Standing in the Light and Bitchin'

Too often, I find myself standing in the light and bitchin’. I came to that conclusion while driving my daughters around to their seemingly countless activities. Kenzie sat in the back seat fussing about the sun in her eyes. I told her, “Turn your head, then, ‘cause Baby, even Momma can’t change the position of the sun.”

Light is good, but sometimes too much light makes me squint, and I have to turn away or be blinded with brilliance. Either way, I live my life flooded by the good light, yet like Kenzie, I stand there and bitch. Since that enlightening (pun intended) conversation, I’ve been counting the ways I find myself taking my blessings and trying to dim them, fit them into smaller more mundane packages. Here are a few I’ve reframed lately.

· My pantry and refrigerators—how is it that I have the audacity to complain about the size of my rear while my pantry is loaded down and I need two full size refrigerators to hold food? Duh—standing in the light and bitching.
· Cleaning my house—a beautiful home and I gripe because I have to do up-keep. Please!
· Submitting to agents—electronically with the push of a button, no paper, no postage, no murdering of trees.
· Having to run my kids across town several times a day, all day long—I’m home to do it. I have a car and not a buggy I have to pull behind me!
· I get bored—the ultimate of insults to the Divine I would imagine. I have the LUXURY of boredom.
· Laundry—I have multiple sets of clothes. My Grandmother still tells stories of living through the Great Depression and only having one pair of shoes (with newspaper insoles because of holes in the soles) and two dresses: one for work and one for school and church.
The list could truly go on and on.

My new catch phrase is now “Standing in the light and bitchin’” and my intent is to coin that, use that to remind myself how truly blessed I am. In what ways are you standing in the light and bitchin’? I have a feeling I can’t be the only one. ;-)

My Home Address

Who am I? At my very essence, at the core, who am I? So often we are identified by whom we love, what work we do, the house we inhabit, someone’s name on the label of our clothes. I get lost in these trappings all too often and find myself, again, re-naming, re-claiming my selfhood.

I lost myself most completely in my early twenties. I had to forget who I was, had to be small in order to make someone else feel bigger. I chose to relinquish control over myself because I was so busy trying to control this other person. I was the poster child for co-dependence and I didn’t even know it. In trying to make this unworkable relationship work, we bought into the trappings of what married life looks like. We bought the house, had a child, and merged our names, assets, and futures. I knew it was a lie all long. We were too different, too ill-matched, but we tried.

About the time I turned 25, I began to slowly emerge from the denial and haze of a dying relationship. I realized I would be fine without marriage, without a ring on my finger that validated me and made me feel that someone wanted me, but I couldn’t seem to let go of the house we had purchased together. It was my first home, where I brought my baby home from the hospital, where we had birthday parties, where we had family get-togethers. Memories lived in the walls and had trapped me with them.

One night I had a dream that I had once again locked myself in the bathroom and was crying after an argument. While I watched myself, curled arms over bent knees, sobbing over a failing relationship, I noticed the walls around me had faces. These faces laughed at me, taunted me. They told me with their laughter that staying for them was preposterous. They had watched everything that had occurred in that house and staying was laughable.

I remind myself of this lesson frequently because it was seminal in discovering who I want to be. Now, I do love my house, but I’ve made peace with the fact that it truly is not mine. It’s on a borrow basis. A tornado can come through and rip it to pieces. A fire could burn it to the ground. My husband’s job could determine that we must move. And even worse, but yet a possibility I will never let myself forget less I forget the lessons learned in my twenties, this is a house I get the privilege of living in because my husband is a good provider. It is truthfully only on borrow basis to him too.

As I visited with my sister’s friends in Portland, many of them encouraged us to move up there. Yes, I would fit in well there. I would be part of majority, a group of like-minded, wonderful people. And, if things were different, I could see it as a possibility for home—BECAUSE—I now know that home is where I am. I carry my home with me, in my heart, in my memories, in my mind. Home is where my family is. It is where I can love and be loved. It is where I smile and breathe deeply. It is not brick and mortar, cement and stone, geography and landscape.

