Seasons and Patterns

For the first time ever, I left yoga in the middle of class today. 

I forced myself to go because I know its good for me, and I almost always like it when I am there, and I always love it when I am done. 

It isn’t my favorite yoga class, but the time works well and I glean different things from this class and generally use it to my advantage.  So, I had actually forgotten that it wasn’t one of my favorites.  I laid the mat down, already annoyed at something minor.  (O.K. I wasn’t going to say it because of how petty it is, but in the spirit of honesty, I will. The view from the room is peacefully gorgeous.  It looks out on a marsh with birds flying around, and forest in the distance. Someone had left a TV used for a presentation parked on the left side of this view. It annoyed me so I went to the back of the room. Thats it. Really.)  Then I went to the bathroom, got some water, and tried to settle on my mat.  I could not get comfortable. My mind was still racing from a troubling conversation from last night. 

Without writing all the boring details, I tried my best.  I was desperately  wishing I had taken my ritalin this morning.  I was not able to even sit to start, do any of the moves, the breaths, the letting go.  I started watching the clock.  It had only been 15 minutes; there was no way to get through this.  What was the point? I can not do any of it.  Finally, at 8:35, over half way through, I rolled up my mat and left.  Immediately, I thought it was a mistake because my right side felt stretched and good and my left side felt tight.  Oh well, imbalance is my specialty.  

My mother sent me an email last night asking how we are doing.  She said, “I figured it is half way through June and ya’ll are settled into your summer routine.”    I almost cried.    I am so far from settled into any summer routine. Or I could just end the sentence at settled.  I am so far from settled.  

Reading your post this morning reminded me to take a deep breath. Reminded me to be in the present.  This IS a transitional week.  They were still in school last week.  This is the first full week of summer, even though you wouldn’t know it by the weather.  I say this flippantly, but the unusual coolness messes with the senses when you are shivering and covering with towels by the pool and at the lake. Perhaps we rush from thing to thing, season to season, without honoring the transition.  Can we compare the last week of school to surgery? Jumping from one row of squares on the calendar to the next row of squares cuts into our daily routine like few other times in the year. Can we really move seamlessly from one to the next? Although I am new at it, one thing that is said repeatedly in my yoga classes is, “ Honor your body. Honor where it is today.”  Perhaps we can honor the transition time. Especially if we are more prone to feeling goodbyes, rather than hellos.  

At the beginning of the yoga class that I went to this morning, the teacher was telling us of a training she went to yesterday on therapeutic yoga.  She likes to give these little updates; perhaps it’s her way of sequeing from the every day into the practice.  I sometimes find it annoying but often come back to it later.  Go figure.  

She said she needed to process the training before she integrated it into her teaching, but would give us a little glimmer.  Much, if not all, of what we do is determined by patterns that we create consciously or unconsciously.  For example, wrap your fingers into steeple pose.  Now do it the other way.  It just doesn’t feel right.  It is not better or worse, but an exercise in feeling from a different perspective.  

Thinking about patterns in my life, I do not need to classify them as good or bad.  Some patterns work at times in our lives, but not others. I can not follow the same schedule in the summer as I do during the school year while I have school age children.  After having a baby, I can not return to the person I was before I was pregnant.  There are different circumstances.  The question that your writing provoked in me is this:  Are we always the same person emotionally, or can that, too, change? 

Will you always “inhabit a dense, mostly dark place, speckled with blindingly bright stars?”  Or if inhabiting that place becomes too much,  could learning that, acknowledging that, and living that for years be enough? Could this be a familiar pattern? One that is easy to slip into, like a favorite glove? 

It has taken a surprisingly long time to write this post. Most of the day, actually.  Rarely do I take this time, but I had the time blocked for writing and this is what became of it today.  It was triggered by Lindsey’s post today.  It started as a comment on her blog and then morphed several times into an essay, then a letter, in several different voices.  I “killed several darlings” to get this out.  At first I was writing to her, then to some vague audience, then myself. 

Ultimately, it landed here.  Seasons and patterns. One we can’t change.  One we can.  

Sometimes Little Changes are Harder

Change can be profound or minute. Like the inside wheels of a (non digital) clock, a movement change in one will inevitably change another.  Change begets change. 

Sometimes the big changes are easier.  It may not feel like it at the time of course.  Sometimes we prepare and plan for our big changes. Other times, the big changes come when there is no other choice.  

“Change will happen when the pain of staying the same is greater than the pain of changing.”  

