A Christmas Miracle

In accordance with my previous post, I just blazed a trail two hours north in preparation for my nephew's surgery.  It's closing in on midnight, and I made the last minute decision to leave the family behind and head up before Christmas Eve.  After all, tomorrow is a very pivotal day for this little guy.  There will be hours upon hours of surgery to remove a mass that everyone is hoping is benign.  I brought all of Christmas with me -- the packages I've wrapped for the family, the stockings for the kids and me, a little bit of this and that from Santa, some pajamas and some workout clothes.  I left the dog, the husband, and the children behind to all caravan up on Christmas Eve.  It's better this way.  I can hide what Santa has left.

Speaking of the jolly old fellow, I'm not sure how much longer the Santa magic will continue.  I volunteered last week in my 10-year-old's classroom and all of the talk was about how Santa was just plain made up.  To make matters worse, movies make reference to the belief or non-belief in Santa.  Perhaps I wasn't paying attention before, but the lack of belief seems to be everywhere.

Beyond Santa, we have one of those Christmas elves -- an "Elf on the Shelf."  Somehow I've made it through the entire holiday season without forgetting to move him nightly to a new spot to "peek in" on the kids during the day.  The kids left this evening to be with their father, so our elf is  hanging now from the Christmas star, just waiting it out for the next few days to fly on back to Santa for the rest of the year.

To be honest, this year it's a stand-in Elf.  When my ex and I separated, I bought an elf for the house I'm renting.  The kids named her Holly.  Unfortunately, Holly went missing this past year.  I think at some point I ran into her and must've thrown her into some elusive cabinet.  She'll show up, I'm sure -- probably around Easter when I'm hunting down last year's plastic eggs and Easter baskets.  So before the kids arrived back from their Georgia holiday with Daddy, I made an emergency elf replacement trip.  The price of an elf has risen quicker than the rate of inflation. So there are two elves in our house; one of which is hanging out in plain sight while the other is perhaps doing other elf-like mischievous things.

Elves or Santa, I'm not ready to part with these sweet holiday traditions -- even if it means I'm lying to my children about their existence.

Believe

I've officially registered for my graduate courses this semester and have already begun my reading.  First on the list is a book about the historical and social context of Jesus.  This is not a story told by the New Testament.  These are accounts from others in history.  After all, I'm learning that the books chosen in the NT were selected to portray Jesus in a deliberate nature and particular set of narratives.

Common sense told me so already.  This is not Bible class for sure, and for that, I am grateful.

Nothing though,  could cause me to believe more than a miracle taking place in the next few days for my little 3-year-old nephew.  My brother and his wife found out today he's got a growth in his brain that is surrounded by fluid.  The doctors inserted a shunt into the front of his head to drain some of the fluid out before the MRI scheduled for tomorrow.

I want to believe there is some higher being that is watching over him, as we all hold our breath and hope that this is simply a minor setback in his life. It is moments like this one that people are encouraged to believe in something, anything.  Human beings want to accept that there is a loving God that watches over us.  When things like this happen... we are all ready to make any pact we can to keep hope alive for those who suffer.

Yoga Body, Yoga Mind

 I recently contacted my yoga studio where I've sunk a thousand or so dollars into my Hatha 270 hour training.  Lo and behold, it's time for me to do the dreaded Final Project. Am I ready?

Tis the season for tying up loose ends.

She says, "Great! How about the 20th?"
I respond, "That works."
I'm positively grateful that she'll even respond after my lack of class time at the studio this year.

I was scheduled last year around this time to conduct a class on my own to complete this training.  Separation, divorce, headaches, soccer games-- all of it came between me and this final piece before I "officially" graduate from this stage of the yoga program.

So by Sunday afternoon, I'll have completed my own class.  Yes, I do yoga classes all the time...but not to be evaluated. The past few days I've typed up my notes, glued them in pieces to note cards, recorded myself talking through the notes, been quizzed on my biomechanical cues --just so I can pass this.   Off for more flashcard action...

The Starting Gate

2 days each 2 miles of running.  I am returning to the streets and trails once again.  I tried a couple of months ago, just after surgery, but it was not good.  My insides felt detached from the rest of my body, and it's taken some time for everything to feel back to normal.  Running.  I absolutely loathe it, but I do like what it does for my physique, and it is so incredibly convenient with little to no gear or apparatus necessary.  Mind you, I am not built like a marathoner, but it feels good to be back out there.

