Thinking Out Loud

Decisions, Worries, and Missing San Francisco

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 27 Jan 2012 06:41:00 +0000

I am up tonight, struggling. Struggling to sleep, struggling to make an important decision, and struggling to understand how someone related to me can be doing horrible things that are hurtful and incredibly selfish. It frightens me.

Earlier tonight that I was scanning through San Francisco photos from my time living there, and searching out my friends from that time in my life on Facebook. It seems that when I am struggling with something, I often miss the Bay Area and try to “visit” there visually, or through my friends who still live there.

I may be romanticizing things a bit, but that was one of the happiest, most fulfilling times of my life. My only regret is that I didn’t realize how magical that time was when I was living it. Do we ever? I wonder that. Right now, I know that I am living the absolute happiest time of my life. I know that having my husband, sharing a life with him, is the fulfillment of a dream I never thought would happen. So, I do appreciate now. But, this was a dream I had given up on, so I think it is more natural that I realize what I have now, and how precious that is.

When I moved to the San Francisco area in October 1998, I had no idea what was going to happen. I had only been to San Francisco a handful of times before, and I didn’t know if I would sink or swim in a new place where I knew almost no one. Before I moved, I was living in Atlanta, Georgia, and while in San Francisco on business for my company, I found out about an opening at another company, interviewed, was hired and the new company wanted me onsite in two weeks. It was frighteningly fast, and left me no time to think. It was a blessing in that sense. I think if I had longer to think about it, I might have been too scared to go. I was so different then.

Once I was moved and working, it became evident that I had lucked into the perfect place to be at the perfect time. I was working hard, and being appreciated in a way that I never had before, in a way that I didn’t even know was possible in a workplace. I was rewarded with praise, support from upper management, and an amazing group of co-workers who made work so much fun. It was the perfect atmosphere for me, and I learned and grew so much.

That decision in October 1998 literally made my career for me. Were it not for that decision and that position, I would not have had all of the amazing opportunities I have had since then. Sure, I have been through layoffs and work struggles. But, because of that first job in the Bay Area, I have had jobs, responsibilities, and experiences that have made me who I am…not just as a marketing professional, but as a person. I am forever grateful for that, and I know not everyone is so lucky, even when they are more than worthy through their education and work experiences.

So, I understand why I go back there in my mind when I am having inner turmoil. It is not just missing the city, I think it is also feeling comforted by those accomplishments, the appreciation, and the friendships I had there. To this day, I can email friends from that time and feel such a connection. I was so fortunate that so many people wanted me to feel welcome in a new city and a new job and went out of their way to make me feel a part of everything. I miss that. I miss them.

I have friends that mean everything to me, and for the most part, they are all scattered across the map. I am thankful for Facebook because it is so hard to keep in touch through emails and phone calls. Seeing the pictures of everyone’s growing children, sharing in birthday celebrations through status updates…I love it. I love that in that sense, we are all still connected.

I know I can’t run away from the things that are troubling me tonight. I know putting a country’s worth of distance between me and some of my family won’t really solve anything. I know that if we moved to California tomorrow, everything wouldn’t be perfect. I am just longing for a time when so many things in my life were running smoothly. I was making good money, I loved where I lived. So many of my friends were a short drive or a quick train ride away. I loved the work I did and felt appreciated. A lot of the pieces were in place. And honestly, at times and given my family history, it did help to be farther away.

My husband Shea was the only missing piece. And now that I have him, I wish I could turn back time a little and share some of those experiences with him.

I am rereading these words and wondering if I sound crazy.

We have talked about trying to move to the Bay Area, mainly because we are living in an area where the job market is horrible at best. When my husband was out of work last year, it became a real possibility. For now, he has a job he loves, and I have freedom with my consulting work that helps us both with other areas of our lives.

It’s always hard, I guess. Things are never perfect.

But, tonight, I am dreaming of the beautiful memories I have of California: My drive into work those first years when the views of the city and the Golden Gate would take my breath away, my first trip to the beaches at Inverness and the small pebbles that made up the sand, the small grocery markets with their cornucopia of beautiful produce and fresh-baked bread, my little apartment in Walnut Creek with the tall purple flowers outside my window, the quaint street in Los Altos where I spent so many Saturdays walking from shop to shop- always ending in the antique store that I loved.

Tomorrow I will wake up with the same decisions to make, the same worries, and the same struggles. I will walk outside and smell the salty air and be thankful that I can spend my lunch break with my toes in the sand if I want to. It will all be ok. But tonight, my heart is in San Francisco, and revisiting a time over a decade ago when so many things were just beginning for me, a time when I took a chance and made a sudden decision that changed everything—all for the better.

The artwork above is by Megan Nolton, view more of her beautiful work by clicking here.

Three Years with Bear: The Heartbeat of our House

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 18:44:00 +0000

Each year, I mark this day as Bear’s birthday. He was actually 12 weeks old when I adopted him, three years ago today. But today is the day he became mine, and I became his, and we changed each other's lives. So it seems fitting to celebrate today. His actual birth date is a little uncertain anyway.

One of the things that struck me about Bear the first time I saw him, was the incredible expression in his eyes. He was so calm, laying outside a Petco pet store where I was innocently going to buy a friend a gift for her new puppy. I had a moment unlike any other in my life. I saw Bear from across the parking lot and felt instantly, “that is my dog”. It was the wrong time for me to be adding another furry child to my household, I was out of work, struggling, depressed and overwhelmed. Not exactly the time to add a puppy to the mix.

But, oh, am I ever so thankful that I did. I have written before about how Bear rescued me. We rescued each other.

For years, I dreamed of having a dog, but my job required constant travel, and it was never realistic. I had this vision of the relationship I would have with a dog, partially from my friend’s relationships with their dogs. But, I never dreamed how much this boy would mean to me. I adore my three cats, but there is something so different about my relationship with Bear. I marvel constantly at how Bear communicates with us and us with him, when he can’t speak (although he tries), or communicate with us in “normal” ways. There is such a bond of love there, such an unfailing comfort, that I now can’t imagine my life without it.

From the minute Bear met Shea, who later became my husband, they were crazy about each other. I am so happy and thankful every day that the man I married is as tenderhearted as I am (sometimes even moreso) when it comes to our animals. He worries over Bear if he isn’t feeling well, pampers him at every turn, and gets more joy out of seeing Bear happy than he can contain. I adore this part of my husband, and cherish the relationship they have.

I wrote something a month or so ago and referred to Bear as the “heartbeat of our house”. It is so true. When we come home after a trip out of town and Bear is still at his doggie daycare, the house seems to have lost all of its energy and heart. Coming home without his excited, wiggly butt, over-the-top reaction just isn’t the same. We find ourselves missing him after only a short time away, and being as excited to come home to him as he is to see us.

During the last year, my husband and I had many things and people to be thankful for. We also had a tough year, as Shea struggled to find work in a horrible job market and sluggish economy. There were days that I didn’t feel I could console or comfort Shea, and it broke my heart. But, without fail, Bear could break through and make Shea smile or laugh, and escape stressful thoughts. Coming home after fruitless job interviews or frustrating days of searching could be instantly remedied by Bear’s enthusiastic happy dance at the top of the stairs each night. I witnessed how magical that unconditional love can be, and the power to heal and comfort that seemed boundless.

The calm puppy I saw that day three years ago, bounded to life after a few days in my home. I think Bear had been a bit depressed, too. He was at a shelter, biding his time, and (unbelievably) due to be put down. Then, on January 17, everything changed. For both of us.

So today, Bear will get a few extra slices of his beloved cheese, an extra treat or two, and his own special dinner. He will get to go to the beach and chase the seagulls and if he’s lucky, drag my unsuspecting husband into the surf when he senses Shea is not paying attention. He will get lots of hugs and kisses, and a special thank you from his mom for all the love and joy he has brought into my life… beginning three years ago today.

Read about the day I adopted Bear here.

Read last year’s entry, Two Years, here.

All That Was Treasured

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 12 Jan 2012 07:48:00 +0000

I fear fires, disasters, endings without goodbye-- the storms of the shore with wild, whipping winds, tearing at the screens of the windows that look into my world and all that is precious to me. I fear headlines telling a tragedy befalling us, when just yesterday we were so blissfully living, unaware of what was coming.