My mother taught me this.  I don’t remember her saying it all the time, but she must have said it plenty of times because I remember it, hold it, return to it, and I associate this knowledge with her. 

Sometimes I want the change to stop.  Often the little changes that accompany the bigger ones are more irritating.  I’m not expecting them, and these changes throw me off track when I least expect it.   Sort of like spring in Minnesota.  Since moving to Minnesota, I find spring so God damned annoying that I can’t stand it.  It is June 10 and its cold, windy and gray.  And it has been like this since the middle of March.  I can handle the bitter below zero weather and blistering blizzards and the long dark days of winter, but when I so desperately have waited and waited and spring refuses to come, I become unhinged. 

So too are other changes that we, perceivably, have more control over.  Like when I was trying to change the way I ate.   This huge change had me feeling much better and healthier in general because I was eating more consciously.  Some hiccup came so I ordered [put anything bad here - burger and fries, chicken pot pie, turtle fudge sundae] because these have comforted me in the past. And, surprisingly, they made me feel worse.  So, my big change of diet, that I undertook on my terms when I was ready, had complicated another area that was not expected. I did not know how to deal with unease  without eating crappy food. Why should this be hard now, after weeks of working hard to change my diet? Crappy food had always been my solace.  Life boats aren’t supposed to have holes.

I weathered the last few months of mental and emotional darkness and have begun to emerge with a new hope and vitality.  I scheduled my writing time, and have done a fairly good job of protecting it. As I sit  during my designated time in my sacred space (OK, Starbucks, but whatever) I am struggling with an unexpected feeling of unease. 

Yes, I have developed tools and even a little reserve now to deal with unease as it comes.  BUT  I DON’T WANT TO DO THE WORK.  I want to just be.  Relax in my time.  I created this space for growth.  It’s on my calendar.  This is my designated time. I want to do it my way.  I want my mind to be free and open and ON.  I don’t want to have to breathe deep, trust, sit with the unease, acknowledge that it is a sensation and it will pass. 

But I will. 

ALL or NONE

Unfortunately, I think, I am an ALL or NONE person. Really. I think I try to pretend that I am not. One of the things that makes me think I am one of those is that I tend to make fun of them. I tend to call it out in those I know. (Just ask my husband.) I am always, always amazed that I never learn this lesson faster.

You know the one, the lesson I’m talking about. Where things drive you crazy, too crazy. You become obsessed with them, noticing them. Not in yourself of course, but in other people. And then, one day, BAM! It hits you. I hate this and it drives me nuts because it is me.

Some time this spring, I realized I needed to make some changes. If I were honest, I really thought everyone around me needed to make changes. Somehow I figured out that wasn’t going to happen, so I had to take charge.

Since school started last fall, I have not stopped. I could actually write this sentence instead: Since my third child was born, I have not stopped. But that would be for a different paragraph. Sally started all day Kindergarden in September, and I was scared of all that free time. So I signed up for all kinds of volunteer work at school. I knew for years that I was going to do this; it was part of my plan. I would stay home with my kids until they were in school, then spend all my time volunteering. It sounded like the perfect life, this script that I wrote years ago.

What wasn’t in the script was how utterly bored I would be.

That’s right. Bored. When I think of all the things in life that truly surprise me, my boredom this year will stand out.

There were other things that made this year difficult. My older daughter had major issues at school, Steve’s beloved aunt finally lost her battle with cancer, Steve’s work, and all the silent things that were beginning to stir in me, to name a few.

I was at the school, or doing things for my children and husband, from the time I got up until the minute I went to bed at night. Busy work. Riding the hamster wheel. I was managing the details so everyone else could have a life. I kept thinking it was going to end, it wasn’t going to stay like this because all my kids were in school now and I had all this free time.

I am not a natural housekeeper, and organization is not a strength. So I didn’t even reap some benefits that all the time put into our house and family might otherwise provide. Like a clean house, or the feeling of catching up, or forms or homework done on time or healthy dinners by a cozy fire at night.

No, that didn’t happen at all. It seemed like every part of my life was in shambles - my health, my home, my kids, our stuff, our happiness. My kids think clean clothes come from a laundry basket, not from dressers in their rooms. They think its normal to scramble for matching socks every single morning.

I spent fifteen hours a day trying to keep up, doing something I don’t enjoy and wasn’t good at doing. And I missed my husband and children desperately. I don’t think I was better at the details when they were younger, but there was less of the details, and I was in relationship with them most of the time.