I fashioned myself a tour of my little neighborhood's quaint downtown area.  There's a park trail to run around the city hall building. There's a view of the lake as I run down the gravel street to my house.  Every day I feel like stopping and taking a snapshot, it's so beautiful.  I'm afraid though, if I stop, I'll never want to run again.

Slog.

This semester was a slog. It was too much -- like an overindulgent night of pizza and chocolate chip cookies.  Yes, I want to teach. Yes, I want to study. Yes, I want to be there for every soccer game. Yes,  I want to instruct in various formats: yoga, writing, dance, weight training. Yes, yes, yes.

Too many yeses can be the recipe for disaster, for sure.

In my graduate program:  Somehow, I managed it. I felt all semester like I was squeaking out a high "B" or low "A." The semester report is in:  A for sure.  I don't know how considering I felt like I sucked all semester.  So much of literature, allusion, metaphor, meaning, character traits, etc. made sense to the other students.   Not so much to me.

I'm happily relieved to be moving on to the next course along the Liberal Studies track. Slogging along.....

Winter Weekend Blur....

This weekend was a wash.  I got dumped off a cruise ship at the end of the week just in time to drop the children with my former other half.  From there, it seems as though I crawled into bed and never left the house.  It's not the truth, of course.

In reality, I taught my Zumba class Friday as I typically would.  I showered up and nestled in for the evening.  I toiled over my final paper due on Saturday where I would concoct some semblance of an argument over the realism present in Petronius' Satyricon.  It wasn't much of a last paper, but it was enough for me to end the semester.

Saturday I rose early and began polishing up my last thoughts in paragraphs to then be emailed to my professor. Then, I submitted grades for the writing and yoga courses I taught over the fall semester. I still wasn't feeling very well, but managed to stroll over to the Vietnamese restaurant within walking distance and eat some curry to soothe my sore throat.   Sunday was much of the same; I made an effort to get to the grocery store and threw together some slow-cooked chicken concoction for dinner.  The husband and I watched football between naps and an impromptu pizza delivery.

The kids will be back in the afternoon.  I'm tossing around the idea of going to have lunch with them tomorrow at school.  After all, it's winter break for the college, and there's a little more time on my hands.

Surely, I could chalk it up to feeling under the weather.  It's truly all a blur.

Holidaze are here again.

It was only shortly after the pumpkins were pulled from the shelves that I started hearing commercials for Christmas.  The Holiday hub-bub seems to come earlier and earlier each year.  Last year, I managed to put a snowman on the porch and buy a skinny little tree for the corner of our eat-in kitchen.  This year hasn't gotten much grander.  There are lights strewn across the length of the porch, both outside and inside.  My ex dropped off the wooden red-nosed reindeer and hand-painted Christmas tree made by my parents. Those are sacred family heirlooms not to be left behind!  So, in effect, the decorations are slowly accumulating for the season in this 60-year-old house that I'm renting.

I've been in and out of bed the last two days.  After returning from a short vacation with the kids, I'm dealing with a scratchy throat and low energy.  Tis the season. It would be a "bad mom" kind of thing to say that I am glad I don't have the children this weekend; they are with their dad. As much as it sounds like a some ungrateful mother, I am actually looking out for their best interests.  They've just spent four days with me on a cruise ship, and I'm feeling blessed to have a little downtime to recharge my batteries.  Otherwise, I they'd think I am truly the Grinch.

So I'll just lie here and listen to the new Coldplay album.....maybe toss another throat lozenge back for a try at numbing my throat pain. Daze.

The Overhaul

This past month has been filled with a lot of realizations. One happens to be that, a person can do many things, but not many things well. 

Between teaching college students writing and yoga, taking graduate level courses, doing the typical soccer mom shuffle to practices and games, keeping the dog and fish alive, tutoring the anxious populace, and generally all that comes with the different roles played as mother, wife, daughter, friend, exercise instructor etc, I realize I have to scale back somewhere.  I could rattle off a dozen reasons why one should not carry such a heavy load.  Ultimately I've learned that the more I try to do, the quality of what I produce is watered down and suffers greatly by being pulled in so many directions.

When I turned 39 this year (just a short month ago), I had high hopes to keep up my journaling.  There's so much that happens over a course of year that I cannot recover-- feelings, special moments that I shared with the children, milestones.  This is one of the things that has truly fallen by the wayside as I try to "invent" time to sit down to write.  Even as I type this, I am supposed to be reading, grading papers, watching the movie based on my graduate readings, commenting on our discussion board, calculating final grade.  I'm putting it all off as my mind feels too full to accomplish those goals.