I want us to light on blades of grass like butterflies just outside our door- safe and normal, weightless and free, and then retreat back into this cocoon, this womb, that houses all that means anything to me.

I fear losing any part of it, watching him suffer, leaving him behind, or the heartbeat of our house gone silent. I tremble at the thought of any of those things, yet can't and don't keep the terrifying images at bay, instead inviting them in to fill the overly safe and secure parts of my mind and heart.

My body is unwell and imperfect, scarred and wracked with pain at alternate moments, and I am suddenly in a room surrounded by the smell of sick and loss, a room that has been mine so many times before- in all those cities when I was the deepest shade of alone. The same bright lamps and crinkling paper in lieu of bedsheets. Eyes peering into mine meant to cure, but instead judging my small complaints in the midst of the larger tragedy just down the hall. I will be back here again, alone, they think.

But, I am not. I am achingly comforted by the graces of love that surround me in dark chasms, sad memories, daily triumphs, and the lighting of birthday candles.

I am here among the living, finally, the white dress on sand, the veil aloft in the salt-kissed air, taking flight- the lift of Chagall's brushstrokes, a memory- my hand being held by his heart.

I am transported from one life to the next in the instant of a shutter click- the warmth of the camera's flash against splashes of sea foam after decades and decades of landlocked thirst.

So here we are and I tremble at night in fear of limited time, lost moments, taking for granted the scenery in between slow-cooked dinners and shared laughter. I fear regret for every misspoken word, or missed apology.

I see the world's pain, a new chapter each day, reduced to type-written words beneath a byline of someone who knows nothing but dates and times. Nothing of bonds and secrets and private languages of breathtaking fluency... all that is truly lost. It is a greater deep than all the ocean's measure, it is unspeakable, haunting, unimaginable.

I want to keep it all from our doorstep, from the moments he is in the car on the way to work and a siren seems in perfect unison with his route to safety.

I want guarantees, I want promised safety from a force bigger than me, bigger than us.

I want the assurance of more years here than back there. It is not an order we can place, choosing the span of years we will be given like wedding china patterns. No agreement can be drawn airtight to protect us, signed in blood with years of safe passage...a future of nothing unplanned or shocked with pain. Growing gray and wrinkled together is not a preference to select, just the silent hope of our vows.

And it makes it all more beautiful, more precious in the fragility that is the uncertain and unknown.

All I can do is breathe and sleep, and give love deeper than I did before I had these delicious moments, more than I loved even just yesterday.

Whatever is coming will come, in smoke and flames, forces of nature, the lottery of disease, or some other soul's greatest mistake.

And whenever the clock hands slow and halt for any part of what I have now, I will always have the moments before that, sandwiched between alone and now, deep in my heart and here on paper. All lovely, all precious and uncertain, broken and beautiful, until I too am just someone's memory- fleeting and perfect, finally safe and remembered- a part of all that was treasured.

Please Help!

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 05 Jan 2012 19:09:00 +0000

There are so many writers out there that I admire, and these two folks top my list. If you follow a lot of writers on Twitter or Facebook, you have probably seen this announcement already.

Serge and Monica Bielanko lost their home to fire yesterday, and a fund has been set up to donate for them. If you can help, please donate, and please pass this along for more people to see. All the details are in Katie's post here. You can also click on the photo of the Bielanko family in this post to get to the page for donation information. Spread the word!

It's Never Too Late: The Triumphant Return of Alan Moore

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 03:31:00 +0000

I don’t want to have regrets. I guess none of us do. I have said many times that I can’t regret anything that has happened, because I am so happy with where I have ended up. I believe that somehow-- through fate or some crazy set of coincidences-- I am where I am supposed to be. But, if I am being honest, there are things both big and small that I regret. I have made peace with most things, and I think that is the the best I can do.

What I love about this profile on CNN, is that it teaches the lesson that it’s never too late. Even things that sound and seem crazy are attainable. Maybe not in the perfect way you once imagined, but in some way that resembles that dream and makes you feel complete.

So, imagine that your 61 year-old father or grandfather (or uncle or friend) told you he wanted to play college football. Can you imagine your response? It seems crazy, ridiculous, impossible.

Alan Moore made it a reality. At the age of 61, Moore is a kicker on the Faulkner University football team in Montgomery, Alabama, and is the oldest player to ever score in a college football game.

So many times, life itself gets in the way of our dreams. For Moore, it was the Vietnam War and then the need to support himself after coming home. He wasn’t able to go back to college, to pick up where he left off.

Not until now.

He kicks with a shoe with the word BELIEVE painted across the top. He mentions his mother a lot, and his memories of making her proud as a kicker for his small college before the war.

She would be proud now, too.

One of my favorite lines from Moore is "Assholes are great motivators." He said this in reference to those who didn't believe in him, or even made fun of his ambition to return to kicking. He speaks the truth. In the past, there were times when the people who didn't believe in me, who banked on my failure, alternately motivated me more than anyone or anything else.

But what is a also a great motivator is seeing someone put words into action, someone who makes the impossible seem doable.

Someone who makes my dreams, in comparison, seem easily attainable.

Someone like Alan Moore.

Alan Moore with his five grandchildren.

Please read the full profile of Alan Moore here.

All photos courtesy of Faulkner University and CNN.

The First Chapter of 2012

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 01 Jan 2012 20:05:00 +0000

Since 2009, I have had the tradition of only making one New Year’s resolution, and that has worked well for me. Trying to achieve a long list of goals is overwhelming—and if I start making a list, it usually ends up very, very long. Especially when thinking about things I want to improve about myself. That list could go on for days.

This year, I have landed on one finally. This is going to be the year when I put my writing career first and make it happen. I am 42, and I have wanted this since I was 6 years old. I would say it is about time I got busy making it happen.

I am fortunate to have a nice following on this little blog of mine, and dedicated readers that send me such sweet emails of support all the time. In that sense, I feel like I am already a success in some ways. But I want what I have always wanted…to finish my novel, to submit to magazines, to really actively push myself to a point where I feel that I am doing all I can, and that every day is a small step towards that goal.

There are many runner-up goals for this list—I want to be healthier—to eat and to exercise regularly—but you know what? That’s something I should be doing no matter what. Another goal is to try and not worry so much—but that is also something that shouldn’t be a stand-alone goal—it should be how I am living my life.

I am in such a good place to finally make my writing dreams come true. I have a husband that would move heaven and earth to help me make this happen. I have a job where I work from home and have the flexibility to shift my schedule if I am in a writing mood. I am in a place that inspires me, and a time of my life where I have enough life experience to draw from and enough of my own stories to tell or to turn into fiction. It’s time.

I have written in the past about a therapist asking me what my biggest dream was. When I told her I wanted to be a published author—she looked at me as if it was so attainable, that it could be done tomorrow. She talked about people that have unrealistic dreams, and how she knew (after reading some of my work) that mine was so doable.

She paused a long time and looked at me and said—What are you waiting for?

I didn’t have an answer then, and I don’t now. There are excuses—life, being busy, money worries, migraines, insomnia…a million excuses. But no real reason.

So, 2012, here I come. This is the year I will finish my novel and submit my work to every outlet I can. This will be the year I look back and say finally…what took me so long?

Happy New Year to all my wonderful readers and friends…I hope 2012 is full of love, hope, peace and happiness for everyone!

Giving (and Getting) Hope for Christmas

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Mon, 26 Dec 2011 03:47:00 +0000

Maybe I worked a few too many years of retail at Christmastime, or maybe it was just that I was alone during the holidays for a lot of years, or maybe it was the news each year, showing shoppers trampling each other to get the best deal on the latest gadget or gift. Maybe all those things combined left me expecting less from people at Christmas, watching how rude shoppers seemed to be to each other, and to retail employees, and how lost all the giving was in the getting.

Because of all that, I swore off of Black Friday shopping, and ended up doing more of my shopping online over the years than I wanted to. I believe in supporting local businesses, especially during the holidays, but after a few trips out in past years, being pushed or rushed and just watching the attitude of the general public, I started to feel like whatever I could do to avoid going out in all the Christmas madness was a good thing.

This year, things seemed different to me. Maybe just in a small way, but it seemed like maybe, just maybe, a lot of other people felt the same way and decided to do something different this year. One of my favorite quotes, and one I try to live by is: “You must be the change you wish to see in the world”. I am sure Mahatma Gandhi had bigger things in mind when he spoke these words, but you know what, maybe these small things are just what he was talking about.