My husband got very sick this spring, and I was not the wife I wanted to be. It turned out to be only a sinus infection, but it lasted for six weeks. Every weekend, which I now realize were my lifelines, he slept on the couch and moaned in pain. The weather was always, always cold and rainy. Every weekend. Many friends down south were facebooking about the beautiful spring weather; I felt like I was trapped in the eye of a storm.

Now my lifelines were reading in bed at night (preferably with him gone) and my Starbucks latte in the morning. Every other minute was waiting to get to one of these two times. One morning, I was so distraught that I went in for my latte and I decided to stay. I had my computer, and I spent the morning being useless. I had so many things to do, but I surfed the internet, read stories, papers, magazines, facebook. I didn’t do one thing for anyone else. About noon, I returned to my life - laundry, lists, and schedules. I did it not with joy, but with a lighter step. At the end of the day, there were still just as many things left undone as there had been the day before.

And that’s how I started taking my mornings; that’s how I began writing again, after all these years. I went to Starbucks, and wrote. It was a lot of journaling, but some pieces began to emerge. And I revisited this blog, one of several I toyed with a couple of years ago. If I couldn’t write, I read. But most mornings, I wrote and wrote. And it became my air. It was like I had breathed through a straw for so long, that I was gulping the air in full breaths.

I went on a retreat, I wrote, I started yoga. I spent the mornings take caring of myself. I became happier and hopeful. I enjoyed my kids and husband more. I finally understood that just as a car can’t go without gas, I can’t be everything to everyone without taking care of myself. I did it every single morning. It was my ALL.

And then the second half of May came. There were endless end of the year celebrations, parties, performances, tasks to complete. I quit coming. I gave up the mornings. It didn’t take long; I got crabby again and wasn’t enjoying my days. I became anxious because I knew my kids activities were going to dominate the summer. I didn’t have a plan to continue my journey. I was back to NONE of all or none.

I had a sitter today and wanted to come write but I had to complete a project for school for the transition to the next leadership team. I worked hard on it, not enjoying it, mad that my kids were at breakfast and the beach with a sitter. I wanted to be there. I want to enjoy the summer with them. If I get caught up, I can DO IT ALL with them.

I took a little break and read some of the blogs that had become my “friends” during my mornings in the spring. They were still there. Relief, but not surprise. Then I looked at my blog, and realized a few people had been there. SURPRISE, but not relief.

This was when I realize that, indeed, I am ALL or NONE. In the spring, I became ALL IN with my writing. Every day. And then I got busy, and felt better, and I was ALL NONE without even realizing it.

I reached out a little, not much, when I was trying to make changes. It paid off. The few comments and fewer visitors have engaged me. Like most people, I don’t like asking for or needing help or support. My very small , if not community, settlement is calling me. I need to come back.

I do want to enjoy the summer with my kids. I know I can’t be ALL writing or ALL kids or ALL husband or ALL house or ALL writer.

But I am learning that I also can’t be NONE. I have to write.

For better or worse, I now know the ache of the pen.

A Little Knowledge is More Than You Think

A few years ago, I was in a toy store shopping for Christmas. I have always loved being in nice toy stores. Although it seems like my kids have more toys than any other kids in the entire world, I rarely buy them toys. It was a bustling December day, alive with the holiday shopping energy. I had time and was enjoying browsing, carefully thinking what each child would enjoy, how I would enjoy playing it with them. If I am shopping with Steve, this pleasure is never allowed. But that day, there was no, “Hurry up. Let’s go. Let’s check this off the list. Just grab something. Decision made.” I was also free from, “Mom, look at this. Can I please have this? Pllllllleeeeease. Add this to my list. Come see this. Isn’t it cool? I would really use this alot.” I was relaxed.

Someone walked in and the happy sales woman asked, “Can I help you find something?”

“I am looking for a game called Blokus.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. We just can’t keep that in the store. It is the hot thing this Christmas.”

My ears perked up at this. I am never in on THE HOT THING. I remember as a student in school, I always hated current events. I would rather read a good book. I liked history, I read encyclopedias. I like the solid, the proven. Why read something that will only be good today? I didn’t like quick short reads. I liked to savor, to immerse myself in the other worlds of books. Same with the music scene; it was too much work to keep up with it.

Anyway, back to the HOT THING. Over the next 20 minutes, four separate people came in asking for this game. I was excited to have the info on the new in thing. I kept browsing, repeating Blokus Blokus Blokus over and over in my head so as not to forget. I had drawn my brother in laws name for the Christmas gift exchange, and I wanted to get this for him, for their family to play.

