Moving from One Self to the Next

This post is definitely something a little different. Although I think about dancing and dancers' issues pretty consistently, I rarely give them much billing on this blog or even in public conversation. There are just more pressing subjects. However, a recent article (found on FB, of course) from the Atlantic inspired a renewed appreciation for my former lifestyle and some thoughts on transition for dancers and everyone else.

In this article,  the author describes "the unique, sad challenge of retiring from ballet." I was sucked in because I have experienced the "unique, sad challenge of retiring from ballet," and I agree that those are excellent, accurate adjective choices. My "retirement" was more of a sad ousting due to an ill-timed, career-stopping injury. Feel free to read a bit about it. I was only 20 years old when I was faced with choosing a new career path. Many people have barely gotten off the couch or returned from their European adventures to think about a first career at that age, so I was not too far off from my peers when I entered college. I suppose the major difference was that I was not in a phase of excited exploration of who I would be as I entered adulthood. Rather, I was reeling from the loss of my greatest passion and feeling like I should just settle for getting some employable skills. It was more difficult to pay for school, since most of my parents' savings for me was spent on the early stages of my professional ballet training and room and board in Seattle. It also was painful to sit through classes with a serious back injury that took years to heal. I was recently reminded (at therapy!) how hard it was to sit at my desk in administration at the ballet company I had danced with. I worked 25 hours a week at a job behind a desk helping other dancers while I listened to the music waft from the studios. After three years of that and not properly mourning the loss of my dancer self, I just about had a nervous breakdown. I tell these things to communicate that I get it. It is hard to quit dancing and find a new career.

Now, let's return to the article. The author adequately captured the difficulty of career transition, but I, and many dancer friends, felt that it was rather melodramatically told. I'm stealing a quote from a friend here: "Although I'm glad The Atlantic is writing about this issue, I hate this article: 1. Dog walker? Back stage "helper?" 2. I'm pretty sure Wendy Whelan will thrive on the other side and be able to pay her rent after all. Why so bleak?" Let me tell you (non-dancer) who Wendy Whelan is. She is a world-famous ballerina who, for a very long time, when I was a young dancer and beyond, was an iconic New York City Ballet ballerina. When I was an RA and student at the School of American Ballet for the summer, I had a little girl in my dorm suite that we called "little Wendy" because of her body and dancing. It was HIGH PRAISE. She reached the tippity-top of the profession. Now, I don't know Wendy Whelan, although I'm probably separated by one degree as the dance world is small and I have many friends who are still enjoying beautiful ballet careers. But, I don't know her, and I don't know the unique challenges facing her. I'm sure her injuries hurt the way all of our injuries hurt, and I'm sure it is scary to be in your forties (rather than your twenties) when facing career transition. But, people, she had an incredible career, one that almost no one gets to have.

Here's the FB response to this article I started to write before I decided I had enough thoughts to write a whole blog post and could reasonably spend a bit of Saturday morning doing so:

I agree [with the response to the article from my friend posted above]. It also bothered me (and maybe others would not agree...) because, although it is extremely difficult, requires physical sacrifices, mental and emotional control, and can leave quite the psychological mark as well, I felt that being allowed to live a dancer's life was like a fairy tale. How many people get to do what they love all day long and be applauded for it at night? How many people get to contribute regularly to the preservation and advancement of the arts? How many actually make it all the way to fulfilling their childhood dreams? Of course, it's not all roses, but one of the sacrifices of getting to live a life like that, maybe even just for a little while, is the difficulty of it being short lived- of having to start facing more mundane (though challenging, I know) issues of life and career planning a little later in one's years.
Well said, self! A life of dancing- a life of art and performance is an amazing privilege. And, as I teach my preschool-aged children: great privileges come with responsibility. These responsibilities include, but are not limited to, thankfulness, stewardship, and discernment. I need to emphasize the THANKFULNESS. A dancer who walks away from her career seeing only the ways she was used and abused (because, truly, she was, no matter how beloved) does not appreciate the privilege she received and will not be able to march bravely ahead. I am not talking about Wendy Whelan here. Again, I don't know her. My friends are discussing how being a dancer leaves you with all kinds of tested skills that have served all of us well in our second stages- things like stamina, self-denial, perseverance, keen self-perception, adaptability, spatial awareness, artistic education, music appreciation and the list goes on. With a focus on those skills and a gracious attitude about the life one got to live, you can find something else to do. People love dancers. I realize that's a general statement, but I have found it to be mostly true. When I'm able to think of dancing life with a grateful attitude and talk about it with people in a positive way, they are fascinated, and those conversations have opened many doors to me.