Yes, this year there were idiots out there pepper spraying fellow shoppers to get video games. And yes, there were other stories of ridiculous behavior all in the name of saving money and getting the hottest gift this year. And maybe it’s just me, but there seemed to be more stories of good things people were doing this year.

The first example was the many “Layaway Angels” across the country who anonymously paid off people’s layaways at various stores. Once the first story aired, the idea caught on and spread, and I honestly just loved hearing and reading about those instances of the real sense of giving, of truly making a difference for people trying to make Christmas special for their families.

Without a doubt, I love giving gifts more than I do receiving them. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my Christmas gifts from my husband this year, and I always have a list of a things I want laying around; but nothing gave me as much joy this year as seeing my husband open a very special gift I surprised him with. I could have done without anything else except that moment. That was Christmas for me.

Several of my friends from completely different areas of the country posted on Facebook that someone anonymously paid for their breakfast, lunch, or coffee at a drive through in the last few weeks. These were unrelated instances, and in the comments, others would talk about also having had this happen to them.

All of this giving was contagious. People would read or hear about a random act of kindness, and it inspired others to join in. How amazing is that? Without exception, the people who were on the receiving end of those small gifts were touched deeply, and amazed at these strangers reaching out for no other reason than to give and be kind.

The lesson in all this is that these small things matter. Every day. You never know what a small kindness will mean to someone.

Several years ago, I was battling a deep depression, and I can remember so vividly one night driving home from work and just feeling so insignificant and small. I just wondered why I was even battling this depression, why I was even trying.

I stopped in the grocery store to get something for dinner, and I was fighting back tears, just trying to get through the line and get home. The line seemed to take forever, and when I got up to pay, I realized that I didn’t have my wallet. It hit me that I had taken it out of my purse at work and likely had left it there. It was one of those “straw that broke the camel’s back” moments. I teared up and told the cashier I didn’t have my wallet and needed to just void the sale, and from the next line, a customer walked over and swiped her credit card in the machine in front of me. It was a small total- I think maybe $20.00. She signed the receipt before I could say anything. She looked at me and touched my arm and said, “I saw you earlier in the store and wished there was something I could do for you- you looked like the weight of the world was on you. I am so thankful I could do this small thing.” She gave me a hug and walked off, smiling. I remember getting in the car with my bag after just being so shocked by her kindness. But I remember—and I always will—that feeling of that moment. I needed someone to reach out so badly. Even a stranger. It made a world of difference that day. I sat in my car and cried, but it was because I was so touched- and I felt like someone “saw” me. We all need to know we matter.

I have tried many times to replicate that moment for someone else. Writing this tonight made me realize that I need to try even more.

This year was the best Christmas for me in so many ways. I know a great deal of that is due to my husband and our happiness…but a lot of it was just taking time to savor these moments and appreciate everything. I realized that maybe avoiding the Christmas rush each year isn’t the key, it’s doing what so many others did this year —getting out into the craziness and changing it—one small act of kindness at a time.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year from my house to yours. I hope 2012 is filled with many random acts of kindness for all of us.

The view or purchase the ornament pictured in this post, or to see more of the artist's work, click here.

Merry Textmas!

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 16:12:00 +0000

I don't know this family, but I want to. How funny is this card? Also note the texting lingo used for the greeting on the card (to the right).

Our holiday cards won't be nearly as clever!

Zach Wahls: Defining Family, Defining Love

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 02 Dec 2011 01:49:00 +0000

Zach Wahls, a 19-year-old University of Iowa student spoke about the strength of his family during a public forum on House Joint Resolution 6 in the Iowa House of Representatives. Wahls has two mothers, and came to oppose House Joint Resolution 6 which would end civil unions in Iowa.

You may have already seen this video-- it has gone viral, has had over 5 million views, and the number is constantly rising. If you have not seen it, I ask you to please take a few moments to hear this young man speak so eloquently from his heart.

Of the many things I take for granted that I have that others don't, I try not to ever forget how lucky I am that I found the love of my life--and we were able to get married. All it took was a little paperwork, a small fee, and by our choice, a ceremony. It both breaks my heart and simultaneously makes my blood boil that many people that I love and care about, people that have impacted and changed my life in amazing ways, people that I don't want to put in any other category except that of being dear to me--cannot marry the ones they love. Not only can they not marry, they are treated as second-class citizens in many other ways as well.

I have been so fortunate to have people in my life --both gay and straight-- that have taught me about love, equality, and acceptance. I cannot understand the lack of clarity and the depth of prejudice and discrimination all around us. Love is love. Love has no gender.

The video above is such a beautiful tribute to one young man's family-but it is also a shining example of the product of love and a loving home. Why we are still debating, judging, and arguing this issue in the year 2011 is beyond me. And how anyone can listen to this young man's articulate, powerful speech and not be moved or even changed by it will remain a mystery.

Hats off to Zach Wahls, and to the two women who raised him--obviously very well.

Happy News for Warren and Jackie Hance

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 01 Dec 2011 04:00:00 +0000

For those of you that read my post about the tragic deaths of Diane Schuler and her three nieces in 2009, or if you knew of the case from the HBO Documentary or other sources, I have a wonderful bit of news.

Warren and Jackie Hance, who lost all three of their daughters in that crash, have just recently had a new baby girl.

The original story was heartbreaking and confusing--with more questions than answers. A total of eight people were killed that day: Diane's own daughter, her three nieces, three other victims in another car, and Diane Schuler herself. But I couldn't stop thinking about Warren and Jackie, who lost so much--all three of their daughters. I often wondered how they managed to get through each day.

There is precious little information out there about Jackie or the baby. (And if anyone deserves their privacy, these people do). There were articles and photographs of her pregnant from September of this year, but I had trouble finding out anything further.

Then, I checked The Hance Family Foundation website. This is a foundation that Warren and Jackie started in memory of their girls. And on the front page, as part of a post about Thanksgiving, Warren mentions the baby, the girls' baby sister, Kasey Rose.

I cannot imagine how hard holidays must still be for them, and how huge the loss still is. I am amazed at the beautiful work of their foundation. Mostly, I am so happy to know that they have a little baby to bring some light into their lives this holiday season.

I wish them nothing but joy and love.

Learn more about The Hance Family Foundation here.

Read my original post about the tragic events here.

Read this beautiful article by Jackie Hance written with such grace and strength earlier this year.

To be Thankful

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 24 Nov 2011 06:13:00 +0000

So much to take in…

The scenes of the season

Not enough words-

Not enough ways-

To say thank you.

How do you give thanks

For your dreams coming true?

Knowing this love-

Knowing these days-

Are all we wanted.

One of many days

Strung together like pearls

Unbreakable threads

Of time and trust-

Not just holidays.

And it all adds up…

New meaning in each day

Just more precious-

Just more thankful-

Than ever before.

Strands of lights glowing

Summoning what’s next

I want to press pause

I want to breathe in

This moment we have.

It is in my heart

It is all too lovely

It is so much love

And now it is mine

To be thankful for.

I Carry Your Heart (I Carry it in My Heart)

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Mon, 14 Nov 2011 02:29:00 +0000

Two years ago today, I went on a date. I had no idea then that it would be THE date. The first date. The last person I would date. With the man I would marry.

We knew each other growing up, went to the same junior high and high school, but lost touch after receiving our diplomas and tossing our caps. We were photos in the yearbook to each other, and a few shared memories.

We reconnected 21 years later, through the magic of Facebook, and more than a little nudging from my best friend, who also happened to be my husband’s prom date at one time. (Their one and only date).

I probably knew around the third date that he was the one. But, I also knew my history, my luck with love- or rather lack of—so I held my breath and waited for something to go wrong. It didn’t.

We were married a year ago today.

Love stories happen every day, all the time, magical stories of all kinds taking shape and ending with cake and frosting, a white dress and vows. Sometimes, it all begins to seem commonplace or even expected.

I am not saying our love is any more special than anyone else’s, and although our story is unique and I think romantic, there are a thousand more out there like it, or even more beautiful in their histories, their struggles, or what they have survived or overcome for love.