I was examining other games and I heard someone’s surprise delight in the back, “Come look,” she implored to her co- worker. It was not obnoxious or loud, didn’t call attention; it just registered for some reason.

A few minutes later the manager comes up next to me and sets down a box. She opens it and starts to pull out the contents. Another customer almost accosts her saying, “Is that Blokus?” “Yes, we just got in a new box of them.” Suddenly, I was in the midst of a scene that looked like a news bit from Black Friday. There were arms and pushes and scratches and I was literally in the middle of it with the sales lady. She shoves two games in my hands and I just stand there until it was done. It lasted about as long as our golden retriever eating a bowl of dog food - maybe a minute or two. Just like that, I found myself with two of the NEW HOT THING.

I carried them around the store with me and they were a great conversation piece. “Where did you get those?” “Isn’t that a great game?” “My grand kids have that game and we all play it together.” “How do you play?” “Why is that the new hot game?” I had to jump on the bandwagon fast because suddenly I was the one in the know.

I have found myself in the same position about Kripalu. I landed there by surprise in a strange way; my mode of transportation may as well have been a broomstick by night in front of a whole moon. I had no knowledge of the place, and little knowledge of the author I was following there. It was one of my crazy adventures I love.

Funny thing about this adventure, I told less than a handful of people what I was doing. Upon my return, everyone started asking about it. At first I thought I was losing it. I didn’t remember telling people, but I am not a super private person and thought I must have shared with a few. I soon learned that my husband had walked around with a megaphone glued to his mouth the entire weekend letting the community know that I had gone to a writing workshop for the weekend. Bless his heart. When I write thank you notes, he tells me what a great author I am. He was proud.

I didn’t tell anyone because I hate the follow up questions. “You write. Cool. What do you write?” I have learned that no author likes this question, but the experienced ones put up with it, or prepare a canned response. I would answer, “Thank you notes,” but that would get me into trouble with the thousand or so people I owe those to.

Everyone wanted to know more. I couldn’t talk about it. I couldn’t explain it. I came back calmer and resolved to keep plodding along. People are not used to me not talking so they had to ask specific answers only to get one word responses, like when I ask my kids about their days at school. “How was your day?” Fine. “What did you do at recess?” Played soccer. “With whom did you play soccer?” Lots of people.

It went something like this. “How was your weekend away?” Fine. “Where did you go?” East. “Where out East?” Western Mass. “Steve said you went to a writing workshop.” Yes, I did. “Tell me about it.” It wasn’t what I expected, I didn’t really fit it. Everyone did yoga and chanted and ate veggie broth for breakfast. I wanted coffee in the mornings and was disappointed that there wasn’t a bar. And then, because I am not dishing, they turn it to them, “I want to do something like that.” or, “I’ve always wanted to do a silent retreat.” I am simply not able to have this conversation. I don’t know anything.

Anyway, back to being the expert on Kripalu. For the second time since my return in as many weeks, I went to a yoga class called Kripalu Yoga. I still don’t know what Kripalu yoga is, but the time worked for me and I am coming to like how I feel when I go. Because she had just returned from there, the teacher was all Kripalu-giddy, a feeling I DO know, and she wanted to talk about it. Everyone nodded their heads to be nice but she soon realized they just wanted to get started.

After the class was over, I was chatting with my friend when the instructor and another lady were somehow in our conversation. Surprisingly, Kripalu came up. My friend pointed at me and said, “She’s been there.” I smiled and said, “Yes, I was just there a couple of weeks ago.” She got all excited again, so I had to burst her bubble before it got too big. “I didn’t do yoga though.” For an instant, she looked at me like I had three heads, but because she is in her joy to the world everyone is on their own journey peacefulness, she smiled, and I could see the question spread across her body. Going to Kripalu without doing yoga is like going to the grocery store and not buying groceries or going to the gas station and not getting gas.

“It’s a long story, but I didn’t realize what it was about.”

My friend rejoins the conversation, “But she came back and has been doing yoga ever since.” The consolation prize.

Clearly these folks were not within range of my husbands megaphone during the weekend I went to Kripalu. I explained, “I needed to get away and I learned of this writers conference and thats why I went. Why did I come back and start doing yoga? I don’t know really. The place gets into you. It’s hard to explain.”

The instructor nodded her head because she knew and the other lady was asking more questions, where is it, tell me more about it, is it spiritual, what is the yoga like. I looked in her eyes and knew she was looking for more, working on her journey and was looking everywhere for answers, even to me.