With the steady rise in my responsibilities, my workouts have also suffered.  Yesterday I ran a couple of miles before getting ready for work, and I was immediately reminded of why I so desperately enjoy having exercise in my daily regimen.  It's personal time I desperately need, and getting the blood flowing keeps me energized during the day.  I've spent almost the entire last year in an exercise lull.  Granted, some of that was brought on by cancer and recovery, but I no longer feel the pang of abdominal discomfort from too much movement.  I'm able to do the things I used to do; for instance, for the past two days I've jumped rope, which was once a level of jostling that my body couldn't take.

So with all that said, I'm again dialing back, and the only way I can do that is to let go of something.  I let my manager at the college's writing center know that I wouldn't be back in the spring to tutor.  It is easy money, but it is rather frustrating as well, and the time spent there could be better spent working on the two graduate courses I have coming this spring.  It will also help the writing and yoga courses I teach during the semester. I'm not putting in the energy I should be for those classes -- as I had spent a good part of my summer prepping a new way of teaching the yoga course, yet I never implemented it.  It's a shame.  I'll try again for sure.

So as the year comes to a close, I'm hoping to be better organized and produce better work.  It's a commitment to not just putting together classes at the last minute, or half-ass writing a paper for class, or forgetting that exercise is part of completing my day.  Narrowing the focus for next year and we've still got a month to go -- now that's thinking ahead!

In this case, I've seen it before from a couple of different perspectives, but I'm happily choosing to once again, see it as a new and different experience altogether:  Las Vegas.  M and I are less than an hour away from landing in the famed desert land of excess.  Vegas is what you make of it.

Perspective 1:  Business Trip
My first trip here was about 12 years ago. In my pre-childen, former career in software sales, I made this trip with an incredibly dynamic salesperson. The city of Las Vegas proper was our client, and I was to help present the business rules of their city to the decision makers.  Nothing earth-shattering about that. We stayed off the strip near our meeting at a Hampton Inn. We taxi-ed our way around. As it was 12 years ago, my fading memories are far and few between. I played twenty dollars in the slot machines and lost it all over the course of 5 minutes.  P managed to win enough in slots to pay for our extravagant sushi dinner at the hotel we visited.  After dinner,   P and I somehow made it onto a bachelor/bachelor celebratory bus that took us to some club at another hotel where the musical group "Train" was celebrating post-concert.  Afterwards, we met two strapping young men who chatted us up in some club. Both were part of the Chippendales Vegas experience.  Great to look at. Nothing but fluff conversation.  We ditched them rather quickly.  Vegas trip number one was a two day, Polaroid view of the sights and the colorful cast of characters that gather around blinking machines and poker tables.  I was with the right person at the right time to fully appreciate Vegas for what it was, under the circumstances.

Perspective 2: Botched Babymoon
My husband at the time thought it would be fun to go to Vegas before having our second child.  I scoffed at the idea when he first mentioned it. Who in their right mind would want to go to Las Vegas while challenged by the hormonal changes, long plane flight, and constant desire to rest and sleep? Vegas, being a mecca of gambling, drinking, and generally staying out to all hours of the night, did not sound like something I'd enjoy, but I was desperate to get away.  Inevitably, I caved.  We stayed off the strip in a converted apartment community. Our room was, well, like any apartment -- but it was a hike to get anywhere near the action of The Strip.  I wasn't aware that the hotel blocks on the brochures would seem quite insurmountable in person. I was already at the point in my pregnancy where I was feeling the heaviness of walking with the extra weight of carrying around an extra being. We were the penultimate tourists as we visited Hoover Dam and the Valley of Fire.  We did, of course, have to get the convertible Mustang, so hubby could feel the heat of the desert and the sand in his hair.  We also spent an entire day listening to some sales pitch on a timeshare just so we could get tickets to some show that evening.  The labor-intensive presentation did not justify the waste of an entire day, though at that point, I was already fed up with walking everywhere.  The highlights?  Well, we did score tickets to a Cirque show --and that was phenomenal.  It is also where I chose to tell him whether we were having a boy or girl as our second child, since he has opted to stay surprised for the first few months.  I wrapped up a pair of my husband's baby shoes that his mother had given me, and presented them to him over dinner.  A boy?  Overjoyed.