So why don't I always talk about it? Because of the other side of the coin. Throughout this post I have referenced the other side- the painful parts of a career in dance- use and abuse, both physical and psychological, and the truly sad fact that it does end. And when it ends, picturing another career can be unfathomable- especially when the end comes as a result of injury or firing instead of choice. I felt that way for sure. And here's why, a compelling hook for the Atlantic's article: "Martha Graham, the legendary dancer, once said that 'a dancer dies twice—once when they stop dancing, and this first death is the more painful.'" In my own experience, Martha Graham was right. I came to describe the end of my ballet life like the death of my best friend or my favorite part of myself. That's hard to bounce back from. I, along with many dancers, needed and still need a lot of help understanding the implications of this aspect. The author, perhaps not a dancer and without any firsthand experience, missed the real opportunity for exploration in her chosen subject. Sure, finding a second career is difficult- it's difficult for anyone! But I think dancers are better equipped than many.

The real challenge is learning to utilize the dancer parts of yourself when your body is no longer a dancer. I felt like I was walking around with a costume on- I was suddenly a dancer dressed in a non-dancing body. I did not know how to be myself anymore. I still don't really know! And here's where this article could have gone: All people have integral parts of themselves that remain hidden from the rest of humanity unless we choose to reveal them. We all need to move from one stage to the next giving proper respect to who we have been made to be. Some hidden parts are easier to bring out than others. It hurts to talk about how I "used to be a dancer" because I'm still mourning the loss. But, when I let that part of myself show, things happen. Almost every time. Same thing applies when I reveal miscarriage or the fact that I live with chronic illness. I understand why we protect these things- they make us vulnerable. But they also make us richer characters and more accessible. I understand that someone reading this may be feeling that she could never reveal the hidden parts of herself- the childhood abuse, the angry yelling at her own children, the details of her failed relationships, or her propensity for addiction. These are the things that make mourning a necessity.

I'm sure it is useful for dancers to get together and speak practically about career transition, and I'm proud to know several dancers who have and are working hard to institute programs that prepare dancers for their next steps in life. Locally, if you love watching Pacific Northwest Ballet's dancers entertain and inspire you, please consider supporting their lives after dance via their Second Stage program. BUT, here's what I think dancers would truly benefit from: counseling and mourning the loss of their dancer bodies. If we don't take the time, and this goes for anyone with hidden parts- not just dancers, to examine the effects our histories have on us and cry about the parts that were sad and yell about the parts that made us angry, then we can't fully use those experiences moving forward. The bad things shape us by showing us how not to treat others and how to be empathetic. The good things enable us to march ahead with deep pockets full of skill and experience.

So, do dancers face a "unique, sad challenge" moving from one self into the next self? Absolutely. So does EVERYONE ELSE.

On Santa

I've been thinking about the Santa myth a lot. I have three children, 5.5 and under, so it's difficult to avoid finding a position either for or against the make-believe. I took the kids to the mall (pre-December) and there was that familiar stranger yelling to my children to come see him. Creepy. In any other context I'd be calling security. "Can we go over there?" they asked? "Wellllll...no." I would never sit in a strangers lap, so...

I really don't want this to make people who like Santa for the photo-op he provides to feel bad, so I'm going to move along to my more philosophical problem with Santa.  My argument against it all is that one TRULY magical thing did happen- God became fully flesh while remaining fully God and won the battle of all battles. That is way more amazing than all the Santa crap! I think that stories that lead us, through magical thinking and fantasy, can be wonderful ways to get us asking questions about eternity, love, power, etc. and hoping for there to be more than this temporal, broken world. I am a huge fan of Lewis, Tolkein, Rowling, and a hundred other fantasy writers, songwriters, and filmmakers. BUT, in the case of Santa, this particular fairy tale distracts us from the true wonder there is to be had in this (and any) season. 