It reminded me of something I read last night. In Kyran Pittman’s Planting Dandelions, she was telling a story reminiscing of being young in the car in a rain storm with her parents. She was so relaxed, watching the drops on the window, and felt so safe with her parents, the implication being they knew everything and could handle this fine. Flash forward to when she was a parent driving with her kids in the car, white knuckled, shoulders hunched, scared to death. Just as she understood that her kids trusted her instinct and knowledge to keep them safe, she said suddenly you realize YOU DON’T KNOW SHIT.

This was her fear talking. She knew more than she knew. Her kids were safely buckled in and you have to assume they made it home fine because the story goes on.

And so our stories go on. We learn and grow and make changes in small steps. Even after taking just the first few steps, there are those behind us that are ready to start. We don’t give ourselves credit for what we know or what we have done. Just as there is much change going on in a cocoon before the emergence, we all have much going on in our thoughts and beings before we can take the first step. We find ourselves knowing more than some, and it surprises us.

“At the beginning, Lincoln was so inexperienced he had reverence for military expertise, not realizing that there wasn't any military expertise.”

David Herbert Donald, Hisorian

Amateur Meditator

I don’t know how many times I have done yoga. Three in the last 10 days. Thats the most in a short span of time I have ever done. The other 20 or 30 times I have done it spread a span of about 10 years. On average then, 2 or 3 times a year since I started. For my life average, less than once a year.

I am even less experienced at conscious breathing and meditation. I have heard these words on and off through the years, with various reactions. If I am cocky and confident, I make fun of them. [Don’t lose the laughter.] When I have been in a more open place, I have tried them. Guided meditations that come in a cassette tape (yes it was long ago) with a blue sky dotted with calming white clouds. They have swooshing noises and a soft spoken lady that sounds like she has just smoked a bag.

And somewhere in one of these twice yearly yoga classes and cassette tapes, I have heard breath speak. Admittedly, it has helped me. But helped in supporting the mantra that we must always have laughter in our lives. Not in the way it was meant to be. Breathe into your stomach. Breathe in good karma, breathe out the negative. Think only of your breath and you will have life. I mean, seriously. I am so overloaded that why would I put all my concentration into something that will happen whether I think of it or not?

”To stay with that shakiness—to stay with a broken heart, with a rumbling stomach, with the feeling of hopelessness and wanting to get revenge—that is the path of true awakening. Sticking with that uncertainty, getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic—this is the spiritual path.” ~Pema Chodrun

I read this quote in the comments section of Lindsey’s blog a few weeks ago and it has stuck with me. I am working on “getting the knack of relaxing in the midst of chaos, learning not to panic.”

One of the many nuggets Dani Shapiro offered at a Kripalu workshop was on meditation. She offered some simple affirmations that we should concentrate on while we were practicing our breathing. Since the workshop was on writing, I started to ask if I could have a partial refund, but, since I was in a safe, unfrenzied place, I thought I would give it a try.

I am always looking for an out, an escape. I always know where the closest exit is located. I was well positioned in the back of the room. I knew I could just pretend, disengage, or even get up to go to the bathroom if I became too uncomfortable. My flight response responded to the high alert. I guess I should disclose that this entire exercise was less than five minutes, and I was well aware of how long it would last before I started. Dani introduced the exercise in her calming but confident and unimpaired from substances voice. In other words, this was a perfectly rational , even inspirational person asking me to try this. FOR ABOUT FIVE MINUTES. Because I was feeling generous and open minded, I told myself I would try it for half the time. This is an insight into how resistant I was to trying the breathing/meditation thing again.

So, it was with these parameters and escapes in place that I attempted her meditation. She started with telling us to feel our connection, feel where our sits bone connected to the ground. Here was when I started to not like it. Yes, the first sentence. Most people were on the floor and I was in a chair so I already thought I was doing it wrong because I was not connected to the ground. I started thinking my butt was on the chair and the chair was connected to the ground by four legs. Foot bone connected to the ankle bone, Ankle bone connected to the leg bone. And my mind goes to the familiar children's song. So, hey, anyway, does this really count if I am not sitting on the ground?

But, I stuck with it. She said a few more calming words and then went to the phrases: May I be safe, May I live with ease, May I be happy, May I be strong. I could have these in the wrong order but in the spirit of meditation I’m not sure that matters.