Perspective 3: Stowaway.
M was commissioned to create some video montage for a convention out here.  There's one that will play in surround sound theater style at a company's club takeover.  Third time around, I go with an eagerness for just some time alone with M with my first time of actually staying on The Strip at the Wynn.  There will be more to this story, for sure, but our plane has yet to touch down in the desert.  For now, I am just grateful for getting the opportunity for another perspective-- perhaps the last and best one.  It's not my town, but the two of us can have fun virtually anywhere doing anything or nothing at all.

Kids these days do "just enough"....

Since 1:45 this afternoon, I've been focusing on my writing students' papers and progress in class. Yes, it's been sporadic, so it's not been a whole 12 hours straight of calculating and essay commentary.  After all, I had to catch up on a couple of hours of sleep that I lost yesterday in the midst of throwing a sleepover birthday for my ten-year-old (which could be a whole post of its own).

By midnight, I was completely wrecked in spirit by this class.  They're sucking the life out of me this semester by their overt disinterest in learning anything.  Turn in homework? No. Work through the online lab component? No. Write an essay without 42 glaring grammar errors?  Impossible.  I've lost my mind over it, so I got in bed.  Then I decided to write after the nagging thoughts wouldn't leave me alone.

Ultimately I've come to the realization that students will do "just enough" to get by.  I just don't operate that way.  I don't find it worth the trouble. I complained to M,  "What is the point of half-ass doing something? It's a waste of time!" If you don't do it the way you are capable of doing it, spend the time elsewhere (doing something you'd get something out of). For example, I asked one of my more intelligible students to rewrite his 5 paragraph essay based upon my comments of his first draft. FIVE paragraphs.  He whined and complained, asking if he could just make the edits on the page rather than rewrite it.  Another student asked, "Since I already received a passing score on one of my 3 required essays, I don't really have to write anymore, do I?"  These students are going through the paces without paying any attention to the wisdom and growth that comes with applying themselves and.... actually learning something.  

Oscar Wilde once wrote, "Suffering is one very long moment. We cannot divide it by seasons. We can only record its moods, and chronicle their return. With us time itself does not progress. It revolves. It seems to circle round one centre of pain. The paralysing immobility of a life every circumstance of which is regulated after an unchangeable pattern, so that we eat and drink and lie down and pray, or kneel at least for prayer, according to the inflexible laws of an iron formula: this immobile quality, that makes each dreadful day in the very minutest detail like its brother, seems to communicate itself to those external forces the very essence of whose existence is ceaseless change."

I see the connection he makes to the monotony.

I get the repetitious choreography of life's dance, but I still enjoy the movement.  It's fascinating to me that although each day could be the same, there's a way of looking at the world that makes one search out the differences.  Not only search them out, but also being attentive to what those difference are trying to tell us. The closer I listen, the more in tune I feel that what I'm doing is happening as it should. 

This type of life comes from learning what it means to observe and live in a world, not of perfection but of practice.  When we do yoga, we call it our "practice." No one perfects yoga, nor does one perfect life.  But we should actively, always mindfully, practice.  Life is too short to do "just enough."

Writing for what?

I turned 39 yesterday, and although that isn't quite a milestone, I'm happy to be done with 38.  Granted, I'm blessed to have rounded the corner past some serious events: separation, divorce, cancer. I really can't be anything but happy and blessed when look back on last year.  Glad to be alive. Healthy. Cancer Free.  Happy. Happy. Happy.

I've got writing on the brain lately.  I assisted two of my close friends this past weekend at a writer's convention.  I met various aspiring hopefuls there.  Part of me wished these strangers had come with dust jackets representing the books they'd written.  I found the group to be a curiously strange collection of housewives, retirees, and shut-ins.  Perhaps they weren't, but my one day exposure to their idiosyncratic writer brains really sent me home questioning how I would truly fit in.... whether it was a group that I could eagerly provide feedback and wondering -- could that relationship be in any way symbiotic?

I've come to several conclusions about my writing:
There is casual writing (this blog fits that category).  If I make the time, this comes easily to me.  It's cathartic, and I write about what I know to be true.

Then, there's "thinking about seriously writing."  It's like thinking about being in a relationship.  Do I want to really put in the time?  Do I have enough life material (am I enough)?

When I graduated from the University, one of the professors suggested I wait to go to grad school.  She said I should get some actual "life experience" first.  I took her advice, and it was the worst advice ever.  I wandered so far away from my original academic path that it was rather difficult to find my way back.  I'm still struggling.  Screw the life experience.  Now I am into decades full of life experience and back at working on my graduate level courses.