I believe that humans want for there to be a supernatural, benevolent force who is an authority on right and wrong. Santa is tame; we can control him, bring him out on our own schedule, and use him to manipulate our children and teach them that material wealth is great reward. He's the perfect tool for Satan to give people something that mock-satisfies their inner longing while distracting them from what is truly hopeful and the ultimate magic.  Like eating a bag of chips in the grocery store when there are more wholesome, beneficial, healthy choices all around. (Now, don't get me wrong: I love potato chips)

People think I'm a humbug for eschewing Santa (and that stupid elf). It's much worse than that- I actually believe, as in base my life choices on and love Jesus- you know, that other Christmas character. I'm not some stiff who doesn't enjoy fairy-take magic and holiday tradition. I am rather an intense, passionate, charismatic believer in the true Supernatural. 

Now, if you don't believe in God or anything magical at all, go right ahead with Santa, I guess (though why you can put your kids on his lap...).  He's just a fun story. It does, however, boggle my mind a bit when Christians get really into Santa. How are children supposed to learn the difference between the true magic of God (Jesus' life and miracles, OT miracles, power through the Holy Spirit) and the pretend magic of Santa? Of course, children are not fools (all the time), and I am sure they will figure it all out when they're mature.  Maybe I just have a weaker conscience while others are able to engage the Santa lore without it bothering them so much. It bothers me, though. Much. There just is so little time to convey what is true- to my own heart and to my children. I just flat don't have the brain space to put up with Santa and his shelf-dwelling spies. I am struggling every day to see a little but more of the REAL magic of Christmas- Christ in flesh who reigns from Heaven working out his plans, which hard to see but are there, and who will return to install peace on earth!!! 

Just something to think about before swimming right along with our cultural current. There are plenty of other ways to engage our culture during Advent. 

Meanwhile, my children, sensing my frustration with Santa, try to antagonize me regularly with claims that he his real. See? My kids still get to enjoy the fun of (harassing and teasing their mother with the thought of) Santa! 

Lastly, I'm sorry if my kids break it to your kids that Santa is BS (though they won't use that language!). Alternately, if you'd like to dispell Santa but are unsure as to how to do it- send them for a play-date! It'll be like the chicken pox parties of our youth!

30

Yep. I turned 30 years old this summer.

The birthday week was rejuvenating and lovely, spent on Whidbey Island. It included a trip to Sequim, WA and the lavender farm there where I feel most like a God-made, God-fearing creature than I do anywhere else on the planet. There's just something about it for me that is like medicine, potion, gateway, and dream all at the same time. The smell and view permeate my whole self with such a sense of peace, and the droning, cuddly bees are like kindred workers. I have not yet been able to do this, (because the chidren, while adding to the adorableness of the whole scene, do not find it as placating as I do) but I am eagerly awaiting the day that I can spend a whole afternoon with a pitcher of their lavender lemonade on the porch swing just breathing and absorbing the place one eyeful after another.

My thirtieth year, as written about earlier, was the hardest one so far with many days that I am glad do not have to be lived again. But, I'd like to believe, and I think it's fair to do so, that my children probably thought it the best one yet in many ways. I'm sure they would all cite the time on the beach at Whidbey, swinging driftwood swords and wielding daddy-made bows and arrows, as their favorite. So, that's a blessing. Hazel revealed her personality- full of mother-hen, strong opinions, keen observation, an eagerness to please (as long as it pleases her too), willingness to believe, love of stories and songs- and the fact that her hair is curly, her eyes are indeed blue, and her dimpled cheek's willing to stick around after babyhood leaves her. What a treasure she is to me. Becoming a thirty year old woman in the company of a fresh, very young girl is a precious experience. I let myself choose, ask for and receive a beautiful, locally made, large blue topaz ring as a Third Decade's Day gift, and I mostly chose it because topaz is Hazel's birth stone. I dream of the day that I give it to her. Maybe on her thirtieth birthday, though it's highly unlikely that I'll be able to wait that long to make the present.

I know that 30 is a young age- especially now that most people in my part of the world are not married and do not have children yet and may still not even be thinking of tethering themselves to anyone or anything, but I do feel turning 30 is an accomplishment. Being married and child-bearing (with some rapidity) "young" is not valued by my culture, but I value them immensely and am proud that they are my best achievements at this point. (I could make a whole argument that motherhood and commited marriage in general are not valued by my culture, but I don't think that would serve anyone and just makes me feel bad inside. In our house, we encourage each other to not do things that make others feel bad inside.) From the perspective of the twenties, 30 feels like you are starting to get old. I know that the perspective of the forties and beyond chuckles at that notion, but try to remember how you felt when you turned thirty. I feel about thirty the way I felt about 10: FINALLY! 30 feels like a respectable number, and I like how it feels very much.