But what I can say for certain, without pause, and with all my heart is that we are lucky. Lucky to have connected after so many years, lucky to be so well matched, lucky to know that we both are in this for the long haul. Lucky to have found each other in a world that can be harder than it should be, and less like a fairy tale with each passing year. Life is hard, life is uncertain, and the pain and dreadfulness that people go through, survive, or sometimes perish from can make me weak in the knees to witness.

I had my own journey before meeting my husband Shea, and he had his. We both endured our share of pain, loneliness, and longing. We both readily agree that it was worth it—however trying, however painful—so long as we ended up here. I had given up on so much watching the world wiz by, thinking that I wasn’t destined for some of the better parts of it. But, here I am today, lucky in love. And I know it doesn’t happen for everyone, and I know there are no guarantees. I know that being single and wanting it can be one of the loneliest places in the world.

So tonight, as we slice into our wedding cake – the small top layer we have preserved in the freezer to share a piece each year on our anniversary- I will say thank you to the universe, to fate, to Facebook, and my best friend Kim Linville, for making this happen. I will say a thank you in my heart for Shea’s heart, which is so giving and compassionate, and which beats in time to mine.

I will close by sharing a poem that my dear friend Judith read for us at our wedding. It is one of my favorites, and I love that it was a part of our ceremony.

i carry your heart with me

by e. e. cummings

i carry your heart with me (i carry it in
my heart) i am never without it (anywhere
i go you go, my dear; and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear
no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet) i want
no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you

here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life; which grows
higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart

i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)

Hidden Beauty

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 08 Nov 2011 05:08:00 +0000

For what seems like the hundredth time, I have been sorting through boxes that have made it through my most recent move, trying to see if there are any items that I need to purge, or things I want to pull out of storage now that I have a little more room for odds and ends. Luckily, our garage is very large, and right now, half of it is overtaken with boxes and bags, framed art and lampshades, packages of memories and forgotten pieces of my past.

Three moves ago, before I had met my husband, I went through a great deal of my belongings, things that had been in storage for ten years or more. This in itself was shocking to me, and marked a big portion of my life when I could not part with anything that was remotely sentimental. The odd thing was, I think I was holding on to every torn scrap of paper, every memento, every picture frame, hoping that when the time came and I could take it all in, I would somehow find answers in the things I had preserved and carried with me all those years. I thought maybe the sum of all those things would make sense further down the line, so I kept it all, and waited and hoped.

Finally, when I was forced to downsize and couldn’t afford a storage unit, I had to purge. I had to be reckless and not ponder every note, every greeting card, every trinket, but instead let go of things that truly didn’t matter. I couldn’t hold onto the pieces of some imaginary jigsaw puzzle, that honestly, when put together wouldn’t make any more sense than all the scraps of my life combined.

I kept the important things. Journals from so many stages of my life with words dripping in such reality, such perfect snapshots of moments, that I was left gasping at the vividness of the pain. My books from kindergarten – one for each letter of the alphabet, written in my five year old hand- the deliberate strokes so evidently mine- so reaching for perfection even at that age. All the poems I wrote over the years that at times shock me in their maturity and help me see through the eyes of my younger self what once was. And books. All of my books. The books that opened so many other worlds to me when I needed to shut the door to my own and find somewhere safe to go. I can’t easily part with books for that reason, even today.

And then, there was the yearbook box. All of my yearbooks- well, most of them- from kindergarten to high school, some falling apart at the seams, poorly bound, and faded with age. I have rarely opened one of those yearbooks over the years, except to solve a mystery when talking with a friend…what was her name—the girl we knew in fifth grade? Or something similar. I avoided looking at all photos of myself from any of those years. I would actually check the alphabetized list of names if I was looking for someone or something, and make sure I was skipping the page of students in my grade with the last name beginning with “S”.

However, the yearbooks have now taken on new meaning. Although my husband and I are just about to celebrate our first wedding anniversary, and our second year together, we have known each other since seventh grade. We went to the same junior high school and high school together. We passed each other in the hallways, shared lunch time in the cafeteria, sat a row apart in Language Arts class. But we were acquaintances at best. We knew each other, but weren’t close.

We reconnected through Facebook (and my best friend’s urging) over 25 years later…almost half a life later. So, as I came across the yearbook box in the garage a few weeks ago, I smiled thinking of all the captured moments of the two of us that we might have missed. Random group pictures and candids in familiar hallways and classrooms.

As I brought them upstairs, my husband immediately recognized what I had in my hands and moved to the couch so we could share each book together. In the first book, my husband scoured the alphabet to find my last name, looking for the “me” he knew so long ago. I honestly felt my heart begin to race. Even though I know he loves me, the thought of him seeing me then, captured in all my teenage horror, was unsettling. And then he found my picture.

And so did I.

I couldn’t believe the face staring back at me. What I didn’t tell him was that I believed myself to be hideous all those years. Not in a normal, teenage angst kind of way, but in a way that I cried almost every morning for years, looking at myself in the mirror before school, feeling I was almost deformed, I was so ugly. It started in grade school, but grew worse in fifth grade, and was all downhill from there. I finally worked out a way to only look once in the mirror before I left for school, just to make sure I was as presentable as possible, or hadn’t forgotten a stray hot roller, or smear of makeup.

I cannot express the weight I carried every day, feeling that I was the ugliest person in the world, feeling that no one would ever love me, that my friends were in a way, taking pity on me by being friends with me. It was the life of a young girl completely stripped of self esteem. I told no one, and turned more inward every day.

But sitting on the couch that night with my husband, I was frozen, staring at the seventh grade “me”. I am still astonished to say that I was completely and utterly shocked to see a normal teenage girl staring back at me. This girl was not hideous, she was not ugly, she looked just like every other teenager in that book. As I write this, I cannot believe that it took me this long to realize what I had put myself through every day, and what I somehow still held onto as the vision of who I was.

As we opened one yearbook after another, I began thumbing through the pages to find myself…and I did. Each time, a little older, another year survived.

I finally came a little more into my own in college (didn’t we all?). But even as I felt that I wasn’t as hideous as I once had been, I still doubted every time my friends or even boyfriends said I was beautiful. I could never truly accept that compliment. I thought people said it to be kind, or to make me feel better, compassionately overlooking the reality of what I looked like because they cared.

I don’t believe I was born with low self esteem, I don’t think anyone is. Maybe I am wrong, but I believe it is something that is taught. Intentionally or not, it was taught to me- and I learned the lesson far too well. It took me over half my life to see myself when I looked in the mirror- to face the mirror every day and like the girl I saw staring back. I can’t begin to count the mirrors I turned away from, the moments of self doubt that took things and people away from me.

It was the doubt that grew in a quiet house of pain, it was the whisper of my father’s voice that stayed in my ear for far too long. It was the uncertainty and fear of a place that should have been safe.

When I see it all from a distance, I understand how those thoughts formed, why I lost faith in myself, and why I couldn’t see that very normal girl looking back at me that I see now. I hurt for her. I want to go back and explain it to her. I want to rescue her and tell her all the things I have learned, all that I know now. I want to tell her that his words are not the truth. I want her to believe me.

But, I can’t. All I can do now is tell her that it all turns out ok in the end. Better than ok. And that one day, she will see herself as beautiful…more beautiful than she could have imagined. And a large portion of that beauty will come from everything she lived through, everything she overcame, everything she survived.

It will all add up and even out.

It will all be …beautiful.

The artist for the work featured in this post is Beatriz Martin Vidal. View more of her stunning work here.

The Secrets of a Successful Man: Exposing Hillary Adams' Father

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 03 Nov 2011 02:36:00 +0000

Her name is Hillary Adams. If you haven’t read the stories today connected with her, I promise you after reading this post, you won’t forget her or what she endured anytime soon. As I clicked the link to the story about this today, I had no idea what I was in for.

Hillary posted a video of abuse at the hands of her father that is so chilling and disturbing, I have to warn you repeatedly before you click to watch it. In the video, captured 7 years ago, her father reveals himself to be a monster, almost enjoying the abuse. This is not discipline. It is a man out of control, and a vulnerable, disabled daughter who thankfully taped the abuse and kept it all these years.

I have done as much research on Hillary and her father as I can, the story is very new, but is spreading like wildfire across the web. Hillary was 16 at the time of the video. Whatever her offense, she is not deserving of this treatment. ALL 16-year-olds make mistakes, do stupid things, sometimes very wrong, very dangerous things. Nothing, and I mean NOTHING makes this even remotely right. This beating happened because she had downloaded music and games off the internet.

