Merry Christmas all...

the child's table

Overheard at the physical therapy place:

I think we should put in the extra piece to the table and then put the two tables together.

She inquired about the number of adults and the number of children. 6 of each. The young girl tried to talk her mother out of having a child's table.

A young party planner in the making, I remarked. No doubt.

But it was also about being a tween and being tired of being a kid ... a little sense of powerlessness and yet the cunning to try to talk her mother into letting her be a grown up.

I remember the child's table in the kitchen. I hated that as well. When we still had a lot of people over for thanksgiving, my dad would bring in a big table from outside and when we put it together with the dining room table, it took up the entire living room and dining room. And we still had to put the children in the kitchen.

I look at my niece and nephew now and wonder if they wouldn't rather be at a child's table. Last year, we sat around the table telling stories about our history. My niece was really annoyed. No more stories she wailed. My nephew was entranced... another one.

It's the way I learned my family's history... listening to the stories around the dinner table, especially when we had visitors.

I thought today about all the children who won't know their grandparents and how would they learn about them? Do other families like to tell stories as much as mine? I was born about fifteen years after my mother's father died, yet I feel as though I grew up at his knee. My mom is really good at telling our history... and since she and my dad grew up together, she knows his family stories too.

Maybe it is time to start writing down the stories so even if we don't talk about the stories, they can still be passed down.

message in a bottle

Sent

Awaiting reply

The thing about a message in a bottle is that sometimes you don't get anything back.

I usually only resort to the message in a bottle if I need to get something out and don't really NEED a reply.

Perspective.

I don't NEED a reply now either...just want one.

Any one

Really

how do songs get written?

Not the music, the words.

Is it possible that tangled emotions are worked out in poetry?

Do the words learn to string themselves in somewhat ambiguous patterns?

What takes one to the point of letting out the words?

Justice???

This article, coupled with several other cases, clearly demonstrates to me why the "justice" system is so fucked up. Sure, it was a horrible thing that this woman's actions resulted in the death of her defenseless child. But compare this sentence with the 6 years one guy gets on a plea deal for Gwen Araujo or the 16 maximum years the other guys got for beating and strangling an equally defenseless Gwen Araujo.

Or if you want to compare another case in NJ, the 15 year maximum the guy got for beating his filipino wife (mail order bride?) to death and then throwing her body in a car down a ravine to pretend it was an accident that killed her.

Maybe I am just crazy, but it seems like we use the word justice and then bend it around our personal vendettas...

After reading this, I had a long discussion with a friend about justice, the death penatly, and judicial punishment in general.

What upsets me is not that people are seduced into believing that vengeance will soothe the pain of losing a loved one. What upsets me is that we pretend that when we are meting out "justice" that is has something to do with logic and rule of law. Sentencing in this country is arbitrary in the most gentle terms... and racist, sexist and vengeful in the most extreme terms.

We demonstrate as a society how we devalue some people and value others. We disregard the health and welfare of women and children; but then we punish them to the fullest extent of the law if they attempt to defend themselves.

It would be less hypocritical if were not always judging other countries and the way they punish.

We talk about rehabilitation and then we murder those who attempt to change their lives.

We talk about wanting to have safe communities, but then we fail to educate poor, black and brown children so that they can be financially secure. We look around ourselves and wonder why bright youth turn to crime.

We expect people to cross the border to do any job, for less than is financially responsible, we are unwilling to do or pay a living wage for, and then we don't want them to have access to education or healthcare. We treat people like slaves or indentured servants; we demonize people, and wonder when we are the targets of terrorism.

What does this have to do with justice?

It has to do with our self-perception, our hypocrisy, our inability to admit when we are being human and looking for retribution instead of justice.

How can we change things or make them better if we can't admit to what we do?

My daily fortune

The secret paths of your heart contain many blessings to be shared with another.

In honor of my fortune, I am going to try, again, to write the letter I have been carrying around in my heart.