Maybe I like thirty, too, because I feel that it's at this time that I should be enjoying some sort of commencement ceremony celebrating my 10 years of early-childhood parenting experience. And, people, I took the intensive track! 10 years worth of life with children ages 0-5 in only 5 years. Here's my math: Ezra (5) + Ivo (>3) + Hazel ( almost 2) = 10. Now, I don't have any *other* fancy degrees ('cept for my BA in BA), but I'm pretty sure ten years of study lands me in the doctorate range. Funny thing, though: As I have noticed among my more humble and respectable colleagues with doctoral degrees, the more you study a subject the more you realize you need to learn. My years of intense, immersive study in the young lives of Brendan and Jessica's progeny have shown me that for every mystery I unlock, another is waiting. For every hurdle completed, there are higher ones (with harder falls) still ahead. For every "system" (HAHAHA, "parenting system" is one of the funniest jokes I've ever heard) that works, there is an exception to the rule waiting to disprove all my research.

People ask me questions regularly about parenting- looking for some normalization and reassurance more that anything because I'm not sure our operation is convincing anyone that we have everything figured out- and, truly, most of the time I cannot remember how in the world we got through teething/sleeplessness/fevers/stomach flus/nap refusal/weaning/formula making/breastfeeding/nursery screaming/etc., but I do remember that it mostly worked out fine and that my children seem to love us. I sort of hate giving advice. So much of it just alienates people. That said, I do love to make people feel like they aren't alone, that parenting is difficult, respectable, worthwhile and valuable, and that God loves them and their children. I have a handful of ideas and experience with things too, and when I feel like that advice is going to do more help than harm I may hand it out. I remember staring longingly into the faces of my older female friends, desperate for them to give me solutions and absolution that I wasn't ruining my babies. I never got the specifics that I craved, and now I see why. It's more a game of praying, loving, and waiting than it is one of finding the right set of steps. I think that we moms need to be ok with not knowing exactly what to do all the time but moving forward with confidence that we can love our kids anyway and pray for the ability to be consistent. I sure hope that I can be an encourager. That is what I really want to do with my experiences of the last five+ years (more if you count pregnancies and miscarriage). Children can be immensely enjoyable. I appreciate the move toward more truth in advertising from one mom to another, of being honest about our hard days and the difficulties, but I do worry that we aren't willing enough to talk about the value and rewards. They coexist, you know: stuggle and deep satisfaction.

To sum up these musings, here is who I see myself as at thirty years old:
A mother-woman, sick, but hopeful, still needing and claiming a Savior, still striving to do right for my family, and longing for my next trip to the lavender farm in high bloom with a great piece of jewelry on my finger- my beautiful, muddy children in tow.

Well, you look great!

When I try to talk about my difficulties, I sometimes hear "Well, you look great!" Thank you. I appreciate that I can accomplish not looking as horrible as I feel. Really, I do. And I know that is probably what people mean, but it also makes me feel like you don't believe me. I think there is an underlying assumption that if someone looks good, she must not feel that bad. In the interest of being better understood, here is why I "look great:"

-I am a creative person, a particular type: a dancer. My body doesn't work, so I am a very, very stifled artist. Picking an outfit provides a moment of artistic expression that I can afford.

-Getting dressed is not strenuous and, at this point, most of the people in my family recognize that a grown woman deserves 5-10 minutes of "peace" (AKA screaming at the bottom of the stairs behind the gate asking "WHEN ARE YOU COMING DOWN!) to clothe herself.

-Trapping everyone in a carseat and then sitting in the driver's seat to put on some makeup for 3 minutes helps me to recover from the extreme exertion required for me to get everyone out the door. And, I like to wear makeup.

-And finally, looking like I feel good can help me to enjoy the time I have to be out and about. I'm still extroverted, but being this sick for this long has made me a raw nerve. I have to get out and reenergize. I need all the energy I can get, but I don't know when I may start crying or when some uncomfortable encounter will wear me out for the rest of the day- sometimes the week. Putting on a veneer does help to hide the crumbling that may be going on underneath. Some days, I just want to feel like things are normal and not crumbling and not have to talk about it.  But if I reach out to say to someone that things are hard, I hope to be received as if I look like the death warmed over that I feel like.