There's also what we call "academic writing":
I use that term with my Developmental Writing students all of the time.  I just, moments ago, emailed my third academic writing of the semester to my professor.  The course I'm taking covers some of the classical literature from ancient Greece and Rome, from plays to philosophy. It's a broad course that covers basically everything classical.  Though I've made A's in all of my previous graduate level courses so far, with this one I'm destined to earn a B. I've accepted it as my fate though I'm rather pissed about it.  Dr. R assigns a multitude of readings which we must summarize over the course of the week, give our analysis, post on discussion boards our various questions pertaining to the text, and then, every couple weeks or so, we write an argumentative paper on one of the texts.  I painfully crafted my first paper on the absence of Achilles' guilt in The Illiad. I followed Dr. R's very specific instructions and STILL got an 83.  With little hope, I submitted my second paper only to receive an 89.

The conclusion I've drawn is this:
In no way over the course of a discussion and a reading is any student going to match the breadth and depth of knowledge of this professor: this man that visits Greece, Italy, Rome, at least twice a year.  This man that has been teaching this class for 20 years expects us to synthesize over the course of a week or two, the body of knowledge that he has been repetitively teaching for the last two decades.  There is no better way to learn than by teaching. He certainly drills us for specific details that we might've missed in our papers.  I find it an impossible task.

I argue (ha) that it's not a fair judgement on his part.  I love to learn, but I am a slow absorber.... like that of a generic paper towel.

And so it goes.... For now I write my casual blog. That is, I write my casual blog until Aristotle's text comes in the mail tomorrow. Ugh.

A breath. A pause. In recovery.

I texted my brother the other day.  Told him he better get a routine colonoscopy. Better off to know than to let it ruin your life.  He replied something to the effect of "ignorance is bliss."  After all of this, I might agree.

I visited my surgeon to have our final pre-op, question and answer session.  After closer review of the pathology report, she told me I have pseudomyxoma peritonei --  an ovarian or appendix mucinous tumor which results in a highly viscous material. Think  "goo" from Ghostbusters, infiltrating one's organs and wreaking havoc; it's the jelly form of cancer.  It was the cause of Audrey Hepburn's death.  It is a rare disease. A friend of a friend recently underwent treatment for the same such thing (although much further advanced in stage) and she ended up having an 11 hour surgery and a chemo vibrating treatment of her internal organs to get rid of the "goo". They shaved off part of her liver and a couple other places too.  I feel incredibly sad for her.

----------

August came, and the appointment setter called me with a surgery date:  August 12.  There would be a colonoscopy the day prior (just to rule out there being other things to take care of while Dr. M is in there cutting and splicing together what is left of my right ascending colon). I arranged my schedule with my various classes, both at the college and group exercise.  I'm out for at least a month.

The surgery and subsequent hospital stay went rather well.  I had a constant bedside companion, and I'm pretty sure that makes a difference in the attentive staff.  My stomach is now a constellation of scars.  I've had two laparoscopic surgeries in the past two months, and I've seen varied results of what used to be my belly button.  There's a 2 inch vertical scar above it too now.  What was once the slender torso of a young me has become riddled with marks and scars, not to mention a good stretch from two beautiful children.  I'm supposed to say it's all worth it.  It really is worth all of it -- except for that little speck of vanity in me.  

I am in recovery -- not just from these two surgeries-- I'm recovering from such a year.  It is quite unbelievable and filled with all of the elements of some movie you'd never guess was based on a true story.  I hardly believe it myself.

A man moved across the country for me.
My divorce finalized.
I accepted a proposal in what seemed like breaths after a failed marriage.
I got married on a mountain top by my childhood minister to my childhood preteen love.
I found out that my tubes were only halfway tied -- pitiful job by my ex-OB/GYN.
I had my appendix removed -- an appendix filled with a mucinous neoplasm.
Surgery on my right ascending colon to find more cancer -- but was found to be clear.

What other great and wondrous things await me 2015?  I am in recovery for sure.

You Can't Always Get What You Want....

This past Thursday I went in to my doctor for a routine post-op appointment.  What started as a pretty routine surgery ended up being a procedure more exploratory in nature.

While the surgeon was in there, he found that one of my fallopian tubes was evidently not "tied." Flashback ---to when I had my son almost 7 year ago, I opted to get my tubes tied.  Of course, they don't "tie" anything anymore.... or cauterize for that matter.  Dr. Z placed tiny plastic clips on my fallopian tubes after the c-section.  Coincidently, I remember by husband at the time joking with the OB about accidentally leaving a tube available.  Perhaps there is more to that statement than I realized at the time.

