They loved me… they REALLY loved me!
I’m honored and humbled to have landed a part in our university’s production of The Vagina Monologues. This is important to me on SO many different levels.
Just found out a few minutes ago… my work-focus is shot for the rest of the day. 🙂
I could learn a lot from my dog… if I would only “sit” and “stay” in the moment.
After a year of trying to make it without anxiety issues, I found myself headed back to counseling this summer to try and get a handle on things. For those of you who struggle with it, you know that it can sometimes be debilitating — and for those of you who don’t, it can damn near ruin your whole day before it even gets started.
One of the many anxiety-related issues I discuss with the counselor is the one I have over our “new” dog, Sonny. He’s been with us for a little over six months now, and while there are some days where I’m very happy he’s here with us, there are others that are extremely difficult. In July 2013 – almost to the date — we lost our beloved Mick, a rescued corgi-husky mix, to lymphoma at the age of twelve. Watching him grow frail and worrying about his safety at every moment “amped” up my level of anxiety… until the night he looked me directly in the eyes and told me it was “time to go.”
For over a year after that night, we came home to a quiet house that had no furry carpets or dog kibble trailed through the kitchen but also found ourselves being able to pick up and go wherever we wanted to when we wanted to. My anxiety over worrying if I had done right by Mick lessened daily… until the day when my husband and the stepkids started talking about how much they wanted another dog.
Sonny Boy (named after Sonny Boy Williamson — we’re huge old school blues fans) came into our lives the week before Christmas 2014. Some friends of ours found him wandering through a local park. When no one claimed him, it was decided (by democratic vote… and I lost) that he would come live with us.
And so began my anxiety over whether I’d be able to take care of another four-legger… and over the inevitable moment when it would again be “time to go.”
 One of the things the counselor suggested was that I get out and walk or at least do some kind of exercise to relieve my general anxiety. This summer, the kids are at their grandparents’, so responsibility for the morning walks falls on me. At first, I was terrified — wondering if we’d encounter a coyote or a snake or perhaps another dog who wasn’t very friendly. Or maybe he’d eat something that was poison. The walks weren’t relaxing at all. My chest was tight, I felt like my throat was closing up, and often, I wanted to cry.
But eventually, something began to change. I felt myself actually enjoying our morning time together — before the sun was fully over the treeline, watching him with nose to the ground, sniffing for the best spot to, ahem, well, you know. He was in the moment, and nothing could distract him.
The more I realized it, this damn dog GETS IT. He knows how to practice mindfulness.
I could learn a lot from him.
So, as I work through my inability to stop worrying about the future and stay in the moment, I leave you with these wise words of wisdom from my “other counselor.”
Always greet the morning, ready to “play ball.”
Sometimes you have to look at things from a different perspective.
It’s okay to sit and take it easy.
Stare down your fears. Eventually, they’ll scamper into the woods.
Every now and then… let it ALL hang out.
Soak in a good sunset on your front porch… sit, stay… and appreciate the moment.
Hi, all. Â I’m back from the depths (again).
This little fella has been giving me a hard time for the past month or so. Living in North Carolina during the spring sure is pretty, but it SUCKS for those of us with highly-reactive sinuses and lungs.
When I can’t type because I drip all over the keyboard, or the ink from my pen starts to mix with post nasal drip to create “art on paper,” I know I need to surrender for a while…
But this week, I loaded the “big guns” and am fighting back with more meds than I’d really like to have in my system, but hey – it’s starting to do the trick.
So, the oxygen level’s starting to climb, the snot’s less-snotty, and the drips are less-drippy. And I’m feeling like writing again. Yay!
So, please stay tuned for some interesting stories.
There’s the one about a desk named Flossie…
and fishing in the cemetery pond.
See ya soon!
I’ve gone back to reading BrenĂ© Brown’s Daring Greatly, as I feel in need of a tremendous kick in the ass for the new year. Something to motivate me to head “confidently in the direction of my dreams.” I can’t remember right this moment who said that, but I like the way it sounds.
For the past few months, I’ve felt stifled in my professional life — the work I do is certainly important to the success of the organization, but it offers no feeling of personal satisfaction or a sense that I am doing something to serve/help others — and as a result, nurturing my Self. I’m the quintessential “caretaker.” Always have been and probably always will be, and the moments I feel the greatest joy are when I’ve helped someone to overcome an obstacle or discover his or her potential.
How ironic, then, that what I love to do for others… is so damned difficult to do for my Self? Why do I have such a problem with going in the direction of my dreams?
I’m afraid. Yep, that’s it. Plain and simple. I feel vulnerable.
The interesting thing in my reading is that BrenĂ© talks about vulnerability, not as a weakness, but as an act of courage. It’s that being able to put yourself out there, despite all the preconceived ideas of possible failure or inadequacy, and fighting the good fight, regardless of the outcome.