Wish me luck.

Velando a Tookie

The bright lights from the news crews were blinding; the people packed around you, and you had to move according to their movements. We walked along the water, the houses across the street were stately and quiet, as if no one were home. With my sight obscured and the sound of the helicopters drowning out all other sound, it seemed my sense of smell was more acute. It smelled like Christmas. I looked around and saw there were pine trees, and people who had climbed in them to get a better view. Move forward a bit, just stuck in a bottleneck, try to keep your hair from being burned by candles. I heard someone say, "excuse me," and Sean Penn brushed by me.

No way to be tired; no sense of time, it was truly surreal. So many camera people and news people trying to get the perfect picture or score an interview with just the most interesting person. Some people there to be seen, but most there to wait and hear and help Tookie's spirit pass to the other side.

For the last hour, children and adults read Tookie's books in the microphone. We all grew a little restless by 12:15am... no word, no sign, no way of knowing what was going on inside the prison. I hope someone told him how many of us had come to support him in his last hour.

The ridiculous show of force... police lined up in the most inane places. Smirking, talking about traffic, some taking the opportunity to earn the city a little cash by writing parking tickets. We were making them nervous. They were making us angry and sad and frustrated. So much wasted energy. So much wasted in general.

Watching your country make justice = vengeance in your name has got to be the single most disgusting thing. Maybe it would be worse to see them mow down innocent people in the war, but this was here...twenty minutes from my house. It should be required of all citizens to watch, to contemplate the horror of murdering someone in the name of justice.

I'm sure there's more, but these are the images, thoughts, and feelings pressing on my chest right now.

Decaffeinated

So ... I think it was a couple of weeks before Thanksgiving, I really can't remember the exact date, I decided to stop drinking coffee.

I was tired of being addicted to caffeine. I didn't like the way it made me feel, and I hated having to worry about having caffeine before I got a headache. Besides the fact that I don't even like coffee.

Getting rid of coffee was like getting rid of the last nasty legacy of my last job. So I did it.

I switched to tea. Some days it would take quite a few cups of tea, but by the end of the first week, I was able to cut back to just one cup of tea.

Those first few weeks were difficult because they were super stressful weeks... so much going on... but I made it.

Now I can drink herbal tea in the morning or all day if I feel like it.

I miss the milk and sugar... so sometimes I have a chai latte and even found a place that will make a tea latte.

twelve months later...

I realized today that at the end of the month, I will have been blogging for a whole year. It's hard to believe, but, then again, time flies.

I didn't really start blogging in earnest until May, but I have been trying to be a more faithful blogger in the past few months. Sometimes I do well, other times, I fall off the posting wagon.

I follow a bunch of other blogs faithfully; so I know how it feels when someone isn't updating. I have noticed that some of the people I follow stop posting when they are happy.

I am going to try to blog more faithfully... not just rant and not just untangle.

I looked back over the year so far and noticed that pattern in myself as well. Many days, they were just rants. I think that's ok... I read something that outrages me, and instead of forwarding it to everyone I know with an indignant note, I just write something here and post the link. That way, my readers can check it out or skip it.

What's different about my blogging, I think, is that I really use the blog as the place where I untangle the knots or muse about the blockage. I find it really useful to have a place where I can be honest while I am simultaneously not revealing too much information. I feel safe even while I am unloading things that had been dragging me down.

I want to post more often about good times and things that made me smile outwardly and inwardly, like the red rocks, the shooting stars, gorgeous redwoods and the little mijo.

So...when I look back over the year, I re-read and remember, oh yeah, that's what I was going through...or I remember feeling that.

Trusting your instincts

How do you know when to trust what feels RIGHT even though it seems like pure craziness to everyone else??

I used to never think twice... just follow my heart wherever it led me.

Sometimes that road ended in serious heartbreak.