Secondly, the surgeon showed me photos of my swollen appendix.  As it looked abnormal, it is routine to remove it. After my surgery, the pathology report came back reading that my appendix was cancerous.  Granted, it is a low grade cancer and it has been removed; however, the report shows that there are still cancer cells in my colon at the site where my appendix was removed.

Cancer. It's an ominous term to hear, especially when I'm still holding onto my late thirties.  I am pretty confident in my ability to take care of myself: working out, eating healthy, and being relatively stress-free.  Cancer of the appendix is, in my mind, by far the best type of cancer to have.  I don't need an appendix. But just as I was beginning to heal from laparoscopic surgery -- the swelling, the pain medication, the discomfort and bloating, I've now been told that I have cancer.

I expected to go in for this routine appointment and come out with a clean bill of health.  You can't always get what you want.

I thankfully got an appointment early the next day with a colon/rectal surgeon.  In the medical world, a next day appointment is an anomaly.  The appointment also meant I had to get up and give myself two saline enemas, two hours before my early morning appointment, but the discomfort was well worth it.   Dr. M, my colon doctor, has determined that I must have surgery to remove less than a foot of my colon (which includes any lymph nodes that may be affected in that area).  My colon will then be reattached to my small intestine.

Though a date has yet to be scheduled and confirmed, I am assuming the surgery will take place in August.  She told me that we cannot do surgery right now because I am still healing from when they took out my appendix and that area probably still has a lot of inflammation.
When it happens, the procedure will be done laparoscopically.  Afterward, I'll stay hospitalized for 4 or 5 days to make sure there's no issues or infections.  One of the risks is that there's a chance that my bowels could possibly leak into my body at the site of reattachment.  It's important that I am where I need to be in the off chance that happens.  Full recovery will happen after 4-6 weeks of rest.

Of course I was completely shocked by the news, but realized, that without going in for surgery, I could've never caught this so early.  Over time, the low grade cancer would've seeped further into my colon and wreaked even more havoc.

The Stones sung it best, "You can't always get what you want...... But if you try sometime, you just might find, you get what you need."

Life. Unrecognizable. Beautiful.

A sweet friend of mine just posted this quotable on my social media page.  She tagged me and another one of our mutual friends-- as both of us have gone through some major relationship/life overhauls this past year.

In 2014, around this time, things had broken down enough in my marriage that-- not only did I know it was over, but so did my husband (even if he didn't want to see it that way).  During the following months he asked for another chance.  The tables had turned--as I, in the past, had asked for a few second chances myself.

It was strangely liberating to be on the other side -- a certain level of worthiness that required my husband to let go of the leash and just breathe.

At the same time as this letting go, there evolved a great support system -- friends, family, coworkers who cared enough to walk the tightrope with me, not sure exactly how it would all end --IF it ended.  My mother, who is also a great confidant of mine, was supportive.  My father, who had years prior asked me when I would finally divorce him, was right by my side.  My brother and sis-in-law had been fed up with my husband's antics for years.  My friends had always been there for me to lean on when the pressure to be everything --the mother, the wife, the physically perfect specimen, the housekeeper, the spiritual yogini. Of course, there was also a steady undercurrent of those who said, "You married him. You live with the consequences."  After 9 years of trying to fit a square peg in a round hole, I had given up.  We don't fit.  We never did.  I tried to adjust, to make myself what would be "acceptable" for my husband, but I could never, ever make him completely happy.  So I let go.

By October, I had officially moved out to my little cabin in the woods.  In the spirit of this newly found liberation, I booked a trip to New York City --- I wanted to get out of town.  My plans fell through.  But in the process, I started spending more and more time discussing my life changes with someone who had recently found himself going through divorce as well.  It was an old friend of mine that I had kept in touch with for more than twenty years. His dad was the minister of my family's church growing up.  His mom lead us through bell choir.  We hiked and camped together on youth group outings.  We did community service projects together. Later on, he was the source of wisdom and just plain honest truth who told me, "if a guy gets your number, C, that means he thinks he might have a chance to sleep with you.  It may not be this month, or this year, but giving him your number means that it has the potential to happen." He was always straight forward and though supportive, he always made it a point to call me out on my bullshit.

Smack dab in the middle of my chaos, he offered up a getaway -- to visit him on the West Coast.  It was mentioned in a "could you do me a favor" tone-- as his 40th birthday was approaching and he didn't want to spend it alone.