Again, I must caution you before watching this video, it is graphic and disturbing.

I do think it is important to watch this video for many reasons. First, this is going on in more homes than any of us care to realize. It is easier to believe that no one you know, none of your neighbors, none of your family members are behaving this way. But sadly, it is a secret a lot of people are keeping. You can’t spot abusers, there are some signs, but many of the people who abuse children and spouses are amazingly adept at covering their tracks. Hillary’s dad is a judge in Aransas County, Texas. I imagine that no one outside of his home knew who he really was or even had an inkling of what he was capable of. I was happy to read that he has been asked to step down temporarily while an investigation takes place.

Another reason I hope a lot of people watch this video is that if someone doubts whether what is happening to them or someone they know is abuse…seeing this video and the overwhelmingly outraged reactions to it may help clarify things and enable someone who needs it to reach out and ask for help. It sounds strange to say that—that a person wouldn’t know if what was happening was abuse. But the truth is, a child in a home like this knows nothing else, and most children believe on some level that they deserve the abuse. Also, if God forbid, you watch this abuser and see someone you know, or even yourself, get help. Report it. Don’t second guess.

While the physical abuse in this video is troubling enough, listen carefully to the words being said. “You are not fit to live in this house”. What does a 16 year old do that actually makes you not worthy of living with your family? Everyone says words in anger sometimes, but these words, laced with profanity, are horrendous. Every word said like that is a battering of self esteem, a doubting of self-worth, and it can take years and years of therapy to stop hearing them in your head.

As for the mother, Hillary has stated that her mother has left the marriage, and that she doesn’t blame her, as she was caught in the same cycle of abuse. While I understand this cycle completely, and I understand the codependent, battered wife syndrome and all of its intricacies, I have little respect for any woman who stands by or PARTICIPATES as this woman did in the abuse of her children. At some point, you have to break the cycle. While Hillary was 16 at the time of this video, I have no doubt that this abuse had gone on as long as she was living and breathing in that house. I am glad her mother has left, and is supporting her daughters. But, I cannot suppress my anger for her participation, as Hillary no doubt believed that both of her parents were against her at that time. What a horrible feeling at any age for a child.

My blood has been boiling today as I have read comments on some of the different articles about this story. Readers commented that they were spanked as a child and turned out fine. Others spoke of “different times” and how this was once acceptable. What you see in this video is not a spanking. It is not discipline. This man is clearly out of control, speaking to Hillary in an abusive, menacing manner. Anyone who sees this video as anything other than severe abuse is misguided.

Hillary has been contacted by countless media outlets, and on her Twitter stream has expressed some regret for posting the video and “ruining” her father. I can only imagine the mix of emotions that she is feeling right now. There will probably always be some amount of fear associated with her father. It is hard to reconcile fearing someone who is supposed to love you and protect you. Her father has admitted it was indeed him in the video but said the abuse was “not as bad” as it looked. I hope Hillary will not let the media frenzy get to her. For whatever reason she posted the video, it was the right decision. I wept watching it, my heart pounding. I wanted so badly to save her.

It looks like she is saving herself. And hopefully, a few others along the way.

The original article I read today can be found here.

Happy Halloween from our Dog Bear (aka Super Bear)

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Mon, 31 Oct 2011 19:00:00 +0000

Happy Halloween from Super Bear!

I am not usually one of those people that dresses up their dogs/animals. This was Bear's Halloween costume last year. He wore it for about 2 minutes, just long enough to snap this photo.

I think the costume is justified since this (below) is how Bear normally sleeps. I am not kidding. We think he is dreaming that he is flying.

Right now, he is in the kitchen, barking at some Halloween cookies I just made. This is his way of requesting a sample.

With that cute face, he will probably get a bite or two.

Courage and Perspective: Emmanuel Kelly

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Thu, 20 Oct 2011 18:46:00 +0000

The video above is from the show the X Factor in Australia. I don't watch the show in the US, although I have watched a few links here and there from friends shared on Facebook. I saw this one floating around recently, and ignored it until a really close friend posted it this morning.

I was brought to tears. Things like this help me keep my problems and worries in perspective, and also inspire me to remember that for some people, every day is a fight against judgment, overcoming obstacles that seem simple to others, and remembering what they DO have vs. what they don't. Just beautiful.

The Chicken at the Door: Monday Laughter from The Bloggess

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 18 Oct 2011 02:34:00 +0000

The picture above has had me laughing most of the day today. I have been behind in reading all the other blogs I love, and that includes The Bloggess. I don't know how I missed this particular post of hers, but I am glad someone posted the link today on Facebook. This is hilarious, and unfortunately for my husband, something I can totally see myself doing. Who says marriage can't be fun?

Click the link and check out her post: And that's why you should learn to pick your battles and get ready to laugh.

Life, Letters, and the Loss of The US Postal Service

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Fri, 14 Oct 2011 05:40:00 +0000

It seems that the US Postal Service is in trouble. Big trouble. Some articles and news outlets say that the entire system could shut down, with a large number of closings as early as the end of this year. While snail mail is certainly taking a hit because of our ability to email most of our communications, it seems unfathomable to me that we could lose the system altogether.

I have to believe that won’t happen. There will more than likely be huge cuts, and the USPS as we know it will never be the same again. One of the proposed cuts is to end Saturday mail delivery. While I would hate to see that happen, I am willing to lose one day of distribution in order to save the service as a whole.

I may be of a dying breed, but I love sending and receiving true mail—in my mailbox. Although I admit that I don’t write the long letters that I used to, I do love sending greeting cards. There is something special about getting a real greeting card on your birthday…there always has been. But now, it is even more special as we all shortcut and wish our friends a Happy Birthday via Facebook or by sending an e-card. Most of the time, I go to the mailbox expecting bills or junk mail, and sometimes get the surprise treat of a card. Even the bills I once received in the mail have become few and far between as electronic billing takes hold. That is a good thing. I am all for saving trees. But I can’t let myself believe that the day is coming when there won’t be a mailbox to go to each day.

I think back to all the years of letter writing I have behind me. At the end of my senior year in high school, I met my first real boyfriend. He was already in college in a city about an hour away. We were able to see each other on weekends, and began writing letters in between visits. There was something magical about seeing him on a Sunday, and the next day, coming home from school to a letter waiting for me, his handwriting recognizable to me immediately on the outside of the envelope. Even though I had just seen him, I had the words he had written the week before, expressing his feelings on a random college afternoon. I kept his letters in a shoebox, and added to the stack, carefully preserving the creases in the stationery each time.

Then, he went home for the summer, all the way to Maine, and the real letter writing began. We both ran up huge phone bills that summer, but the letters never stopped. Phone calls were fleeting and precious, but his letters were lasting and permanent, and carried the added value of being there for me to read again and again.

As happens with many first loves, ours didn’t last. But our letters did. For years, when I would come across them, I would start to throw them away, but I couldn’t part with them. Through other relationships and more letters and mementos, his letters stayed in the box—a little patchwork piece of time in my life, frozen in tattered envelopes with a New England postmark.

As the years passed, and through several moves to other states, and across the country, I kept what I called “the boyfriend box”. Filled with letters and keepsakes from my past relationships, it was like a time capsule of my life- the love and loss, the lessons and memories, the goodbyes and heartbreak. Sometimes I would be unpacking or organizing and I would come across the box and revisit times gone by. More often than not, I would laugh at my innocence, my mistakes, and my choices. But it was all bittersweet and lovely.

A few years ago, I was in an antique shop, sorting through old photos and I came across a crumpled brown paper bag. In it was a stack of letters, yellowed with age, addressed in a lacy, fountain pen’s scrawl. I gingerly opened the first one, and after reading the first few lines, I almost turned away. The words seemed too personal, too intimate to be read by a stranger. The subject matter was not lewd or even inappropriate, it was just expressions of love, longing, and shared memories. All of the letters were from a young man in the military, obviously stationed away from his love. He wrote to her of missing her sweet smile, and holding her hand. He wrote of wanting to finish what they had started, to come back to her whole and healthy, and pick up where they left off.