I am home right now, in dry West Texas, with her beautiful sunsets and lovable, loving people. I am home in Portland with my self-proclaimed “granola hippy” sister and her friends. I am home in Austin with my soul sisters. I am home in this wonderfully flawed, lived-in, stretched and loved body that is only mine on loan. My address is just a technicality.

Being home and at peace gives me even more appreciation for the present because it forces me to realize that every material thing is transitory. Every night in this house is a blessing, every pair of shoes a gift, every trip to the grocery store an honor. I am leaning into and onto the promise that I am more than an address, a title, a name brand. I am home no matter where I roam. I am a child of the Divine no matter my flaws. So to answer the question that began this rambling: who am I? I am Complete, and I rejoice that every day gives me the opportunity to grow even more fully into my homespun self.

Peace and Love.

Agent Conference and Cosmos Stacy

The Agents’ Conference went well this weekend. Let me rephrase; after nausea and crippling self-doubt receded, the conference went well.

Kenzie sent me off with a virus I fought all day on Friday. The drive down to Austin was miserable but I took it as an act of faith. Once I got to Austin and checked into the hotel, I took a short nap and felt a bit better. At 3, I attended the first workshop where we distilled our literary endeavors into one hook sentence. It was difficult to get mine into one sentence and I never truly did because, frustrated, I quit trying.

Next, we were all off to court the agents at the cocktail party. It was high school with legal drinking. The poor agents, the popular kids, stood cornered by one author after another while trying to respond to pitches that were not really heard because the noise was approaching the decibel level of a rock concert. I stood in many of these lines and would get almost to the front when a lovely colleague would elbow me out of the way to sell his/her blockbuster that was, no doubt, better than anyone else’s. Authors then compared the notches on their highball glasses as to how many agents they hit up and how many they had to go. I again gave up and resolved to talk to people, regardless of the color of their name tag, a novel idea in a room full of novelists.

Disheartened, I went back upstairs and anxiously awaited the arrival of my soul sister who I had no doubt would help me put all of this in perspective if only by listening to me and making me feel as if I mattered again. Of course she did and when I went to sleep I prayed for peace and a new frame of mind. The phenergan helped me sleep and the extra oxygen soothed my rattled nerves.

I slept in a bit on Saturday and then went to a seminar where the panel instructed us to reject rejection. While I pondered this, the re-frame hit me. I had been going about the whole thing all wrong, following the same rote path everyone else was taking and feeling as if I were prostituting myself and my novel in the process. I resolved to do this conference my way.
I did this first by introducing myself to agents and complimenting them only. I complimented personalities, speaking voice, attitudes, hair styles, author/agent relationships. I did not pitch my book, but instead validated others. It fit me, allowing me to get the attention I needed while still honoring my personal creed that we all have a story and all are, first, human beings each given skills and talents. I met great agents this way and had several request partials of my manuscript. I bonded particularly with one and hope she likes my writing as much as she liked me. Ironically, that particular agent’s last name is my first married name and the name I just recently had dropped from my daughter’s legal name. Life is funny that way, because honestly, I had not even considered this agent, yet we saw a familiarity in each other and enjoyed a moment of bonding. I love when the Universe reminds me I must not be dismissive.

So, all in all, the weekend was a success. I learned an overwhelming amount of information about the publishing business as well as the cosmos Stacy, and I rest in faith that I was and am exactly where I should to be.