But as I look back, it was much, much worse when I tried to game it out. Maybe I am just no good at looking at all the angles. Maybe I have blinders. I just know that each time I thought it out, it never turned out right. It turned out exactly like I didn't think it would.

So, how do I know when I am following my instincts vs having wishful thinking?

The only thing I am really sure about now is that wherever I go, I need to go there whole-heartedly. If I can't do that, then I don't think I should do it all. Is that following my instincts or just being a fool?

How can you claim the gifts from the universe when you can't name them?

POSTING BACKLOG

Ok, ok... so for the one or two faithful readers, I humbly apologize, I have, in point of fact, four posts in draft form that I need to sit down and just finish. Please come back and check, I promise to get at least one of them up tonight!

Happy Wednesday...

Noah's Wind

As long as I can remember, I have associated wind with rain.

I love wind.

I hate rain.

Maybe hate is too strong a word for the emotion, as I have come to enjoy the feel of rain on my face. Since I gave up umbrellas, I get really wet when it rains, but I also get to revel.

Now that I have more and varied experience with rain, I can distinguish between the wind that is bringing rain, and the one that comes after rain.

I call the one that comes after, Noah's Wind. It is rough and wild. It is determined and powerful. I imagine Noah's Wind feeling as though it has the responsibility of drying up the flood.

Today, coming out of my lunch meeting, I came face to face with Noah's Wind.

I love it. It's like a rainbow... it means the sky is tired of dropping rain. It is like the eraser earnestly removing every speck of writing. Dry it up, remove all memory of the rain.

If we're lucky we won't get anymore rain after Noah's Wind, but sometimes, it's just a tease.

Gratitude Month

Teachers --
I was blessed with the best middle school experience ever... not what you expect as most folks think that life between the ages 11-13 are the most awkward and therefore, least desirable... Maybe it was just in comparison to my previous experience, but with the value of hindsight, I still see it as the best.

It was my first public school experience; my parents thought that parochial school would seal my soul's fate. It was considered the worst school in the city. Long before I arrived there, the world had decided that the school and its inhabitants were not worth much. When the windows were first broken, they were replaced with plexiglass. When the plexiglass was treated badly, it was replaced with wood. There were a great number of classrooms at that school with rows of plywood instead of windows. By the time I got there, it had long been forgotten by the powers that be.

But not by most of the teachers and the administrators. I can truly say that I have never experienced such a dedicated staff, as a student or as a teacher. These teachers and students did know that they were teaching at the Rodney Dangerfield of schools, but they never treated us that way. And many of them went on to become administrators at other schools and bigshots in the district. Regardless of whether or not they were using the experience as a stepping stone, more power to them, we only knew their best.

These were the only guidance counselors I knew as a student who actually took the time to get to know all the students, not just the ones with a problem. And these were the teachers who knew how to deal with our raging hormones and still teach us.

I learned things from my literature teacher, Mrs. Davis, and studied pieces of literature with her that I didn't see again until twelfth grade. She made everything very real for us, but never in a patronizing way. She never treated us like the poor kids with no culture and no class... she elevated us and taught us what we needed to know. Thanks to her, I saw La Boheme, The Mikado and various other plays with my classmates, after having read them. We knew more about George Bernard Shaw probably than the actors who starred in West Side Story... and we read the original Pygmalion, from the Greek, as well. We were her Eliza's ... but she never made us feel that way.

I could go on and on... but maybe, that's enough. To all those teachers, who demonstrated true dedication to one's craft, I dedicate this gratitude month. I hope that as a teacher, I gave my students one tenth of what I got from that phenomenal staff. I hope I have the chance to give them my gratitude in a more tangible way some day.

We always forget and underestimate the value of the thank you.

There are countless other things in my life for which to be grateful, but in my present profession, I have been earnestly contemplating my educational experiences, particularly those in public school, and imagining what I would like for other children/youth to have in California. Those teachers I had in middle school, those are the ones I wish for the children/youth of California: ambitious, caring, earnest, and willing to go with the kids where you need to go to get them where you want them to be.