I could not believe it when she offered an out before I even thought about stopping. She said, “If your mind starts to wander, then just come back to the phrase, or the breath, or whatever.” Again, I missed the details but I clung to the message I was hearing. You don’t have to be perfect, your mind will wander, everyone’s mind wanders. So you come back. Just like that. Try again.

And there it was. With that one little rule added, I could do it. This amendment to my definition of meditating changed the game. Two minutes? And I could start over as many times as I wanted without getting points taken off? This is definitely something my attention deficit, lack of focus mind can wrap itself around.

I have used this meditation a few times in the two weeks I have been home. Not for as long as I did there. I can’t do the whole five minutes yet without the support of someone leading it. And I haven’t done it sitting down focusing all my attention on it. Mostly I use it when I find myself getting mad or frustrated. I stop and take a deep breath. Then I recite the words to myself. Usually I am not even focusing on the words, but using the mantra of the words to calm my body down. Like one of the ritualistic prayers I learned growing up, like the Lord’s prayer or the Nicene Creed.

As I strive to make changes in my life, I look to those who have gone before me. Most of the time, this helps. Each person’s knowledge and experience can help push me along. But sometimes, I get so intimidated. I feel like I am so far behind. I feel so small around those so great. I start listening to the voice in my head that says you will never do that, be that, go there.

So, I want to record this time. This moment. I want to remember my courage in trying when I am far from being the expert, far away from any confidence, far away from being experienced. I am embracing the infancy of my new seed. It may or may not grow. It is working now.

Chinese philosopher Lau Tzu regarded action as something that arises naturally from stillness. I like this slightly different interpretation of the common quote.

"Even the longest journey must begin where you stand."

Connections

When I read something (or hear something, but usually its by reading) that I absolutely and completely understand from the core of my being, several things happen.

While reading it, I don’t want it to end. I want to know what happens next. I want more. I am never satisfied. Sometimes I want to know the tiniest details about the situation or person - like what they had for breakfast, or what books are on their nightstand currently.

Many times, these are insights I have felt and known to be true (mostly about myself) but couldn’t express it; didn’t recognize it as a feeling. I felt like I was one step away from knowing this. And then I read it and I feel a huge sense of discovery.

Like when Lindsey writes about her bubble or when Dani writes about being an outsider.

And I am thankful for this person for putting it out there.

And I feel a little less lonely, weird, different.

And I am a little mad at myself for not knowing this - when it was right in front of my face.

And I am a little disappointed in myself because maybe, just maybe, I knew it but was too scared to put it out there.

And I am thankful, not only for the person writing it, but for who I am , for the fact that I get it. Like when Elizabeth Gilbert wrote on the act of writing, “This is a path for the courageous and faithful. You must find another reason to work, other than desire for success or recognition. It must come from another place.” I am immensely thankful that I have access to another place.

And I am gentle with myself, because perhaps if it would have come to me at a different time, I wouldn’t have heard it.

When I feel these connections to other people and the world itself, whether its joy or pain, alpha or omega, I sometimes pause in awe, knowing that these are truly magical moments.

I Remember

I remember when my Dad taught my brother to smoke.

I remember the house that I lived in when I learned that things are not always as they seem. I loved that house.

I remember playing cars and star wars guys for hours with my step brother.

I remember wanting to go to a movie with a friend, and not having a friend to go with.

I remember the excitement of my first trip to New Orleans.

I remember seeing Martina Navratilova play tennis.

I remember hastily grabbing all my belongings from my fathers house while he was at work. I knew I would never go there again.

I remember Susan’s last breath.

I remember the first time I met my husband; I don’t remember falling in love with him.

I remember the book mobile that came out once a week.

I remember the smell of the orange groves in central florida.

I remember Super Cat.

I remember when my Dad cried - when our dog died and when my grandmother died. He said he cried when my Grandfather died.

I remember her laugh.

I remember the warmth and safety I felt in her hugs, even as she got older.

I remember when my Mom bought me $50 Guess jeans, when she was strapped for money.

I remember the road trip to key west with my Mother.

I remember my mother sitting in the cardboard box and riding it down the stairs and how I laughed watching her.

I remember both of my first kisses.

I remember the first time i thought I needed to lose weight.

I remember when my first child was born.

I remember my first airplane ride.

I remember my godmother singing amazing grace at my grandfathers grave in the springtime. I felt like I was in a movie. I remember her brother singing Old Rugged Cross in the church.

I remember eating deer steak, pork belly skins, and frog legs and those things being normal.