Still a Work in Progress

The most basic of emotions reared their ugly heads this weekend reminding me that I’m still a work in progress.  On Friday, enroute to treat myself to a long overdue pedicure, I found myself stuck in local traffic while a slow motion accident happened three cars away.  Thinking myself safe, I exhaled then watched the car careen into car one, two, then colliding head-on into me, me, borrowing my daughter’s newly purchased, fully paid for, much loved Ford Explorer. Instead of ninja-like reflexes of patience, peace, prayer, I reverted directly into the foulest of sailor mouth.  Yep.  Swears worthy of the darkest biker bar came billowing out of my belly.  So much for ‘slow to anger’. 

Disappointed, yet thinking myself in the clear, back to sweet and peaceful, Lisa, the beast reared it’s head yet again the following day.  ‘Twas a beautiful Saturday, and we were enjoying a vendor event at a local festival.  Set up at the main entrance, a minivan sped by running over our display, a short distance from children and shopping moms.  Hulk emerged….hands up to the sky, furrowed brow, jerky words. Moms sheltering ears of their children…likely not, but perhaps…it all went black, I don’t even remember what words spilled. Disbelief, concern for my customers, shock. Anger.

I run to secure my happy meds, drink shakes for my health, read books for my wisdom, but what to do about the Hulk? I suppose we all need a small dose of him in proper circumstances, heck, even Jesus tipped tables. The key is knowing when to use him and when to hand him the hall pass.  My prayer…Lord, make me a Hulk only when I need it. Til then, wrap me up in a big comfy blanket of peace.  In Hulk and In Peace, when people see me, let them see you. Thanks that I’m still a work in progress. Amen. 

Let Go of the Dyson.

When things feel out of control, I clean.

When terrible things happen in this world, when no hope seems to be found, I clean. When the budget is running bumpy, when I’m not confident in my parenting, when a child is moving in a questionable direction, I clean. It’s the one thing I can do to make the exterior appear in order when everything is spinning out of control slightly underneath the surface.

In elementary school, Maya invited a friend over to play while the Mom stayed and  interviewed me.  She inspected my stove top and asked me a thousand questions about my life, my beliefs and in the end, passing her rigorous test, she allowed daughter to return unsupervised.  That has haunted me for so long  Just because the surface appears safe, who was she to judge my sanity, my safety, my beliefs? Every time I wipe down my stove top I think of her and grimace. Ultimately, I am a safe choice for playdates, but if her gauge of safety is a clean stovetop, I feel mightily afraid for her daughter.

When my mom was still at home, undergoing chemo, during the worst of her days, I’d show up Dyson in hand.  Seriously.  Instead of laying with her, holding her hand, whispering comforting words, I vacuumed and dusted.  How did that feel from her perspective?  Did she feel offended that I thought her home was simply not clean enough? Did she simply desire my company? Things I missed while gripping the Dyson.

I fight a shift in perspective daily, sometimes minute by minute, to clean simply for joy, heck, to live simply for joy….working as if working for God. Not because He dictates it, but because He has blessed me with much and I feel it’s the one small way I can show thanks.  But He knows the deeper need, the grime right under the surface.  He prompts me to Be Still…chatting like a good, good father, but in this moment, I’m frantic.  For what? The world feels so out of control, the budget isn’t where I want it,  I question my parenting, He knows.  Be still, He says.  Listen, He prompts.  Step away from the Dyson and sit with me.  And when I do, He breaks my fragile heart with the straight scoop.  I am loved. I am not defined by how well I clean, how well my kids perform, or even by the darkness in this world.  I am a light. I have great purpose and if I’m gripping too tightly to the Dyson, my hands aren’t open for something bigger.  Let it go, He says.  I know exactly what this world needs, but they must let go of the Dyson. 

So I Share...

Safe inside Weigard Casa, when the house is quiet, I write.  The distractions fade and my head finally quiets.  In the end, a new revelation revealed, perhaps only for me. I hit save and file them away for my own comfort.  But what others might benefit from the words that flow in these quiet moments?  Those tucked away, afraid to reach out? Are they drowning in fear?  Do they feel all alone?  Is sadness weighing heavy on their heart?  Has loss robbed their joy?  Are they afraid to speak? Are they unsure whom to trust with their tender heart?  Have friends disappointed?  Is their world caving in?  So I share.