I was still regularly seeing my therapist at the time. She said, "Bad. Very bad idea....  You are too vulnerable for such a trip right now. What do you think he REALLY wants?"

He had never made any sort of romantic advances towards me -- well, at least since we were in our late teens/early twenties.  There was an undeniable emotional connection, of course.  He allowed himself a certain level of vulnerability and so did I.  I answered the phone one night bawling over the loss of time with my children, loss of my sense of "place" in the world, loss of my marriage.  He shared tears over his ongoing ankle injury, the hurtful things his ex had said to him, and his sadness of never having a child of his own.

Then, over the course of the next few months, little things he did would surprise me.  For my birthday he sent flowers and some extremely decadent coconut peanut butter from Hawaii.  He shared Shel Silverstein-esque poetry he had written and wanted me to share them with my children.  We connected over our same spiritual identity -- and the surprise that neither one of us had any desire to align ourselves with a particular religion.  Upon my suggestion, he tried meditation and loved the practice.  There were a dozen ways that I felt like this thing that was happening was for the good of both of us.

Eventually, after almost 20 years, we found our way to once again meeting in person. The last time I'd seen him was 1994 or 95 -- neither one of us can remember for sure.  I watched him get out of the car, walk towards me, and we embraced.  There was something in that moment, something indescribable.  It immediately felt comfortable.

Over the course of the last few months, I've noticed a completely different person begin to emerge -- one that reflects that statement in the quote above.  Friends and family tell me that I seem more myself, content, blissful.  I won't object.  I have chosen to live a life that is more "me" than ever because I'm supported by someone who truly loves me the way that I am -- the way that I am here. the way that I am now. The best me.

So she says, "He's just a friend."

I swear I left a trail of breadcrumbs back to this blog.  I remember doing so a few months ago.  Someone must've swept them up because I've had a real hard time getting back here. 

Some of the best writing I encounter is from a handful tortured souls I follow.  Perhaps I am less tortured these days, more satisfied and less apt to express online.  The past 6 months have been a whirlwind.  My divorce finalized. The dust began to settle on the idea of moving on. That move (the moving on) has been on several fronts.  

Silly me, I'm not the only one who's moved on.  I read about and hear about others seeking out company.  That's all it is for some.  Company is good, no doubt. Companionship, however-- finding a symbiotic relationship where both parties are completely aligned-- is tough to come by. Those types of relationships require both parties to give a little. Amazing, but true, it usually comes when you're not looking for it.

In the past weeks, I put two and two together that my ex-husband's new love interest is attending one of the group exercise classes I teach.  She's the tall, pretty blonde in the back of the room wearing the bright turquoise tennis skirt.  She is of that upper class-must-wear-makeup-to-the-gym-must-look-completely together-at-all-times kind of MILF.  And for some reason, she feels compelled to take her new beau's ex-wife's class.  Weird move, if you ask me.  So, since I'm not very shy, I walked straight up to her with a beaming smile and introduced myself. 

The look of shock and horror on her face was fun actually.  There was the, "how did you know my name?" and the even more entertaining, "oh, he's (as in my ex) just a friend."  Followed by, "I'm actually still married, but my husband cheated on me."  That rates as an overshare in my book.  Wasn't sure how to reply to that one.  At that point, I recognized that I had made her feel extremely uncomfortable, so I mentioned that she was spending time with my children and I thought it necessary to introduce myself and say "hi."  

I flat out lied and told her he was a good guy.  I'm not sure why that came out, but thought it might make her feel better.  Is it really lying if you're doing it to make someone feel more at ease? I lied big. 

As soon as I walked back to the front of the exercise room to start the class, she quickly grabbed her phone and started dialing -- her best friend, her unboyfriend-exhusband-of-mine, her mother -- who knows?  All I know is that then I had to spend the rest of my class trying to figure out why she'd choose to come to my class.  That, to me, is strange behavior.  

I am not a jealous person.  If nothing else, I want my exes (all eight of them ;)) to be happy.  Especially in the case of my ex-husband -- it is rather important.  If as they say, "Happy Wife = Happy Life" then "Happy Ex means Happy Kids."  He is prying less into my business and has taken to getting out of his own way.....mostly.  

So breadcrumbs are a piss poor way to find one's way back.  I've been lost, but I am certainly grounded in reality.  Gone are the days of worrying about my health; I am completely off any anti-depressant medication.  Gone are the days of wishing I could be someone's one and only.  I know for some that's just not possible; for others, I know I am loved for exactly who I am without having to worry that I'm not quite right. I am happy with exactly who I am. Wonder if new ungirlfriend will show up to my class again now that I've introduced myself and there is no longer any mystery whether I know who she is or not?  

