Thanksgivings

Two hours left of Thanksgiving Day, my first one in forty trips around the sun that I've spent without family.  The first one in 13 without my children.  Far from feeling broken and lost, I feel strong.  Strong in mind, body, and spirit.

Strong mind.  I've learned so much this year.  Some comes straight from homeschooling my sons:  Latin declensions, geometry theorems, cellular respiration equations, Punic War details, and so much more.  Other learning is more self-directed.  I've stretched it with Scrabble games and busied it with Buddhism readings. I'm thankful for the time and ability to think, read, and write.  My mind is stronger, and for this I give thanks.

Strong body.  Post-push-up pain aside, I've gained considerable physical strength thanks to martial arts training.  I'm far more coordinated than any previous point in my life, with better balance to boot.  Excellent instruction from my instructor in Tang Soo Do, my own hard work, and encouragement from friends at the dojang all contributed.  My body is stronger, and for this I give thanks.

Strong spirit.  Emotional strain and pain forced me to look inward more intently than ever.  I sought and summoned inner resources previously unrecognized, and I found a connection to the universe that brings me a sense of wholeness.  I continue on a spiritual journey, but I've made many steps this year.  Personal struggles, support from family and friends, and dedication to truth seeking paved many stones on this path.  My spirit is stronger, and for this I give thanks.   

To all of you who have supported me during this time, thanks for sharing your strengths so mine may grow. 

Namaste. (which, for this writing, means may the strength in me recognize the strength in you, and when we recognize the strength in each other, we are one)

Sore, Striped, and Strong

A recent Sunday morning found me achy from hips to head and a bit bruised in between.  Two hours of Tang Soo Do testing left me rather battered and quite aware that fifty push-ups and lots of bodily contact including takedowns and a few kicks to the abdomen from some powerful black belts took their toll on my 40-year-old body.  Just rolling out of bed challenged me, and coughing or laughing was amazingly painful. Bring on the heating pad and the ibuprofen (holistic types, advice welcome).

A week later, my pain only a memory, I'm back in the dojang, sitting on the floor for an hour of promotions. I'm finding myself less than thrilled at the prospect of 30 minutes of names being called followed by applause, and I'm feeling a bit guilty about my attitude.  The newest members are up front, all in white aside from a few with a splash of yellow or orange across an otherwise white belt.  I flash back to my first few months of Tang Soo Do:  every punch, kick, and turn took all my concentration and effort.  Just landing on the correct foot seemed to take divine intervention.  With my coordination, it probably did.

Receiving a yellow belt, that first bit of color to my conspicuously white uniform, was a major triumph. I was on my way, and, more importantly at the time, I wasn't at the very beginning anymore.  I was moving ahead.  Fast forward to orange, green, red, and all the stripes in between to this promotion.  Red with a stripe.  No longer in the first few groups called to promote, I'm now in the last row to be called forward.  As my instructor places the coveted stripe on my belt, the first of four before black belt,  I warm to the moment at hand and beam with pride.

Quite honestly, the test a few weeks back gave me pause.  I was rather discouraged with my conditioning (those push-ups!) and rather concerned about the intensity of the testing itself, especially as I continue to progress.  Two-on-one sparring lies ahead:  two black belts on one testing red belt, with fresh pairs of black belts swapping in every few minutes.  Yikes.  But two years ago, so much about red imtimidated me.  How would I ever be able to perform all those complicated-looking forms, one right after another, with my coordination?  How could I learn to throw people much larger than me, dodge punches and kicks while dishing out my own?  How could I learn it all? 

Somehow, I did manage.  Not somehow.  Classes twice a week, some practice at home, an amazingly patient instructor, and two in-home helpers with better memory than I:  those played more than a small role.  I'm stronger and more coordinated than ever before.  My body responds with instinct and confidence -- a first for me. My martial arts work and the focus required have certainly aided my ability to cope with the life changes I've confronted these past two years.  Making new friends on the same path and having the chance to work long-term on a goal with my kids are bonuses.  The strength, focus, and confidence I've gained?  They're worth the days of aches -- completely.

It Takes a Year or Two

I'm not generally prone to holiday blues, but this year holds some special challenges.  I've read that it takes a full year or two of holidays after a divorce or death to form new rituals and settle into new patterns that truly feel comfortable.  While I've spent a Thanksgiving with my boys and without my spouse, this will be my first without either.  I've planned well, albeit late, and will be cooking and thanking the universe with dear friends.  I'm covered.

Still.  A lump come to my throat when the divisions of the next six weeks come to mind.  I don't care for change, and divorce is change in spades.  As a talisman against grief, I remind myself and recite the boys' holiday plans to others who ask .  Thanksgiving with their Dad (after all, I add, I had them last year), Christmas Eve with his family, Christmas Day at home.  My younger asks for the litany every few days while my older continually reminds me of the importance of waking at home on Christmas Day.  The ritual holds back my tears.