Adventures with small children

I celebrated the day after Thanksgiving by accompanying my 18 month old nephew on his first real transit adventure. We started bright and early with a train. He loves trains. I am not so sure once we got on the train that he knew that's where we were, but we enjoyed listening for the whistle and watching it pull up.

Oh! Wow! He is fond of saying when he sees something he really likes.



We probably should have taken a shorter train ride because sitting in the seat and looking out the window only happened in five to ten minute spurts. We could capture his attention with the animals and the water... AGUA he yells everytime he sees it. But then he wanted to run up and down the train and talk to all the people. Good thing he's cute.

When we pulled into Union Station, I offered to take care of him while my sister and brother-in-law used the facilities. As soon as we could, I took him to my favorite place at Union Station. There on the side is a little garden with a fountain, beautiful benches and trees. It is a quiet oasis next to the bustling station. The first time I ever saw it, it was full of people in period costumes waiting to get on the mystery train (Sherlock Holmes era I suspected). It was a beautiful and mysterious place where you could really feel transported back in time. Everytime I am in Union Station, I think I can see and hear the soldiers moving around during WWII.

Well mijo loved the garden, but mostly that he could run around and, of course, the fountain. He ran up to it exclaiming, "AGUA!" and proceeded to get as close as possible without climbing in. Just mesmerized to watch the water go up and come down.

He probably could have stayed at the station all day, there was another fountain on the other side, not as fascinating to me as it is more modern, but enchanting to him because it was full of fish.

We headed over to Olvera Street for breakfast -- it was a difficult half an hour because mijo really wanted to run and Olvera Street is not really for running. I managed to keep him busy while his mom and dad ate, but he wasn't really having the stroller.

Next we went back to Union Station to get the Red Line of the Metro. I had foolishly envisioned walking off all the turkey feast once we got out of the metro, but my brother-in-law's knee wasn't up to the trek, so we caught a bus. The only thing mijo loves more than AGUA is the bus. It was dicey at the end because it was morning nap time... but we made it.

The La Brea Tar Pits is a great place to take young children (all children really) because it is mostly a park with a small museum. The grounds have tar pits still bubbling. My brother-in-law could not believe that the bubbles could hold us spellbound, but they did. Like clock work, old faithful my sister thought, a small eruption that turned into a thin bubble shimmering in the sunlight and then POP. A few seconds later, it started all over again.



We looked at the tar pits and thought about going into the museum, but then mijo spied another of his favorite things, a ball. A soccer ball to be exact. I tried to tell him that he couldn't just grab someone else's soccer ball, but the little boy who owned it, kicked it right over to mijo. Mijo is not a kicker, he's a thrower. The little boy's grandma was telling him to let the baby play with the ball, in Spanish, and Mijo was trying to throw the ball at her.

Eventually he got bored with the ball and ran up the hill. That's the thing when you are a kid in a candy store, you just don't know where to go next. The steep hill leads to the cieling of the tarpits museum...you look down into the center garden of the museum. Mijo wanted to jump into the garden, so we figured we better go inside.

My sister has been teaching mijo how to say the sounds of the animals; so far he has cow, dog, cat, LION or TIGER, snake and fish. I know, I know, fish don't really make noise, but mijo makes the cutest fish lips ever when you ask him what does the fish do? So we went inside and every time mijo saw the Saber Toothed Tiger, he roared.

Pretending to be fearless as usual, he ran from exhibit to exhibit until we met up with the museum lady. She had some re-creations of the fossils they have found, specifically she had the heads of several prehistoric tigers and wolves as well as one big tooth. Mijo loved the tooth and hit the floor with it. But when the lady brought out the tiger head with the moving jaw, he jumped back.