I'll keep you posted. 

Liberation

I visited the grocery store this morning before most people were up and going about their Sunday rituals.  Grocery shopping on Sundays is not a typical event for me. However, as I was wheeling my 85 dollars of mostly frivolous purchases to the car, I recalled what it felt like to be a teenager out on my own.  Since the separation last fall, I've had this sense of freedom that can only be analogous to my freshman year of college.  It was 1994 and there was a Papa Johns Pizza within walking distance of my dorm room.  I lived on the intracoastal in West Palm Beach attending a private Christian college.  I recall craving a large sausage and cheese pizza and ordering it for takeout.  After strolling across campus to the downtown area, I sat outside the Papa Johns by myself, eating the entire thing..... because I could.  There was no one to witness my gluttony.  There was little guilt and not a soul to give me "the look."  It was quite liberating.

In that same vein, now I feel my grocery visits have become somewhat of a rebellion.  I buy organic this and that.  I may have glanced at two prices in passing. It's a funny thing when you don't have someone critiquing your purchases or the exorbitant amount you just spent on veggie cheese and designer protein bars (the ones that are never on sale).  Sadly, I must admit there had been times in my marriage that I pre-edited my grocery bags (expensive stuff to be shifted to the back of the cabinet) so as to avoid the finger wagging that accompanied the Starbucks Via packets or organic strawberries.  I can't tell you what a good feeling it is to not have to do that any longer.  

Of course I had considered the notion of just verbalizing my desire for organic spinach and almond milk to my husband; however, it became such a fight every time I wanted something that wasn't a value or a store brand version.  It was my fault that I found it easier to just buy it and put the Via packets in with the generic substitute of the Crystal Light packets.  This is deceitful, I understand. Mind you,  I didn't just immediately default to the idea of hiding things.  It came after a number of years of being judged and questioned about stupid piddly stuff.  I subscribe to my mother's philosophy, "100 years from now, we'll never know the difference."  

So since moving, that part of my life -- the judgement, the stuffing of random pricey things in inconspicuous places has ceased.  It's like eating the whole pizza without judgement.  

Not all of it is liberating -- there are still the consequences of buying the more expensive things.  Between paying my attorney, my house rent, and my tuition, there are a lot of expenses in my life.  I don't even make a livable wage.  I believe my frugal ways will return-- but for now, I'll be buying what I want until my credit cards tell me otherwise.  

....2015....

It couldn't possibly be a New Year already.  We are beyond the point of disillusionment now; it's already halfway through the month. Admittedly, I got lost in the waltz of Christmas, the flurry of holiday noise, and the rush of emotional turmoil that appears when one is filing for divorce.

The holidays were an awful, jumbled mess this year.  My soon-to-be ex flew the kids up to Tennessee to visit his sister, only to return on Christmas Eve.  A day later, we gathered painfully at the old house.  I brought the stuffing for the Christmas stockings and the dog.  I brought the presents I had carefully wrapped in bright snowman paper. It was excruciating, but I did my best to ignore the distance, the misery of the strange new reality.  It's much easier to compartmentalize these feelings when I'm not sitting in the marital home.  That is to say, I'm so glad I live somewhere else.

I held my breath until classes began this week.  I'm finally back to teaching.  In some ways, this semester has already proven to be less traumatic.  My classes are over for the first week and I am still alive. I'm sure there will be many tales to tell about them -- not specific student tales, of course.  Their secrets are safe with me. I've put more focus on the most recent addition to my weekly schedule: the class I'm taking in the masters program.  

The first official 2.5 hour class took place last night. Those hours fall unfortunately within the parameters of rush hour.  I wasn't so happy about that, but it was my only choice. It is an accepted detail of being an "evening" student.  Instead of fighting my way to the quaint little cobblestone streets and the myriad of cars that clog them, I decided to take my chances with the train system (my only moment of genius yesterday).  I caught the 5:40pm train down a few stops.  I found there was plenty of time to meander my way to the campus from the station.  I had time to stop at Starbucks along the way.  I passed my favorite eatery with my favorite friend and texted him the photo below.

There are more tidbits about my day I'd love to describe, but I realize that I must try to get some homework started and some administrative business out of the way for my own students.  Life is calling.  To be continued.....