My heart weighs heavy for the women who hide…keeping their gift locked safely inside. Seek that one precious friend that will safely absorb the crazy.  If there’s no one there, let it be me…I’ll gobble up the fear until it’s no more.  What a world this would be if women bravely stepped up and stepped out…not hiding their unique gift from the world. So I share…with grand hopes that my words will fall upon one soul that needs the uplift, one that needs but the smallest sliver of peace to bravely step out of the darkness and share their gift.

Keep Moving Forward

I didn’t wanna.  After a week of perfectly stacked appointments, I craved a lazy Netflix kinda day.  The to-do list mounting, content to stay snuggled in. But I rise. Committed to support a friend as she voices her story and bringing a friend along for the ride.  Keep moving forward, getting dressed when I’d rather stay in my sweats, curling my hair when a pony felt nice. Teeth brushed, make-up in place, I’m starting to feel like the Living.  Pulling out of my driveway and into hers, we both seem hesitant to attend. But we keep moving forward. 

We enter together, nod a few hellos and grab our tea cups.  Still awkward, longing for home but putting on a smiley face.  My friend, Sally, doesn’t appear nervous at all…the ladies are pouring in, eager to hear her story.  We take our place and she begins… tales of faith over fear, of the importance of reaching out for help, for having faith to overcome anxiety.  

A change in perspective settles in…perhaps I’m not here for myself, perhaps not even to support Sally.  Maybe, just maybe, the speech is meant to drop some small seed with my visiting friend.  Her own struggles with loss, depression, anxiety….letting her know she’s not alone, possibly inspiring her to keep moving forward.  God’s pretty creative like that…placing support in just the right place at just the right time.  Back home again, I’m rejuvenated…thankful for the shift in perspective, off of self onto others.  Reminded, yet again, when I keep moving forward even when I don’t wanna, good things often follow.    

A Lesson in Little Things

I’ve never been good at puzzles.  I have neither the patience nor the desire to search.  I want it done too quickly.  My Aunt Bootsie always has a puzzle laid out on her dining room table …1,000 piece minimum as anything less is mere child’s play.  For years, I thought it was her mind therapy…a sure fire way to battle deterioration.  But now, I’m realizing its part of her character…she takes little things and turns them into something beautiful.  She overjoys to see things emerge, something new developing out of something small.  She’s identical with her garden.  She faithfully nestles the bulb beneath the cold Autumn soil and waits eagerly for it to emerge in Spring.  Once the ground is warm enough, she lovingly sprinkles the tiniest seeds and, with child-like excitement, shares with all visitors what beauty has developed.  She has encouraged me to stand still and investigate the most intricate seed pod, looking deep within to see hope, potential.  In the same way, with great discernment, she plots and arranges the puzzle pieces, following each curve, each color variation to find the perfect fit.  Once completed, the grand reveal proves how each piece was made to fit perfectly against the other, each color spilling onto the next cut.  My impatient mind wonders at her ability to be still while being busy. 

I want it all done now...all good and beautiful things presented in their full glory without all the waiting.  Feeling lately as if I’m looking at a million piece puzzle, in one solitary color, all with the same curves…business, home and personal life all spilling into one another.  What content to provide, making smart business decisions, making timely posts, taking appealing photos, tagging clothes, spending time in devotion, finding time to exercise, maintaining our home, prepping meals, did I let the dog out? Then more of the same… am I spending enough time with those most important, the guilt of not writing enough, building my craft, utilizing my gifts, guilt, guilt, overwhelm, peace, organize, pray, repeat. Where to start and when to stop.

Remembering yet again, that I come from fierce yet still and strong ladies, I channel my inner Bootsie and start small…be grateful, give thanks, be still.  Then do one thing.  Be grateful some more. Give more thanks.  Be still more. Do one more thing. A years worth of small things resulting in 365 things at years end. It may take longer, but in the end, like Bootsie, I’ll have the most beautiful culmination of little things. With hope, I’ll look down at my work and see all the curves nicely nestled against the next little thing completed.  