Eventually we ended up in the garden. Mijo was getting more and more tired, you could tell, especially when he went up to a little girl his size and hit her. He likes little girls, and big ones too, for that matter. Usually he turns on the charm and says "HI," in his cute fast way. But his crabbiness was showing when he hit the little girl, no smile, no "hi", just pow.

After a challenging time in the museum store, we finally went outside again to drink some AGUA and run around some more. While my sister talked to the fiddle player and mijo tried to grab all the money in the fiddler's box, I was watching two young boys roll down the hill mijo had run up.

Not many people know this, but I am an expert at hill rolling. Over the years, I have perfected the technique and feel it is my duty to help fledgeling rollers to become experts. When mijo noticed the boys rolling, he ran right over to them; actually into their path. This gave me the opportunity to impart some lessons. I showed them the hand tucking and feet together tricks. But, of course, you can't really teach kids to roll properly unless you actually SHOW them. So I went to the top of the hill, took off my hair clip, and showed them how to do it. Afterall, you don't become an expert hill roller by allowing prime opportunities to roll slip by.

After the hill, mijo had a little lunch and then was ready to start running again. We explored the rest of the park, and when my sister and brother-in-law needed a little break, I ran after the mijo. We went everywhere and fast. He tried to take someone's soda, almost crashed a romantic picnic, and tried to climb on the giant concrete sloth. There was a little playing in the dirt. There were some attempts to pick flowers and climb trees, and there was an awful lot of running. Eventually it was time to head back to Union Station.

We left the park and got on the bus... this time mijo really understood that we were ON THE BUS. He kept telling the lady sitting beside us, just in case she hadn't noticed, "BUS!" We looked out the window, said hi to everyone we could, and then, he turned around, sat down on my lap, and finally fell asleep. Smooth sailing after that for about an hour... he slept right through the metro and our drinks and nachos on Olvera Street.

But he woke up again when we got on the train, perhaps a little bit too early... the ride back on the train was more trouble than the ride there. A very grouchy and still tired little one who wanted to run up and down with three adults with no energy left to chase.

Believe it or not, after that wild adventure, we went to a wedding reception where I had the pleasure to run after mijo for another hour.

It was great fun, and I am pretty sure I worked off all the turkey as well as the nachos and the taquitos and the sangria. And it was great to be part of his first transit adventure.

Kitchen Table Talk

Whenever I get home, to my mother's house, no matter the time of day or how long I have been traveling, you can be sure there will be kitchen table talk.

And it will take all night. This time around, my dad came into the kitchen to announce to my mother, my sister and myself that it was 1 am. We looked at him and kept talking. He walked back out of the kitchen.

I think it became a tradition when I lived 3000 miles away and only visited once or twice a year, if I was lucky. And even now that I am only 300 miles away, the tradition continues. It doesn't matter if we talked the entire drive home or if we talked several times in the week leading up to the visit. When I get home, all bets are off, and we are going to have a throw down in the kitchen.

And don't think it's small talk. It's everything you've ever felt or believed as well as any chisme about any person you might know in common, and even some you don't. It's a snowball and free association on steroids. I can't even recall all the themes that we covered on this last visit.

When I recall it, though, I realize how much I have to say ... and how much others want to hear it.

There is something very special about the in person talk that can't happen over the phone. I can't explain it, I just know it when I experience it.

I believe, I believe, it's silly, but I believe

Favorite quote from one of my all time favorite movies.

Right now, every time it seems impossible, I remember this quote...
and hope for the miracle.

Strength, Courage, Staying Power?

Not sure which I need... but I need something.
Why isn't articulating enough?
A friend said recently, I just want a place to rest my head at the end of a long, hard day. And my immediate reaction to that was...but you need to be that for yourself.

I believe it. Not just I want to believe it. I believe it.

Yet, despite more than just surviving the past week, I am not buoyed by the successes. I am exhausted. I feel like I am just treading water and not moving forward. Worse, I feel like I fall off the edge so easily...and then I am desperately measuring myself against the reactions of the world around me.