Me? Courageous? Hmmm…
As much as I’d like to pride myself on being independent (I believe it comes from having to grow up fast after mom died — I was only eleven when that journey began), I know that there are times when I’d like nothing more than to shed that “coat of armor” that has protected me through the last 37 years, roll over and expose my soul to the world and say, “Hey. I need your support here. Deep down inside, there is a creative, intelligent, organized woman who is looking for an opportunity to do something amazing with her life that makes a difference — for others but also for her Self as well. Â Here I am, standing in the center of the arena, with no protection, for all the world to see, and I could sure as hell use some support and encouragement of my endeavors here.”
Now, THAT, my friends, takes courage.
Being vulnerable – in my case, having the courage to seek opportunities for soul-satisfying work — is a huge risk. It means putting my experiences out there on the rĂ©sumĂ© and job application for the world to see and hoping that someone will say, “She’s exactly the person we need! Let’s give her the opportunity!” It also means being ready to accept the fact that those people looking at my experiences may not feel I’m the right one for the job, and I shouldn’t take that as a sign that I’m incapable or not talented or that I need to stay right where I am and not look any more. That opportunity simply wasn’t the right one for me, and I need pick myself up, brush myself off, and, well… you know the rest.
Problem is, the feelings of inadequacy come bubbling to the surface of my little glass half full, as I start comparing myself to the other potential candidates, even before the application has been submitted. It’s that fear of failure — of not believing that I can do anything I put my mind to if I’d just get the hell out there and do it. Much of that inadequacy and doubt has been internalized, I believe, as a result of listening to a long list of people who, although they claimed to be in the arena with me, were actually up in the bleachers, hurling their opinions at me like rotten tomatoes.
“You wouldn’t enjoy doing that, would you?”
“Yeah, sure, it sounds interesting…but what does it pay?”
“Why would you want to do that? You’re good at what you do now.”
“Why would you want to leave this job? It pays well, and you have an important title?”
Vulnerability “True Confession” of the Day: Â As much as I pride myself on being independent, I need someone there beside me in the arena, slapping me on the back, high-fiving me, and saying, “Go for it!” regardless of the outcome.
In one of her interviews on YouTube, BrenĂ© talks about having a “short list” of people whose opinions matter — those “battle buddies” who are there with you and for you while you take that bold, brave first step. The ones who don’t give up on you because you make mistakes or are even afraid to attempt to put yourself out there at all, for fear of making a mistake. They are the ones who love you,”not in spite of your vulnerabilities…but because of them.” The ones who know you’re on the verge of being bat-shit crazy, but they love and appreciate that about you. She keeps this list handy in her purse for those moments when feelings of doubt and inadequacy rear their ugly heads.
Watch her interview on “Chase Jarvis Live” here. It’s worth the hour-and-a-half, so pour yourself a glass of something and watch:
I have been thinking about my “short list” over the past few weeks, and it appears I’d be well-served to put it on a business card and keep it close by for handy reference. They are a select few, and although they are probably not aware of their placement on this list, I hold their friendship, support, encouragement… and occasional ass-kicking skills in very high regard. So, as I take these bold steps, I will look at my list and know that, while it’s up to me to make things happen, those whose opinions matter – those who stand beside me in the area, despite the outcome – are always there.
Who’s on your “short list?”Â
Forty eight.
Age sixteen… for the third time.
The seventeenth anniversary of being 21.
Four dozen years, all packaged up in stretch denim,
Over-sized sweater, and warm fuzzy socks.
The day’s sensible shoes, taking rest in the corner.
At this point, comfort over fashion is key.
At least it is in her world.
Sitting at the keyboard,
Remembering her past,
Dreaming of her future.
Interrupted by the present…
Reality, asking if she’s going to do the laundry.
The spin cycle begins.
What have I accomplished?
Have I made the right decisions?
Will I ever be able to retire?
Should I throw in the towel?
Who the hell am I, and what do I want?
Stop.
Take a deep breath.
Remember what the chiropractor said.
And the counselors – all three of them.
Time to strengthen. Time to heal.
Forty-eight years.
Age is nothing but a number.
Time to start living your life.
Lots of questions to be answered,
So put on those stretchy pants and get to it.
First off, I want to apologize for not having posted here in a very long while.
Truth is, I’ve been busy — this writing thing is starting to take off now, and I’m really excited about the direction in which it’s headed. Â Over the summer, I submitted two stories for inclusion in anthologies and am honored to say that both of them were accepted for publication!