Sort of.  They threaten to bubble forth at inconvenient times.  At church. When discussing the timing of buying a tree.  In Trader Joes.  When listening to Christmas music (yeah, the boys pulled it out already). In the quiet of the night, when sleep eludes me. You get the idea.  My mind threatens to twirl out of control, spiralling into worries about loneliness I might experience without the boys and despair about my failed marriage. If I let myself go long enough, I can return to the self-blame about my marriage's failure.

Breathe.  My recourse is simple but not easy.  Reeling myself out of the abyss of loneliness, self flagellation and sadness takes my breath.  Okay, it takes many of them.  But eventually, staying with my breath, letting my feelings just be without judging or directing them, I can come back to the present. I can return to the song at church, the decorating discussion, the frozen green beans, Oh Holy Night, and restorative sleep.  Acknowledged, those painful feeling pass when ready, leaving me with peace. 

Usually.  As they say, it takes a year or two.  And that's a lot of breaths.

Dragons are About

I have dragons on the brain. Specifically, I'm imagining a scarlet-backed, small-winged beast about 4 feet tall. He's a bit grumpy at times, but we've been living together for awhile now, and I'm gradually learning the art of sharing my life with him.

A recent sermon by Alex Riegel, Feeding the Purple Dragon, crystallized my process of coming to terms with my separation from my husband of 15 years and upcoming divorce. To briefly summarize the 30 minute sermon, dragons are those people, events, and situations we face that, if ignored, grow larger and more troublesome. We often do just that, pushing the issue away from our minds in an attempt to avoid pain and conflict within our selves or with the dragon itself. Or we try to slay the dragon, but this is a rather messy and ineffective way to go through life. The radical alternative? Learn to accept the presence of the dragon: learn its habits, its feeding needs, and live accordingly.

The divorce process itself is one of my dragons. He's not my ex-husband-to-be. He's divorce and all it's layered meanings to me. My first head-on encounter occurred when the papers arrived. Sword in hand, I railed against him, but he joined my household anyway. Dealing with the legal end of this process, face-to-face or from my home, can leave me in a cold sweat. Impatient claw clicks grow louder as the Judgement of Divorce statement sent from my lawyer sits in my inbox, needing comments and revisions from me. Once I look at him head on, read the papers, fill in the necessary blanks, and send them off, he retreats, returning to his spot in the house.

At points, my sadness about this divorce overwhelms me, tears flow and sobbing leaves me exhausted. Following my honest acceptance of my feelings about this life change, he actually shrinks a bit. When fear of the future floods my system, he feeds heartily, growing more threatening as my anxiety deepens. Only when I can face his gaping maw, brimming forth with smoke and oppressive heat, does he back away, having seen the strength I possess. He requires honest acknowledgement and forward motion to maintain an even temperment.

My dragon's not leaving. Divorce is forever with me and my children. Living with it peacefully, repecting it's reality and responding honestly without excessive anxiety is the choice I've made. I've layed down my sword and face my newest resident accordingly.

Flu Blues

Two kids, nine consecutive days of fevers and coughs, and one mom losing her mind.  It's the flu.  The real McCoy, no "severe cold" or other such beast.  It's pretty nasty, too. The fevers are high and the chills are bone shaking.  Their coughs are gut-wrenching.  They've had achy bodies and touchy tummies.  I really feel bad for them.  And I feel bad for me.


Don't get me wrong. My empathy for the boys runs deep.  But right now, I'm having a pity party for me. I've had too little adult contact, even less sleep, and way too much whining exposure to be healthy for anyone. Almost every night for over a week, I've shared a bed with a sweaty child, moaning, coughing, and waking early as his body battled the viral villain.  I'm tired and rather cranky.


These are the times that try this mom's soul.  The internal push-pull between the mom-me and that me-me part.  As an attachment parenting type with five cumulative years breastfeeding two kids who has been homeschooling these offspring for the last five years, I'm wholly committed to mothering and family.  I chose to have these amazing creatures, and I believe in deep, impassioned, committed motherhood.  Some would say I drank the Kool Aid, giving up my own identity to parent my kids, but I'd wholly disagree.  It's a new dimension to me, and I've grown in ways I don't believe I would have without it.  It's also exhausted me, frustrated me, and sucked me dry at times.  Like now.

I need some regular time to just meet my own needs, not in a way that neglects the real needs of children but that respects that my own mental and physical health is essential to the well being of this family.  If I swallow the message that all should be about my children, 24/7, I miss some essentials to being a healthy woman.  This often is referred to as putting on one's own oxygen mask first, but that creates a sense of "emergency only" self care and consideration.  Ask any person who relies on the ER for all her medical care and you'll quickly realize most emergencies wouldn't exist if it weren't for neglect of routine care.  Regular nurturing of me keeps the oxygen mask need to a minimum.

So I'm feeling sorry for me.  With barely a breath without interruption for the past week and a half, I've missed that time to attend to me-me, and that portion of me screams for attention when neglected for long. It's all been oxygen masks for awhile, and I'm in need of some routine care, just enough to restore and strengthen this weary woman.  It's coming.