Although the grammar and spelling were imperfect, to me the letters were beautiful. I asked the store clerk about the price, which seemed shockingly low to me-- mere pennies for pieces of someone’s history. I purchased them, and as I left the store, the clerk asked what I was going to do with them-- she assumed decoupage. I told her she had guessed correctly. But, really, I just couldn’t stand to leave them there. I came home and put them in my "boyfriend box", with all the other letters that were too treasured to become trash.

I still have the boyfriend box, although if I had to locate it, it might take an hour or two. The box is somewhere in another box in our garage, packed up with things that aren’t necessary to unpack, but that I still keep.

I think about all the letters we have from one historical figure to another, or to their spouses. I think of all the precious war letters that have survived the various battles throughout the world, the letters people still cherish in their own boxes somewhere, tied with ribbon in a faded stack. Nothing can evoke an emotional reaction from me like hearing that an elderly person has kept every letter he or she wrote and received from their spouse through the years of a long marriage. All those words and memories to revisit. The choice of the stationery and the stamp. The postmarks from a well-traveled life. It can’t be replaced or recreated in electronic form.

I know the future holds a lot of changes in the way we communicate, and I am thankful for the quick exchanges of email most every day. But I will miss letters. I will miss the waiting (that I used to hate and complain about), and the race to the mailbox for the next installment with someone I care about, maybe from across the world. In a way, it is already gone. I hope we can keep some part of it going, and I am sure the nearly 600,000 employees of the United States Postal Service hope the same thing.

For that reason, though, I can’t part with the letters I have. Maybe someday, years and years and years from now, someone will be rummaging through an antique store and come across my old letters and take them home for safekeeping--for just the same reasons I did. No personal relation, no real attachment. Just to preserve a little bit of history and save the words and paper that once meant so much to someone out there.

The Waste of Worry

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Tue, 11 Oct 2011 04:55:00 +0000

"Yes, I worry about the craziest things, but better me than someone less qualified." -Robert Brault

If you have been reading my blog for more than a year, you know full well that I have been through some stressful times. The last two years have been a delightful break in all that—first finding love, then getting married, and finally setting up house. We weren’t worry-free, but so many of my dreams came true that it all seemed a little bit magical.

The past few months have been a little more stressful. Just life stress. Money, job changes/layoffs, family difficulties. But hey, I survived a lot of stress over the years, a lot worse things than we are facing now, right? I have faced and conquered life-altering stress. I have stared down my demons, admitted all of my past pain to a complete stranger (therapist). I endured hours and hours of therapy that at times felt like some torturous prison camp as my scars and old wounds were torn open, baring everything I had ever feared or lost. All this while being out of work, pretty much broke, and trying to recover from a huge betrayal/ break-up.

So, anything now should be a cake walk. It should. But as my husband and I both face a tough job market, big decisions, and dealing with some hurtful and tense family issues, I am wondering if I have learned anything from all I have gotten through. Why do I worry myself into panic attacks and extra helpings of migraines? Why do I lay awake at night fretting about things I can’t change until I am sweating, counting the hours passing on the clock on the nightstand—the glowing numbers seeming to fly by at breakneck speed?

I know that this does absolutely no good. Worrying won’t help any of it. It also doesn’t help me be a better person, a better worker, or a better wife. What it usually does is leaves me sleep-deprived, grouchy, and less apt to find the solutions to what is going on than I would be if I got some sleep and gave the worrying a rest.

It’s different now that I am married. Before, I worried for just myself, and it was a huge weight dealing with everything alone. But now, I worry for my husband—for both of us. I want to be the best wife I can, I want to help us build a future together, I want to make the right choices about jobs, where we live, and what to cook for dinner. I am under no pressure from my husband, who believes I am gifted at all of these things. And sometimes I even worry about THAT.

We have both been under pressure as money has been tight, and sometimes it seems like an accumulation of little things going wrong turns into an avalanche. At one point last week, a lot had happened and it seemed like our house was running under Murphy’s Law 24/7. One thing seemed to stack on top of another. There was a quiet tense moment, and then… we laughed. We had to. It all seemed almost absurd. It was a good moment, and helped us to remember that we are in this together, and we are so good for each other.

It is 12:18am as I am writing this, and the last hour has been devoted to worrying about my dreams of being a writer—and how I can ever fit that into everything we are trying to do. I don’t want to lose that, I want to make it happen. Then it hit me that I was worrying instead of writing. So here I am. It’s one small step to slow down the wheels turning in my head, to try and take away one piece of the never-ending puzzle that is this need to fret.

I am sure by 1:00am, something else will inhabit my thoughts…seriously low bank statements, pain that I wish I could take away for my husband, the 100 things I need to do for work before 11:00am tomorrow…but for now, for the next 42 minutes or so, I am going to try to give it a rest. To breathe. In and out. Slowly. And maybe, just maybe, get some sleep.

Artwork by Georgiana Chitac. View more of her beautiful work here.

Autumn Changes

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 02 Oct 2011 02:50:00 +0000

I have always had a love-hate relationship with fall. The ushering in of cool temperatures after so many southern sun-soaked, humidity-filled days was always a relief. But the impending holidays were a dark cloud hanging overhead, so I couldn’t fully breathe after the last days of August.

Now that holidays are something to look forward to, I can wholly appreciate and ignite my love affair with autumn. Even though it surely happens gradually, it always seems to me that there is one night when fall arrives. All of the sudden, there is a chill in the air and the thermostat gets adjusted from full blown AC to somewhere between “off” and “heat”. I immediately want to go shopping for school clothes even though I am no longer a student and don’t have kids. My thoughts turn to apple picking, bonfires, and hot cider. I haven’t been apple picking in over a decade, and can’t remember my last bonfire or cup of cider, but the fact that all those things are happening just makes me happy. It all means fall-- cooler temperatures, sweatshirts, pumpkin patches, stained glass colored leaves, and Halloween candy.

I always want to head to the mountains of Asheville, North Carolina in late October and walk through crunchy piles of leaves around The Grove Park Inn and settle into one of their beautiful, old fashioned rocking chairs out on the huge back porch, drinking hot chocolate while taking in the view. I think of countless falls before, making the trek almost solely for the purpose of sitting in the lobby in front of one of the two biggest fireplaces I have ever seen. All of it means something to me: autumn perfection. I have been to Asheville during other times of the year, but nothing beats walking the grounds of The Biltmore Estate when the air is cool, and strolling around the shops and art galleries, and taking time for long breakfasts and lunches, almost forgoing the need for dinner at all.

When I was young, I remember that every year around this time, I held out hope before school began that things would be different this year—better than the last; that this was somehow a new beginning. Even more than New Year’s Day, this time of year seemed the start of things. For the many years I was in elementary, middle and high schools—then on to college—that makes more sense. But even now, I feel like this is the starting line.

This year it may very well be. Living in a beautiful location by the sea is as wonderful as it sounds. We are less than a mile from the beach, and every corner and hot dog stand holds some of the best memories of our childhoods and growing up over the years vacationing here. But, the job market is as bleak as the sunny, salty days are wonderful. We are facing some tough choices, and some possible huge changes in our lives that could bring about amazing things. It will not be easy, and the unknown keeps me up at night with worry.

But, the possibilities and the excitement also keep me up at night. Knowing we are this close to making some dreams happen, and thinking about sharing this adventure together is as thrilling as it is stressful. For now, I have to try and stay focused, learn to meditate or try some yoga, and hope for the best. And as I unpack my fall sweaters and my Halloween decorations, I am doing just that..and also giving thanks that my favorite time of year has finally arrived.

Katie Granju: A Mother's Love and the Fight for Justice

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Wed, 21 Sep 2011 13:53:00 +0000

“A mother's love for her child is like nothing else in the world. It knows no law, no pity. It dares all things and crushes down remorselessly all that stands in its path.” - Agatha Christie

I have watched over the last year as Katie Granju has been torn down, ridiculed, and all but ignored by the people in power in her community who were supposed to support and protect her. For those of you that read my blog, you have seen my past posts about Henry’s death and Katie’s fight. To really understand the case and what has happened, you should visit the site she and her family created to document their fight for justice.

When I first began reading Katie’s brave posts as Henry was fighting for his life, I was educated in so many ways about the true depth of a mother’s love, and about addiction and the judgment, stigmas and pain that accompany it. I learned that every addict is someone’s child, worthy of love and forgiveness. I learned a lot about my own prejudices and judgment concerning addiction. Katie changed the way that I, and countless others, viewed addiction.