Love Action Plan

My passion is to make women feel lovely… truly lovely from the inside out. It’s not some conjured marketing ploy, it’s the very core of my being.  The raising up of strong women is so critically necessary.  Lately, however, it seems presumptuous.  How can I inspire loveliness when so many are filled to the brim with fear? Friends not sleeping until their police husbands return safely home.  Friends with children receiving hate because of their parent’s choice of candidate.  A world posting, sharing, spewing fear and hate on a daily basis. Fresh anxieties cropping.  Fear and hate stacking, compounding.

It’s overwhelming and when I feel overwhelmed, I pray.  So I sit each morning, before the sun rises and I pray for myself, then moving outward, upward I pray for my family, my friends, my neighbors, my town, my state, my nation, then the world. I have a big God, so I pray big prayers and he does extraordinary things. But then I rise and keep silent. God doesn’t need my help, but telling myself and my family to keep quiet, keep your nose down and don’t respond to hate and fear doesn’t seem right, either.

If every difference-maker kept silent, only the angry and fear-filled would be represented.

So I choose to speak.

I was not sold on either candidate…in my mind I chose the one that aligned more with my concerns.Those concerns tipped the scale every so slightly in one direction. My concerns may be different than others but doesn’t make me an uneducated white racist.  My vote doesn’t mean that I want someone to come and take away your Hispanic baby, remove your health insurance, send you to another country, or take away your house. It doesn’t mean I have low respect for women, quite the contrary. Deleting friends doesn't make them or the issues go away, it just decreases the size of your bubble. I've watched safely from behind a keyboard as friend after friend emerges to debate and defend only to watch them be swallowed alive. I'm not here to debate, only to tell you how I plan to move forward. I don’t know if things will get better, but I have a Hope that doesn’t rest on government, certainly not on social media, my community, or even my self.  My hope rests a bit higher. I choose Love. Not the pay-for-Starbucks kinda love, a bigger, better Love. Here's my Love Action Plan:

1)      To believe nothing of what I hear (or read) and only half of what I see, I will train myself to filter, research, question everything. I will not perpetuate fear/hate so if I haven’t researched it fully, I will not share it with the world.

2)      To raise educated children that treat others with respect, defend the defenseless and know without a doubt that they are fully loved.

3)      To become visible in the community, battling the negative and showing the world that those who choose to spew hate and fear do not represent the whole.

4)      Continue to encourage, lift-up, and listen to every single woman I am blessed to encounter each day by being intentional and transparent.

5)      Continue to pray… perhaps encouraging others to do the same.

This world seems soon to unhinge.  It would be much easier to stay comfortable believing everything will be okay but doing nothing. So this house chooses Love…we will continue to treat every soul we meet with absolute love regardless of bumper sticker or yard sign, regardless of skin color, regardless of sexual orientation, regardless of religion and I will watch with eager anticipation how my prayers will show up in extraordinary ways.

A Visit from Mom

Mom visited Maya in a vision shortly after she passed.  Appearing in the doorway of her room while Maya was overcome with sadness, her appearance instantly calming Maya.  She appeared with purpose.  As quickly as she came, in a blink she was gone.  Mom has visited Angel in dreams, answering questions she deposits in a journal.  I’ve sensed her in darting Cardinals and Monarch butterflies, but never a manifested presence.  Maya, ever so wise, explains it’s because I don’t need her.  But still.

Then she came last evening.

She was resting, barely covered with loose semi-transparent sheets, in a bed located in the  middle of a bustling city intersection.  Immediately jumping to protect and shield her from eyes too busy to notice, I climbed into bed noticing her battle scarred body.  Mastectomy breasts, port in her chest, needle scars and bruises.  I nestled her head into the nook of my shoulder and there she rested.  But I sensed that she didn’t need the rest, she was simply pacifying me.  I still can feel the sparse regrowth of bristly hair  on my lips as I curled closer and kissed her crown. My right arm, curled around her frame can still feel her soft, loose skin on my fingertips.  Reaching to cover her with more of the thin sheets, I could sense that she no longer needed the cover.  She visited me in the only way I’d still recognize her but she no longer carries that frame. 

Then, as quickly as she appeared, she was gone.  The bed gone.  The sheets gone.  I was in the busy intersection, but no longer and not ever alone. 

Awake, completing my morning routine, but ever processing the dream.  Content.  Inspired.  Grateful.  Eager to journal so that I wouldn’t forget a single ounce.