I'm sure I am not the only chronically ill person who thinks this way and deals with this. Think about how much pregnant women love to be told how comfortable they look... right? (NOT that pregnancy is an illness. Best not to get me started on that.)

Hello, I'm Jessica. I am a sick person.

It's like wearing a lead apron all the time.
It's like my muscles are made of clay that is either cold and stiff or hot and melty.
It's like the body aches you get with a bad fever- all the time.
It's like being the pheasant in "Pheasant under Glass." I think.
It's like I have to make myself take another breath. It doesn't just happen automatically.
It's like my heart is going to leap out of my chest, but then completely stops for a few beats.
It's like I can't quite remember what I was supposed to be doing in a room, so I have to go back 2 or 3 steps to start over.
It's like that tiredness that you get in the first trimester but it never goes away- going on 3 years.
It's like I just don't have enough air.
It's like I'm going to pass out.
It's like I'm raging with anger or frustration even though nothing has happened.
It's like
It's like
It's like

These are all things I have said a LOT in the last year. Explaining my symptoms became a mental challenge. These are just descriptions of a few of my symptoms. There are several others. The overall effect of it all is that I am tired in a way that I truly believe few people have regularly been. I have been in nearly constant pain for about year- definitely for the last 6 months. The scariest stuff- the tachycardia, difficulty breathing and presyncope or fainting (I know so many new words!), are mostly under control now. They only happen about once a week to two weeks- sometimes more if I'm having a really bad couple of days.

If I thought there was any value to it, I could go back and review the whole history of it. But that is a mental and emotional challenge that I am not up for. I will say, though, that if you read about any of the following issues and feel like you may be suffering from one or more of them, please contact me, and we could talk more. Coping is very challenging for all of these, and I would love to be a support. My list at the moment is this:

POTS
Hashimoto's Thyroiditis
Chronic Disease Anemia (took a lot of testing to conclude this)
Fibromyalgia (I like to think of this one as a "working title" since it really just means "you hurt; it's real; we don't know why.")

Functionally, these things make it very difficult to be a mother of 3 children ages 21 mos to 5 years. I get dizzy from bending over or crouching. That right there is enough to make most days a bummer. I get sick and tingly from walking up any kind of incline, and that's without carrying anyone or pushing a stroller. I have trouble sleeping (in the 4-6 hours of solid opportunity I get each night when all three kids are asleep) because of the pain in my arms and legs, ringing in my ears, or vivid dreams.

SEE HOW THIS FEELS LIKE WHINING! I have a fear of being dramatic, so my urge at this point is to backpedal and acknowledge all my blessings. BUT, that is not what this post is supposed to be about, so let's try to keep going. When I first started counseling (for a period of depression and coping with chronic illness), I talked a lot about being afraid that I'm just overreacting. She said something that stuck with me and really helped. "It seems to me that the only way you are overreacting is to act like you are ok and not really sick." So, let's try to keep going. This post is about communicating my current state of affairs- the hard parts. ***I love my family and friends and God and I have a nice, safe place to live and good food and my kids are going to a great school and it's amazing and I love my church and people are kind to me!!!!*** Whew, OK. That feels better. Now let's try to keep going.

Sometimes I get flares of pain that are so bad I have to go to bed for up to two days before they are better. We have a new adjective, "POTSy," which means dizzy, disoriented, hot flashy, tingly, bone tired and heavy, and, on bad days, tachycardic and short of breath. I go to bed to recover from feeling POTSy 3-5 days a week- sometimes for just 1/2 an hour, sometimes for a whole day.

I do think we are doing a pretty good job managing it these days with a beta blocker, rest, and avoidance of exacerbating circumstances. Oh the exacerbating circumstances. If you have had some long standing axe to grind with me, please don't do it now. Relational stress is one of the most difficult things for me to cope with these days. The anemia is untouchable (PLEASE DON'T TELL ME TO TAKE IRON). My thyroid numbers are good thanks to taking two hormone replacement medications. The auto-immune disease part of it all is still raging. (PLEASE DON'T TELL ME TO GO GLUTEN FREE. I DID. DIDN'T WORK). I'm taking a medication to "calm the nervous system" to see if that will lessen the pain from fibromyalgia. Still waiting on that one, though I do think I sleep harder when I'm on it. An undeniable plus. I'm slowly working my way into a gentle exercise routine.