Maybe I just need some sleep, but I think I need more than that... just not sure what or how to get it.

Sharing wisdom, sort of

Trying to help myself hear the messages, I share one with the readership.
Yesterday's Mastery of Love card:
To master love, you have to practice love. (emphasis in the original)
On the back, the toltec (or his helpers) continues:
The art of relationship is a whole mastery, and the only way to reach mastery is with practice.
To master a relationship is, therefore, about action; it is not about attainging knowledge.

So, when I read it, I said to myself, Yes, almost, DUH...because attaining knowledge and action are such wildly different skills.

I read with both the recognition that this is true, and necessary, and very difficult indeed.

We keep trying, I guess, until we figure it out; or get tired and settle for something easier if less satisfying.

That's the thing, though, I have already done what was, in theory, less challenging and it was absolutely less satisfying but really not easier.

I am working on the longer piece that this card and other recent events have had me pondering, but it's not ready for release.

Self Love

I may have discovered the missing link, or rediscovered it. The questions had always been: “So what are the practical steps to do this? How does someone learn to love oneself?”

The question itself belies the crux of the issue for me... first, you have to love yourself. You have to believe yourself LOVE-able... That first wall always stopped me from getting any farther. I have been feeling like just because I can trace back where that notion started, it doesn’t mean I can really change it. First I accepted that it was something that someone else had imprinted on me. I acknowledged it was the best she could do. Not forgiving, but not dwelling. But it just didn’t make me feel loveable. I kept looking for and waiting for the magic bullet that would make it ok. Some of the false bullets were more detrimental than the original hurt.

After long, painful work, I realized that I was the only one standing in the way of being loveable. I had to believe. All the rest are habits of the mind. Learning to reprogram the self talk. Learning to rewrite the story of your SELF where your actions and characteristics don't have to be categorized as GOOD or BAD. Learning to love all your parts, inside and out. Those are the practical steps. I knew it. I guess I have always known it. I have just been unwilling to start at the beginning. I have been unwilling to face the self-perception of myself as intrinsically unworthy.

And, yet, the truly destructive and sinful action of looking for external validators took over my life.

You can always find people to prove you right if you think you are a horrible person. Hardly anyone walks around with compassion on his/her sleeves. We are more often ready to pounce on words and actions and criticize. So, any of us hoping for someone to demonstrate our true dastardliness can hear that criticism in a word, sigh, look or lack thereof. That kind of external validation is plentiful.

We don't tell people that we are grateful for their presence. We don't always even recognize that we are. We don't just need and want happy, peppy, perfect (non-existent) people. Every one around us has worth for which we are unconsciously grateful. We hardly ever acknowledge it to ourselves let alone share that kind of external validation with those around us, and less with those who we know we love and admire.

So, make to the self-love. How can I love myself when I don't LOVE those around me? I feel as though I have been walking around the world on-guard, for at least the last four years, probably much longer. And the on-guard description is the most benign way I know to describe it. I am great at tearing myself apart with criticism of the slightest detail. Sometimes I have been walking around with the sword out, ready to give the first blow.

I am not sure I know how to put down the sword. I don’t know if I can reach back in and figure out how to wear my compassion on my sleeve. I don’t know if I ever did.

I have to learn to love that defensive part of me, too, even though it makes me hang my head in shame.

Where was I going with this?

I can’t remember, it’s been two days and it’s still not finished and keeping me up at night.

Every once in a while, when the nasty voices start pulling apart my every action, thought and word, there is a little, quiet voice reminding me to be more gentle with myself. I hear her as some disembodied piece of my self…she is weak yet strong. She is resilient. I want her to win, but I am afraid to believe in her either…

Maybe the shell is breaking…maybe I am just tired. Maybe it will get better.

Maybe when I really believe that I deserve what I want, I will get it.

Maybe is such a better place than before. I am trying to be grateful just for maybe right now.