The first one —Â Letters for My Little Sister —Â is a marvelous book about menopause. Â It’s filled with stories from women of all ages and walks of life from all over the world. Â I’m one of those gals who never learned from my mother about these things because, quite frankly, she passed away when she was only 35. Â My grandmother never shared anything, either, because I wasn’t experiencing (or even thinking about) symptoms when she was still here with us. Â So when I opened this book and started reading, it felt as if I had settled in among a circle of kindreds — I poured myself a cup of favorite tea, pulled up the blanket, and started reading. Â Couldn’t put it down. Several times I felt myself chuckling in acknowledgement at some of the experiences – of course, my husband wondered what I could possibly be laughing at, but he DARED not ask, for fear of what might happen (I’m pre-menopausal, you know?).
The second book — Women Awakening: Discovering Our Personal Truths — is an anthology of I Am Subject Stories that focus on women sharing how the influences of family history, body and mind, internal/external roles, and life-altering moments have helped shape their lives… and their stories.  The stories are raw, honest, risky.  I would like to meet several of these women in person some day.  Diane DeBella, the book’s editor and the creator of the I Am Subject project, has become a friend via the wonders of technology (she lives in Colorado and I’m in North Carolina), and I hope to get together with her very soon to explore some opportunities to expand on this project.
I encourage you to consider these books and their creators. Â Here are links to their webpages and book information:
Cecelia Gunther — Letters for My Little Sister Book Order Page
http://thekitchensgarden.com/book-orders/
Diane DeBella — The I Am Subject Project Page
http://iamsubject.com
For Women Awakening Book Orders
http://www.iamsubject.com/diane-debella-books/women-awakening/
Here’s me… as proud as punch!
A story I wrote has been accepted for publication in the book, I Am Subject: Sharing Our Truths to Reclaim Our Selves.
I’m extremely excited about this. I believe there are over 70 stories from women – all over the world – that will be included in this anthology. It’s amazing and quite humbling to know that my story has been heard… and acknowledged.
And it couldn’t have come at a better time in my life — a time when “the change” has my body going haywire, the mind following suit most of the time, and my spirit jumping up and down, waving its hand in the air, frantically screaming, “Hey!  Remember me?  Can I please come out and play now?”
Through this project, the box lid on my comfortable, safe, secure little world has been ripped open and exposed to the elements, and I’m finding that the air outside is safe to breathe. Actually, it’s quite refreshing.
So go on, spirit. Climb out now. Inhale deeply… and play ’til your heart’s content.
For more information on Diane DeBella and her wonderful project, visit her website:Â http://www.iamsubject.com/
Hey, all.  Those of you who regularly visit my page (thank you!) will notice that I decided to change the theme and re-do my banner. I’m in the midst of transformation here… and trying to focus direction a bit. These days, it’s increasingly difficult for me to wrangle in all these ideas… sometimes I feel like my twelve-year-old stepdaughter after downing a 20oz bottle of Dr. Pepper.
So, here’s the deal. Â I’m 47, have a little over six years to go before I can fully retire, and I’m beginning to do that “wonder what’s ahead for me?” thing.
Throw into the mix that I’m menopausal. Â Yep, it’s official. Â Got the lab reports and the “welcome to the club” from the doc to confirm it. Â Damn.
Actually, it’s not so bad, this time of life. Â I thought menopause meant everything pretty much shuts down — but I hafta’ tell ya, I haven’t had this much enthusiasm and hope for the future in a while now.
You’re going to start seeing more about midlife on my pages — no, not the clinical stuff — I’ll leave that to the doctors.  I want to get down-and-dirty with it, get right in its face and say, “Come on! Is that all you’ve got?” I’m going to share a serious side to this journey, hopefully connect with those of you who are along for the ride (or are waiting at the station), and poke a little fun in the meantime.
Why not? Â A good friend of mine always said, “If you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space.” Â I like the way she thinks, and she practices what she preaches (love you, Cheryl).
So, welcome to my “new” page — please do me the kind favor of following my blog or sharing it with anyone you feel might benefit from a little midlife message every now and then.
Whew. Â Gotta go turn on the fan. Â All this excitement cranked up a “flash.”
Peace.
I am participating in Diane DeBella’s #iamsubject project http://www.iamsubject.com/the-iamsubject-project/. Here is my #iamsubject story.
“You live with too many ghosts.”
That’s what he said to me one night after seeing the title of the book, Motherless Daughters. I was reading it in an attempt to begin processing what had been kept hidden inside for over 25 years. So I put the book away, just as I had done with several other attempts to find out exactly who I was.
On the outside, there was the confident, organized college administrator who received glowing evaluations and loved helping anyone she could, especially those who seemed to need that extra push or vote of confidence. Her door was always open, yet, on the rides home, she secretly longed for her own advisor to help make sense of everything and to tell her she was on the right track.   There was the “coach’s wife,” who attended every game and stood (literally) on the sidelines, filming her husband’s rise to fame during a winning season. No one ever knew her name or even cared to, for that matter – she was simply “coach’s wife.” And at a showing of the video she had created, his only acknowledgement of her efforts were, “Oh, yeah. This is just a little hobby she has.”