Peace and Love.

hourglass figures revealing power

I never considered myself a powerful person. I don’t make a six figure salary. Every job I’ve had has been one that hovers at the lower end of the corporate ladder. My opinions and beliefs are not so subversive that they threaten the power structure, but power and what it means to me has been dancing around in my brain and reflecting in my life the last few months. For the most part, that is because I finished writing my book; a book that is a cautionary and tragic tale for those of us who do not own our power.
I looked at power as a gift only given to those with big voices, big paychecks and big social circles. In reality, power is in the mundane, the day to day choices I make, the people I influence. I have so long set power outside of my scope that I forgot the impact my life makes.
I walked behind a woman with the most beautiful hourglass figure at the grocery store the other day. I wanted to stop her and compliment her but wondered that I may sound weird or threatening. She finished one side of the aisle and then turned around to peruse the other side and faced me. I was surprised to see that she was in her seventies.
I knew I had a choice. I could ignore the little voice inside of me that wanted to edify this woman or I could speak up. When she glanced at me, I took my chance. “Pardon me. I just wanted to compliment your figure. You have the most beautiful hourglass shape,” I told her and then steeled myself for whatever reaction she may have.
“Oh honey, my sixtieth high school reunion is coming up and I’ve been working on it for months. Thank you so much for telling me,” she replied and little tear testaments sprung into her eyes.
I’ve held that moment in my heart and mind for a while because in edifying her, I internalized a lesson I had only rudimentally grasped. “We are powerful beyond measure.” I read that in Marianne Williamson’s A Return to Love years ago. Ah, yes, I’ve sarcastically thought; I am so powerful as I live my ordinary insular life, yeah right. But power is revealing itself to me a little more every day.
I had the power in that grocery store to make someone’s day, perhaps month. I have the power when I walk into my gym to create community with other women and notice their hard work, the new definition in their calves, and the pep in their steps. I have the awesome power of Mother Love, that all encompassing love that has no conditions but has the highest of expectations. I make decisions every day that make this world a better or worse place to be. My God, I am powerful beyond measure!
Celebrating my power is not all fun. For if I claim my power that means I have to claim the dark side of that too. The times I re-mold my children into my own image instead of their own. The times I re-enforce stereotypes. The battles I choose and even the ones I don’t. Therefore, power is a gift and a great responsibility, so therefore I will use intent as my measuring stick. What is my intention when I speak with a person? Will my presence enlighten both that person and myself? And such is this rambling. I invite you to claim the power in your life. Then, please share.
Peace and Love.

Love Triangles

I keep running into my teenage self this week.

I first reconnected with her after a parent-teacher group meeting to discuss my now teenage daughter's choir field trip. Micah and I were in the car heading home when she began talking about one of the girls at the meeting. She was the kind of pretty that people just stop to stare at—partially because she is so beautiful and partially because she doesn't know it yet. Micah tells me "Mom, she is the prettiest girl I've ever seen—except for you."

She said this without expecting anything in return. She stated it nonchalantly, matter-of-factly and so honestly that I wanted to pull the car over, make her get out and hug me on the side of the road. I bit my lip and dug my fingernails into the steering wheel instead.

It is only a matter of time, I'm sure, before I become old and fuddy-duddy. My clothes will not be right and my hair will not be "in style," but right now my daughter still thinks I'm pretty and maybe that shouldn't matter, but to me it does. In fact, that compliment may have been the best one I have ever received.

It made me think about my own views of my mother when I was a teenager. My mother was strict United Pentecostal. She wore no make-up, her hair in a poufy bun, dresses that came down past her knees with sleeves to her elbows. A fashion statement for her was colored panty hose. I didn't think my mother was pretty—she was too different from the other mothers.
Now, I see my mother as a beautiful woman. Her wardrobe is the same; her hairstyle is the same; her fashion sense is the same. I am the one who is different. I now look at my mother and see how clear, clean and pure her skin is. I look at her eyes and see the breath-taking blue made even more brilliant by the love that shines through. I see a woman with a figure that is a bit fuller than when I was a child, but is still feminine and enviable. And these are just her external attributes.

It makes me sad that I spent so much time not appreciating my mother's beauty because I equated sameness and attractiveness. But I am glad that maturity has brought wisdom and appreciation. I am thankful that I can see that beauty is enigmatic and subjective. It is spiritual and mental. It is how a person lives her life, loves others, and respects herself. I guess my grandmother was right: "pretty is as pretty does."