As you can see from my ALL CAPS above, I have tried a lot of things to treat these issues. I still am. But, there are some things I just can't control. No matter how well I eat and follow all the rules, I still am sick. I still do eat well and follow the rules. For anyone who is suffering from these things: it is probably not your fault. I have been so stressed by the concern that I'm just doing it all wrong and have made myself ill. NOT TRUE. Now, I do believe that it's possible that toxicity in my diet and environment could and probably have contributed to where I am now. Well, what are ya going to do about that? The best you can, that's what. I do want to do a juice fast and see where that gets me. Work in progress.

That paragraph brings me to one of the HUGE reasons I do not like to talk about all this. I do not need advice and a million questions from everyone. That is what I go to specialists (including a naturopath, several MDs, and a therapist) to get. If I had cancer, people may ask me about how it makes me feel, what my treatment options are, and what my prognosis is. Those kinds of questions, though somewhat tiresome after a while, are totally understandable. Advice, however, implies that I am doing something wrong. One of the hardest things about my stuff is that they are issues about which little is known. My endocrinologist says I'm ahead of my time. A study was done to evaluate the quality of life for POTS patients. The results felt very validating. Quality of life for someone suffering from POTS is about the same as a dialysis patient. I need acknowledgement about how burdensome it is. While there are some guidelines to follow, like avoiding alcohol*, heat, and too much strenuous activity, the leading researchers for the things I am dealing with do not advocate any other particular dietary restrictions or supplements. Believe me. I'm seeking advice. What I need is love and babying- not solutions from people with no experience and no qualifications. I say this not to hurt anyone or make you feel like you can't talk to me about this stuff; just please consider it well first. I know people mean very well. I have given plenty of unsolicited advice too, but this experience has taught me quite a bit.

*Side note
I could do a whole post on how much I miss bourbon, gin, and wine and all the times I've tried again to see if it will be ok. It isn't. POTSy every time! However, an OCCASIONAL beer seems to be just the thing.

There you have it. The deets. Have I mentioned I hate talking about it? But, this hopefully can give some good background information if I ever get to talking in more detail about how it all makes me think and feel. The psychological effects of it all have been the worst part. I have been deeply challenged to consider where my worth lies. I realized what an emphasis I place on utility. But, let this sink in, you are not worth what you can accomplish. That may be an important component for a lot of us, but it is not where worth lies. I'm still very actively struggling with this, so I don't have anything profound to write about it except this: Jesus loves me because he made me and saved me- not because I can compete on the mommy blogs, cook well and often, clean well and often, dress my children, dress myself, etc, etc, etc.

I'm trying to come up with some kind of closing, but everything about this post feels awkward. So that's just how we'll end it.

awkward.

Nobody Likes a Whiner

I hate whining. I frequently say, "Whining doesn't change my mind." Other quotes come to mind too. "Nobody likes a whiner."

I don't want to be a whiner. Of course, I was raised in a no-whining environment. Then, as a young ballet dancer, whining still had no place. There were often things to whine about- like bloody toes, kinked muscles, pinched nerves, sprained ankles, broken bones; but, honestly, most of the time we taped that stuff up, iced until the last minute, and got on with the show. If you whined about things, there was a ready solution- she's called an understudy! Self-care, while preached, was rarely practiced very well- if at all. "Grin and bear it" pretty well entrenched itself in my life philosophy.

Now let's add another layer. Bear with me because this is about to get theological, and I'm going to use a lot of Christianese. My heart has twisted some things around- it is, after all, "deceitful above all things." The twisting has gone something like this: If God is in control and has good plans for my life, then I should be able to make it through almost anything without despair. The twisting continues: being sad about how something turns out is simply discontent. And then more: I should be able to make it through anything with a fantastic attitude and ability to always keep my eye trained on God's transcendent plan. I absolutely believe that a lot of those previous few sentences is true. But it doesn't sound very grace-full, does it, to leave out some acknowledgement that things here can really suck.