I began to feel a slow grating at the base of my gut each time everything I said or did was interrupted by a better, bigger story or altogether ignored. I was important, and although I had allowed myself to focus on who I was externally – defining myself based on what I did for others – inside, my spirit was withering.
It took something extremely personal, extremely physical, for me to realize that things needed to change. That I was an individual who had a name, a body, and a spirit who deserved to be recognized and appreciated. Most importantly, I needed to learn how to appreciate myself. In 2005, after suffering through years of painful menstrual cycles and noticing (but not addressing) a growing abdomen, I found the courage to face one of my biggest fears and have a hysterectomy. Since Momma died, I had always had this deep terror of hospitals, knowing they were the places “where you went to and never came out of.” I also feared the simple act of going to doctors because they “could always discover some horrible disease that would end up killing you.”
Something was different this time. For once, I didn’t feel like the terrified eleven-year-old. I knew I was taking care of me for the first time. So, in the quiet hours of the first night after surgery, listening to my husband grumble about “having his sleep interrupted by the nurse coming in to check vitals,” I began to heal – on several levels.
He wasn’t there the morning I was released. No, he had decided to spend the remaining time of my hospital stay at home, studying for his teaching boards. Eventually, I decided to leave the marriage.
Jokingly, I comment to my girlfriends that I received a “two-for-one” deal when I went to the hospital – not only did I have my uterus removed, they helped me remove an a**hole as well.
Nine years later, I can’t say that I’ve completely healed from the scars of mother loss or the hysterectomy, nor have I fully discovered who, at 47, I truly am. But I can tell you that I’ve taken some amazing steps in the journey so far.
The man I married three years ago understands that I am on a journey toward self. Although I have the outward challenges of trying to learn how to be a good wife, stepmother, survive menopause, etc., he also respects that I have some “me work” to continue.
Hubs and I met through our love for music. About two years ago, we formed a vintage blues band that (very surprisingly) won a competition that sent us to Beale Street, Memphis. In the past, my voice was stifled by, “No, you can’t join a band. Why would you want to, anyway?” Now, when I sing, I feel alive. Powerful. Sexy. Like a woman who’s beginning to take control of her life.
One day, while having a less-than-powerful moment on the journey, I was searching for another self-help book on “taking chances.” That’s when I came across You Are a Badass: How to Stop Doubting Your Greatness and Start Living an Awesome Life. The author, Jen Sincero, exemplified to me the type of woman I was seeking to become – strong, opinionated, in-charge, creative. I read it like a college textbook, making notes in the margins and highlighting just about every other paragraph. I needed to come out of my protective little shell, admit and face up to my challenges, and “get the hell on with” my life. The author sent out a request for video clips from readers, sharing why they felt they should be selected for her 8-week course. I submitted…and was selected. In fact, I’m finishing up the final week right now. I’ve learned how to maintain focus on what desires and goals I want and to step out of that comfortable little box I’ve lived in for so long. I am close to earning my B.A. in “B-A.” Heh.
That book that I hid away years ago? Well, funny how things happen. One night, Hubs showed me a book that had been recommended by someone. He was trying to understand and support me in my healing over Momma’s death. It was the same book – Motherless Daughters. That loving gesture started a crazy chain of events. I joined the author’s fan page. She sent out a call for stories of mother loss. I took a huge leap of faith and submitted one. A few weeks later, she contacted me for permission to use the story in her 20th Anniversary edition of Letters from Motherless Daughters (by the way, my story is on page 162 under a fictitious name). In March 2014, I attended my first meeting of the Triangle Motherless Daughters Group. For the first time in 36 years, I was among sisters. I was able to express grief, challenges, and successes and be listened to and valued. The book’s author, Hope Edelman, was also there. She signed a copy of the book and gave it to me. 
On May 10, 2014, I wrote a feature story in the Greensboro News & Record about life as a motherless daughter and shared that I was starting a support group for other motherless daughters in the area. I’ve been contacted by numerous women (and supportive men) who thanked me for helping them and who want to join the group. I hope to hold the first meeting at the end of June. Visit my website http://momlesslife.wordpress.com for more information.
Do I live with ghosts? Of course, I do, and I’m proud of it.  They stay by my side constantly, gently coaxing me along the way. They sit quietly by me in the evenings when I feel compelled to write. They give me the “thumbs up” as I click “enter” and submit yet another story for consideration. They see that I am beginning to cut those spectral apron strings and come into my own self. If I listen closely enough, I can hear them say, “Atta girl!”
A Collection of Thoughts .
—Life Through the Eyes of Storytellers—
The Life & Ramblings Of A Zillennial
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