Then, Henry Granju died. I remember so vividly watching the videos Katie posted on her blog of Henry as a baby, a toddler, a young boy, a teenager…he was so loved. The loss rocked Katie and her family to its core.

Then, I watched as in the midst of her grief as Katie was treated so callously by various members of the local DA’s office and the sheriff's department, all because she wanted the drug dealers that provided her son with the drugs that killed him (and also did not call for help while Henry suffered for hours) brought to justice.

Today, I woke to see that the three key people involved in Henry’s death have been arrested on multiple felony counts. While the charges aren’t directly related to Henry’s death, these criminals are off the street. I know that if Katie and her family hadn’t kept fighting, this would not have happened. It is so sad that it took a family in the middle of unbearable grief to light a fire under the system and make this happen.

But, they did. She did.

So this morning, I write these words through tears as I have learned something else. A mother’s love is stronger than a corrupt system, painful and hateful anonymous comments, deceit and betrayal.

One mother’s love can withstand anything and everything to find justice for her son.

Katie Granju has taught me many things, but that I know most of all.

Click here to visit the Justice for Henry website.

Click here to read more about the arrests and indictments.

Click here to learn about Henry’s Fund, created by Henry’s family to help others struggling with addiction.

Light the Night for Sheila Barnett

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 18 Sep 2011 19:25:00 +0000

A few days ago, a friend sent me the email below, and I don't think I could tell the story any better, so I am sharing the exact words she sent me. Please pass along this story and donate if you can. Let's help Sheila Barnett feel the love and exceed her fundraising goals for this upcoming walk.

Family and Friends,

Please take a minute to hear about a cause that is near to my heart, and especially to a dear friend of mine, Sheila Barnett. My hospital (Presbyterian in Charlotte) is sponsoring a Light the Night event to raise money for the Leukemia and Lymphoma Society. I am asking if you would please consider making a donation in honor of my friend, Sheila Barnett in her personal walk for this cause. Some of you may have heard her story from me, but if not you will not forget it.

Sheila lost not one child, but all three of her adult children to (AML) Acute Myeloid Leukemia in a span of 3 years. In the video link below, Sheila briefly tells her story, but says she was disappointed with the editing. The interview took over an hour in which she endured an anxiety attack and stopped to sob several times. She told me afterwards that she cannot believe she allowed herself to say, "I don't know how things could be any worse," because she fears they can. Sheila remains terrified and prays every night that her two surviving grandchildren will never develop AML considering the strong family history. All 3 of Sheila's children's birthdays and death anniversaries fall in September and October. This Light the Night walk is not only in memory of her 3 children, but being on October 22 also ends another year of this most difficult time of remembrance.

I have known Sheila since her daughter Amanda's death, and I cannot tell you how unbelievable this woman is. She has firmly stood her ground in this fight, and as angry as she may be at times, maintains faith that she has a reason to live. Sheila still works at Presbyterian Hospital where 2 of her 3 children died, as a guest services specialist.

Chances are, if you come to the hospital, she would be the one to greet you and help you get where you need to be. Although she has been through an unbelievable ordeal, her passion is working in the cancer center, and sharing a compassion that only she can give.

Please watch the video, and consider making a donation to Sheila's page. If you are unable to make a donation, please pray for Sheila during this difficult time of year.

Click here to watch Sheila's video.

Click here to make a donation.

Words of a Broken Heart

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sat, 17 Sep 2011 04:11:00 +0000

Within the set up of my blog, I have code installed so I can monitor the activity when I need to. One of the features includes the ability to see what search terms lead people to my blog. For instance, someone might type the words “vintage wedding photos” into Google or another search engine, and somewhere in the choices this post I wrote about collecting old wedding photos might come up. The person clicks the link to my blog and I can see that those words led them here.

Without fail, the two most common searches have been these phrases, or something close to them: “how to write a letter to my dad who cheated on my mom” which leads them here and “getting married- don’t want my father to walk me down the aisle at my wedding” which leads them here. I have such a heavy heart seeing those phrases pop up so often- from all over the world. So many people are experiencing similar pain; a pain I know all too well.

So for anyone tonight who has come to my blog based on these painful issues, let this be my letter to you:

To the child whose heart has been broken,

First, let me begin by saying that I am no expert on mending fences with a father that has somehow rejected, hurt, abused, or wounded you. I have only written, as honestly as I can, about my process of healing from what happened to me, and finding a way to make sense of my choices and my feelings based on what I have been through. I doubt my father and I will ever really reconcile or have anything I can call a relationship. In my case, that is the best outcome.

For those wondering how to write a letter to a cheating father…we each have our own stories. We each have our own set of circumstances. The letter I wrote here on my blog came long after writing several private letters years ago. These were letters that my therapist at the time asked me to write to my father and my mother. These letters were private, and weren’t intended to be mailed or emailed to my parents, unless I decided to, which I didn’t. But, they contained everything I wanted to say, everything I had ever wanted to say. They were brutal, painful letters. The act of writing those letters, which I then read to my therapist, was a healing process in itself. Just letting those things out, being so honest, leaving no detail or past act unturned was freeing. I didn’t feel I needed to mail them. They were written, and I honestly knew that neither of my parents would fully understand what they were reading, nor would they take any accountability for the content. Unfortunately, it is a mixture of illness, alcoholism, and denial that follows both in my family that makes that a reality. But I wrote those words, and said them out loud. I knew their meaning, and knew where the accountability belonged.

So, I recommend writing the letter(s) you need to write. Say what you need to say—all of it, everything. Don’t write it and send it immediately…that’s always a recipe for regret. Pore over it, study it-- make sure you are saying everything you want to say. Be as mad as you want to be, as hurt as you want to be. You can always edit later. Get it all out. Maybe have a trusted friend or therapist read it. And whatever your heart tells you, whatever the past dictates, do it. Mail it, save it, burn it, whatever helps you heal.

As I said in my blog post, men who are fathers who cheat always seem oblivious to the fact that you are not just cheating on your spouse (the mother of your children), but you are also cheating on your family- your children. It is not a singular crime. Whether you think they know or not—this act of deceit and betrayal will haunt them in some way, in some form one day. (This goes for women as mothers who cheat also—I just have a little more familiarity with the father’s acts on my end).

Now, for the women out there who are asking—Does my father have to walk me down the aisle? The answer is NO, absolutely not. Some women ask this question for different reasons—just preference, a break with traditional wedding ceremonies, etc. But the search terms I see suggest many women are asking that question for the same reason I did. I can only share my experience with this situation.

I struggled deeply with this decision. The only reason I struggled was because of my mother. She wanted my father to walk me down the aisle for the same reason she wants all of us home for Christmas, gathered around the tree, singing carols in matching sweaters while holding hands. She has a vision in her head of what we should be- what she wants so badly for us to be. It is something we are not- something we won’t ever be. I understand her denial is a coping mechanism, but for years and years of my life, I have done things for her that have hurt and deeply damaged me. I would go home for Christmas only to be kicked out by my father on Christmas Eve in a drunken rage. I would try to play the part of the youngest child in a perfect family for her, and I feel as though I lost years of my life in doing so.

I did those things because I hated to see her hurt. I hated that my mother didn’t have a life where she was married to a caring, doting husband, and where she wasn’t really loved or taken care of. I didn’t want to add to that pain. But here’s what’s real: those were her choices. No matter how the chips fell, she stayed with my father, and put me in painful places my whole life based on those choices.

The cycle has to be broken. I decided it would start with me and my wedding day. This was the first day of my new life- a healthy, whole life filled with a real love, an honest man, and my own choices. It had taken me too long to heal, to come out on the other side of all this. Having him escort me down the aisle felt like a huge step backward.

So that was the choice I made. My mother guilted, threatened, cried, and called constantly begging me to change my mind. She told me she knew my father wouldn’t come to the wedding because of my choice. She told me it would ruin the wedding for her. She told me she hated what people would be thinking. I stood strong. But I did cry many tears leading up to that day, remaining firm in my phone calls to her, but falling apart when I hung up the phone. I didn’t want to hurt her…I kept asking myself—was this one minute in my wedding that big of a deal? But you know what? It was.