It doesn't sound like what I say to ANYONE aside from myself. I tell people that God is sad about the tragic things that happen in the world. I tell them that it hurts him that they were abused; that is NOT how he wanted it to go. Yet, when it comes to my own baggage and issues and challenges, I imagine God looking down at me saying, like a parent with a bar of soap or bitter medicine, "this is for your own good." Now, God has said that he uses difficulties to test us and discipline us- and to do so out of love like a good father. He has also said that he has good plans for us- plans to give us hope and a future. He has said through Paul that we can consider our trials light and momentary compared to the riches in store. Paul also wrote that he learned the secret to being content in any and every circumstance and that some things are left as thorns in our sides to show the power of God. I took all that stuff to mean: YOU SHOULD BE ABLE TO DEAL, LADY! That's not what the Holy Spirit was going for, if I may be so bold as to say that. The whole reason we need the gospel (the GOOD news) is that there is, has been, and (not forever!) will be a whole steaming pile of BAD news. The only reason we can have any hope that any of these things God said are true is that he gave us Jesus (who means mercy, grace, and forgiveness to all who believe.)

Gosh, I didn't mean to get off on a tangent about Jesus and how wonderful he is, but that is just what happens when you believe he is the key to life, the universe, and everything.

Back to whining. When I take Jesus and total reliance on him out of the equation, even just on accident and without knowing, then the Bible's words on struggle and trouble change from being sweet encouragement to being impossibly high, burdensome standards. Honesty about struggle and trial become WHINING.

Then there's the fact that someone always has it worse. No one in my family is dying. None of my loved ones are wrongly imprisoned. I don't have any terminal diseases. (Chronic? well, only 4.. but we'll get to that... maybe). My husband has a great, well-paying job. He loves me, is faithful, and encourages me to pursue my interests and dreams.

This is the type of analysis I have been conducting on my life, heart, and history in order to answer these questions: Why am I so loathe to be needy? Why is it so hard to talk about how crappy things have been?

I am a people person. I used to be a bright, fun, cheery person. I was never anxious or anything remotely resembling depressed. I was textbook plucky. I know that my friends and family are all thinking, "awh, you still are!" But, people, you don't know the half of it. Unless of course you were in my life before about 2002, then, yeah, you probably know. But even with what happened in 2002 (see previous post), Brendan and I (and our children) have just completed the most difficult year of our lives to date. I feel like SUCH a different person standing on this side of it. Here's where knowing all that stuff about God and his plans is really beautiful. I can be confident that at my core, different as I may feel, good things are happening. He is going to be faithful to complete work in me. But, gosh, it is so hard getting used to this different skin. I need to finally write about it all. I just did a whole post on most of the reasons I don't want to. There are a few more too: it's tiring! it's difficult for me to think through! and I don't spend much time out of my bed unless it's kid awake time. It will be good to do it though. There's a lot of tangled stuff in my head that needs to get sorted, and I do want you to know what it's been like- what it is still like. Oh, how I want you to know.

I just had to purge all this first. Brendan is out of town, so maybe tomorrow I can get working on the meat of it all.

I'll try not to be too whiney ;)

10 Years Today

Have you heard of these people who can remember every distinct day of their lives? They remember the date, what they did, what it was like in great detail. I can't do that, but I do have an excellent memory. It serves me well... most of the time. It's taken a dent thanks to my very dysfunctional thyroid and my constant state of distraction being a mother of 3 very young children. I can tell because I didn't call a best friend on her birthday! Of course, that was somewhat due to the fact that I rarely know what date it is. Generally, though, I like having an excellent memory. I can remember facts and figures and Scripture. I can remember all the details of great moments in my life like opening my first Summer Program acceptance letters. The first time a boy told me I was pretty. The first time I tasted ratatouille or a roasted green chile. The first word spoken by my baby sister. The day Brendan told me he loved me. The day we first had a positive pregnancy test. My first night sleeping next to a baby.

I'm sure you can see where this is going...

I remember painful things with much too much detail as well. First shots, first sprains, first rejections, first sour milk, etc.

Combine this trait with the fact that Special Occasions are basically my favorite thing ever, and you get someone who has a calender FULL of "holidays" that no one else knows about! Poor Brendan. I've finally learned that I am weird, and that I should never expect anyone else to remember these days! Most of the time, it's really fun that I'm like this. April 27th: Happy Tulip Day! Leap Day: Surprise Vacation Day! August 19th: First Time We Discussed Marriage Day! There are more... It's a little ridiculous, but I usually make things fun. My kids, of course, LOVE this about me.

There are sad days too, though, and I always struggle with how to commemorate them. I would like to not care about them. But, I just do. I just have to do something about them. January 25th: Due Date for Miscarried Baby. June 1st: Date of Miscarriage. June 12: Last Day I Danced Ballet on a Stage. March 30th: Ezra's Last Surgery. Again, there are more. Some of the days have more weight than others. Today is November 29th: Date of Injury.

November 29th, 2002. I wrote that down SO MANY TIMES. "Date of Injury?" Caseworker always asked. Receptionist at doctor after doctor always asked. 10 years ago during the dress rehearsal of Nutcracker at the Paramount Theater in downtown Seattle a stage crew made a mistake. My disc was blown, my vertebrae fractured, and my arabesque disappeared. My ability to stand up for more than 5 minutes at a time without pain disappeared. And my hopes of being a ballet dancer began to disappear.

I did cry about it this morning. I think about dancing all the time still. Ballet infects you to the very core when you give yourself over to it. I really figured that 10 years out I'd be over it. But, man, I am not. In 10 years, though, I've learned to stop hoping that I'll get over it. "Better to have loved and lost..." and all that. That day, too, was bizarrely one of the most spiritually in-tune days of my life. Maybe hindsight has made it so, but I felt so exposed to power greater than me that day. I felt that whole day (even before it happened) like I was being watched. During the overture, I fervently prayed that God would please not let me fall that night. I couldn't understand why I was being so paranoid. As the ground was literally pulled out from under me, everything was in such sharp focus, and I could sense the Holy Spirit say, "I'm letting you fall. I know what's happening."

I heard a piece on RadioLab that gave me some scientific explanation of my heightened awareness during those split seconds that felt like a minute. The gist was this: during what feels like a life-threatening event, your memory captures all the details that the brain usually filters out for you because, the theory is, some of those details may be crucial to saving yourself the next time should you survive the event. I was not afraid at all that the fall would kill me. But, I was keenly aware that it could change my life forever. And, indeed, it did. So looking back, it makes sense that I would be alert to spiritual details (REALITIES) that sometimes my brain filters out. Like the soft, constant reassurance of the Christ-sent Helper dwelling in my heart. I remember the smell of the air and of the marley floor, the weight of my gown and petticoat, the feeling of sticky lipstick, and the look on the faces of everyone off-stage-right really well too. Deep inside I knew things were changed- that my direction as a soul in God's kingdom was changed. It was such a strange sensation. My foot and leg hurt, though not enough to make me cry. And, yet, I went upstairs to the dressing room and wept like I'd broken a femur because my heart was broken. I began to feel over the next 6 months (and felt very sharply for a couple years after) that my favorite part of myself had been killed. That sounds SO dramatic. But, that is exactly what happened.

However, God loves every part of me. He has no favorite aspect of me as his creation because EVERYTHING he does, EVERYTHING he has made is wonderful. I'm convinced beyond any doubt that God made me to be a dancer, and that he really, really likes to watch me dance. I just do it in my head now, and he is my sole audience member. And I'm so glad to have my best talent reserved for him alone. It's a deeply personal sacrifice of praise that I can give to him. But, God is equally pleased with me as a cleaner, learner, prayer, cook, driver, friend, wife, doula, board member, church-goer, daughter, mother... I learned that God's plans are better than mine. I learned to BELIEVE that God's plan is better than mine even when it doesn't appear that way to my finite mind. That is my working definition of faith! I draw on these Ebenezer Days that I've set in my calender. Each of them can, should, and usually do remind me of the goodness of God to me and to the world, and his loving-kindness. Some of the days carry bitterness still, I realize. Every now and then, a day will lose it's bitterness as God draws me further along towards spiritual maturity.

I read a quote in my International Doula magazine that I really clicked with. A father, after telling his family's birth story, remarked how amazing the simultaneous sacredness and mundaneness of birth is. That's how I feel about all my Jesky Holidays. There is nothing new under the sun. Bad, good, scary, encouraging, hard, blessed, cursed, beautiful, ugly things happen to people every day. No one is unique or special in their suffering or their blessing no matter how badly we wish we were. Yet, because God made us and appoints our days, everything we do is so laden with significance that we would burst from the knowledge of it all if we could know it. So I will continue to pause on many, many days to remember that I am a special part of God's plans. He has chosen me to be in his family and paid my admittance with the blood of Jesus.

Tonight's commemoration time will be spent reflecting, enjoying my husband's affection, eating favorite snacks, and drinking a small glass of good whisky. Feel free to use my Jesky Holiday as an excuse to do something special yourself.

God made you to recognize him.

Do you have days that loom on your calendar that no one else knows about?