It ended up being the best decision I could have made. My father did come to the wedding, my mother’s day wasn’t ruined, and although I know she was disappointed, she recovered. What did happen was a new understanding. I saw and felt something intrinsically change between me and my parents, especially my father. They both sensed something different—the old patterns and guilt weren’t working anymore. I was no longer acting the part, no longer caving to guilt and pressure. My father spoke to me in a quiet way that day. I can’t explain it, but I felt a power shift. It was a comforting power- the power of my own confidence, my own heart.

So, the most important thing I can say to those of you here for these reasons is…hang on, trust your heart, trust your gut, and believe in yourself and your choices. Therapy was a godsend for me—a life preserver thrown out to me in an ocean of damage and grief where I was drowning. Most of all, these search words prove to me that we aren’t alone out here—so many of us are dealing with this same pain, struggling with the same issues.

And while that doesn’t ease the pain completely, there are thousands of survival stories out there to lean on and hold in your heart for hope. Find them, read them, love yourself…and always, always, have hope.

The words of your broken heart will take you places--far away from where you started...

I promise.

The artwork featured here, also entitled "Words of a Broken Heart", was created by Deborah Belasco. View this and more of her work here.

In Their Own Words: The Voices of 9/11

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 17:36:00 +0000

There is no more profound or fitting way to remember 9/11 than in the voices of those who lost someone. While I watched footage of September 11, 2001 this morning, I got teary as I saw the first then the second tower fall to the ground. It broke my heart all over again. But to think of the people who had loved ones in those towers, loved ones who didn't make it out...to think of the panic, pain, and worry--and ten years of grief--is unimaginable. No one can know unless they went through that pain, and no one can tell their stories except the people who lived them.

I have always been a huge fan of StoryCorps. In remembrance of 9/11, the team behind StoryCorps has been capturing the stories and words of those affected by 9/11. Take a few moments and listen this morning, and be sure and tell those you love what they mean to you today--and every day.

A side note to the first story below that is so tragically sad: Beverly Eckert died in the crash of Continental Flight 3407 on February 12, 2009.

To hear more stories, click here.

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What I Remember: 9/11 and the Days After

noreply@blogger.com (Kim) — Sun, 11 Sep 2011 01:27:00 +0000

It is hard to believe that it has been ten years since the terrorist attacks of 9/11. At the same time, it does seem so far away- a lifetime ago since it happened. Every year on this anniversary, I am touched by new stories I hadn’t heard before—stories of heroism and loss that haunt me. I count my blessings that I was far away from the cities affected that day, and that even though I traveled constantly for business, I wasn’t on a plane that particular morning, though I had been the day before.

We all have our stories of where we were that day, and mine is not spectacular or even relevant in the scope of things. I was in Colorado hosting an event for the company I worked for at the time. I had overslept that morning- which was so unlike me for anything to do with an event or my work. It is still the only morning I ever overslept while I was on the road for work—for anything. It was an odd, rushed start to the day, and as I dashed out of my hotel room a few minutes before 7am, I noticed out of the corner of my eye that a red banner was floating along the bottom of the television screen with large letters. I had the sound muted, and thought it was some random weather warning. I was more worried about getting downstairs to make sure the meeting room was set up properly.

Once I got downstairs, I walked through the lobby area and a crowd was in front of a large television set. Before I saw the screen, I could feel something was wrong in the room. I saw some of my coworkers standing in the crowd, and then finally, I saw the screen—saw what was happening. I came downstairs just as the second plane hit. Before I realized it, I was peppering a stranger with questions—a man in a business suit. He looked ashen—and as he told me what he had seen and heard so far, he teared up. I looked for the two women working with me on the event and found them steps away, watching another television outside of our conference room.

The next hour was a blur of phone calls- checking on my friends who traveled extensively, as I did. Making sure everyone was safe. Calling my parents to let them know I was fine. I remember walking outside as I thought of the people who worked in The Windows on the World Restaurant at the top of the North Tower- people I had just worked with a few months prior while in New York. We hosted a reception in the restaurant—and I remembered the view, so beautiful, so far away from the bustling city below. I remembered the kindness of the catering manager and the waiter for our event who made me laugh. I wondered if they were there, if they were OK. I remembered that we stayed in the Marriott hotel adjacent to the tower. All of it was gone. I felt sick.

We had been scheduled to fly out the next day, but instead, we headed to the nearest rental car location outside of the airport. We found it—crowded and overrun with panicked travelers- rented two cars, and I spent the afternoon trying to map our trip back to California—back home for all of us. I don’t think I will ever have another day in my life so surreal, so suspended...encountering so many strangers in tears or seeing truly terrified expressions of people I didn’t know and watching as other strangers comforted them.

The drive home was eerie—almost silent. We listened to NPR all the way home, hearing the voices of survivors and loved ones who had lost their sons, daughters, husbands, siblings—their unedited words raw with grief. It was sobering and terrifying. I just wanted to get back to my bed, my books, my cats…and the safety of my home.

I have read several blog posts in the last few days, talking about how in the days after the attacks, the feeling of unity was so strong—the abundance of overpowering acts of kindness that occurred between strangers could barely be measured. I remember that feeling.

I remember going to the grocery store the day after I got home and encountering several neighbors in my apartment complex on the way to my car. We spoke smiled, stopped and talked. This was an apartment complex full of business people like myself, and this had rarely ever happened. We were all taking account of each other, genuinely caring when saying hello.

At the grocery store, people were careful turning corners, apologizing profusely for bumping into one another. And while this may seem small—these little, meaningful encounters were so powerful. There was such a feeling of shared grief. Kindness was the knee-jerk reaction for everyone. It was contagious and beautiful.

I knew that we, as a country, had been changed in some fundamental way. Back then, I believed that we were going to continue this path of kindness and togetherness. I never expected nirvana or for the intensity in those first days to last, but I did believe that we might view neighbors and strangers differently, seeing unity before differences. Perhaps I was more naïve than I thought possible.

We have changed as a country. I believe the most clear and evident change is that we don’t feel safe, we don’t see ourselves as immune from the “far away” violence in other countries where we once believed that this sort of thing took place. Now, we are one of those places where things like this do happen. That is a huge shift in thinking, a huge shift in living.

The other change makes me so sad. The thing that I loved most about what I saw in the days after 9/11 was such an acceptance of everyone, kindness without question. Although all of us held anger for the people who had carried out these attacks, a small group of Americans immediately thought to hate a religion, a people, a group that they believed that these terrorists belonged to. And then the group that hated started to grow. And then the group THEY hated started to grow. It started to become all encompassing—the hatred and fear. We stopped looking beside us in compassion, but some people suspected their neighbors, coworkers and friends as being a part of who we hated, who we feared, who we found guilty.

I wanted the people who were responsible punished—even dead. But I did not want to see our country become a beacon of hatred, judgment, or paranoid vengeance. I wanted to feel safe, but not at the cost of our souls.

I guess I am still naïve. I wish so badly to feel the kindness in those days after the attacks. Actually, if I am wishing for things…I want to turn back time and take back the loss, the pain, the attacks themselves. But since that isn’t possible, I try and wish for things I still think somehow are possible. I don’t want to believe that it takes bombs, death, and hatred to make us reach out to our neighbors, old friends, and strangers when we see them in need, or just see a moment of pain cross someone’s face that is so deep--and even though we don’t know how to heal that kind of pain—we reach out and say, I am here, I understand.

I am as guilty as anyone. I am not the same as I was in those days after the attacks. I try to be each day, but I am not. I am not quite as compassionate, quite as reticent to judge.

Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of so much loss, so much pain, so much uncertainty. Almost 3,000 people died that day. For their family, friends, and loved ones, nothing will take away that pain. We can write beautiful words about the loved ones they lost, we can honor them with ceremonies, we can speak their names. But, what better legacy than kindness? What better way to remember a day often attributed to hate than to counter with boundless compassion?

I know it is naïve, and ridiculously optimistic. I know that even I won’t live every day that way. I know that someone in the mall parking lot will annoy me endlessly for some small infraction. But I hope that tomorrow as I count my blessings, I can remember everything we have lost since that day, everything I have been here to enjoy. I hope that I can remember to be a little kinder, a little more accepting. I know I will try.

And I hope, even in some small way, that effort is contagious.