Why I Don’t Get Flowers on Mother’s Day

May 18, 2014June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

“Undo it, take it back, make every day the previous one until I am returned to the day before the one that made you gone. Or set me on an airplane traveling west, crossing the date line again and again, losing this day, then that, until the day of loss still lies ahead, and you are here instead of sorrow.”

― Nessa Rapoport

Last Sunday was one of those days. One of those days when your soul flattens and your heart folds into the smallness of itself. One of those days when vanilla wafers are chased by Jolly Ranchers and Dubble Bubble. One of those days when no matter how much you try, you just can’t find your joy.

Last Sunday was Mother’s Day.

My children, unlike those of my friends and family, reside in Heaven. I never held them, diapered them or saw their faces. I simply imagined them.

I still do.

But I’m not bitter. Just sad.
And longing.
For full arms and an even fuller heart.
For my chance.
To hear a child’s heartbeat and footfall in more than just my dreams.

And so this is what wraps my heart in hurt every Mother’s Day. When I see and hear mothers being celebrated and realize I am not among them.

I thought of this last Sunday as I sat among a small group of women. In celebration. Of them.

The conversation turned insensitive. To stillbirth and future pregnancies. For others.

And my heart screamed out:
Consider your audience!

As I squeezed back tears.

Whether by accident or design, being left out hurts.

It hurts when your place is on the sidelines.
It hurts when it’s easier to cry than to smile.
And it hurts when what’s been gained trumps what’s been lost.

It hurts. In the most sacred of places. It hurts.

But then there are angels who remind you of your worth.

They remember your scars.
And call you Beloved.
They bless you and your tiny citizens of Heaven with their love.
And their promise not to forget…

Never to forget…

That. You.

Are.

A. Mother.

**Post-write and pre-publish, I watched Lifetime’s global release of RETURN TO ZERO**

Image courtesy of returntozerothemovie.com

This is part of their mission statement found at http://returntozerothemovie.com/blog/

“While this film is intended for a wide-release to audiences regardless of their life experience, RETURN TO ZERO fills a particular niche for a market that has gone unserved — those who have or know someone who has experienced the devastating loss of stillbirth, miscarriage, or neonatal death.”

If you or someone you love has experienced such a loss, I highly recommend watching this film.

RETURN TO ZERO is raw, real and beautifully done. An absolute gem of a film and a ray of hope.

For us all.

On Kind Of Being Mormon

May 4, 2014June 19, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

Earlier today, somewhere between Elk Mountain and Laramie, we stopped at a gas station. Out front sat a well-loved mobile home surrounded by nothing but caramel-colored earth stretching for miles and miles in all directions.

As the wind ushered me through the front door, I noticed a handful of mounted elk heads on the back wall and a cashier dressed in clashing camo. He looked my way as I quietly debated the candy aisle:

“So… where you from?”
“Chicago.”
He looked shocked.
“What are you doing all the way out here?”
“We had a show in Vegas.”
“Well, how was it?”
“It was Vegas,” I responded as he nodded in agreement. “But at least we spent a few days in Salt Lake on the way there.”
“Are you LDS then?”
“I am.” Kind of.
“Did you go to the Temple?”
“I did.”
Then I saw a smile stretch across his sunburned face.
“Wow! You’re so lucky!”

I wasn’t prepared for his last comment. And almost didn’t give it the attention it deserved.

Later at the counter, with Twizzlers in hand, I noticed a familiar scene on his television screen. It was from The Passion of the Christ.

“My missionaries told me I should watch this,” he said.
Those words struck a chord.
My. Missionaries.
I’d used those same words about 17 years ago. And I’d said them with the same tenderness and reverence that this man did.

My. Missionaries.

My religious background is interesting. Mom was Catholic, Dad was Agnostic, and Kat and I floated in between. We were “Catholic” with a flicker of faith, but little belief in rote practices and memorized speech. In truth, we were more interested in the dried gum art on the underside of our pew, than the homilies and the weight of the Apostles’ Creed.

We knew of God, but had no relationship with God. We didn’t go to Him. Not in joy. Not in hardship. Not ever. For all intents and purposes, He was a whisper of a thought, a being just out of reach.

Looking back, I think we were waiting to be…
Chased.
Charmed.
And Convinced.
But that didn’t happen. Not there.

I liked Father Shields and Father Jack, the latter of which was charismatic and accessible, two adjectives I never associated with priests or church hierarchy. Be even he, with all his passion, couldn’t imprint my heart with things seen and heard on Sundays too few and far between. So, I wore pretty dresses, tried not to giggle during mass (which is harder than you think), and looked past odd CCD teachers, especially the one who scraped her nails across the chalkboard every week. But I never felt what you’re “supposed” to feel at church. That lightening of heart and spirit. That sense that you’re not alone. That feeling that God…

Really. Is. God.

I never felt any of that. Not until I attended the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints.

Their teachings were different. Their scriptures were too. They had another book, called The Book of Mormon.

And believed in modern-day prophets and apostles, continuing revelation, and eternal families.

It was all a lot to take in, especially considering it all began with a fourteen year old boy, a grove of trees, and a vision.

But I believed.
Despite my parents and friends’ objections.
Despite having mainly poor examples of what an LDS family looked like.
And despite my own fears of my future as an LDS convert.

I believed.

And so, on November 30, 1997, in the absence of my blood family and the presence of my Church family, I was baptized.

It was beautiful. Bittersweet. And beyond words.

Fast-forward 17 years. I’m at the Salt Lake City Temple. And it’s lovely. Lovelier than I remember.

But my heart is heavy.
And I finally let it say the words that my lips won’t:

I am inactive.
I have been inactive for longer than I can remember.

I remember reaching out to people like me. People who fell through the cracks. People who were offended by church members or disappointed by church culture. People who were wronged by church leaders or folded under the weight of expectations. Who couldn’t be that good. That kind. That selfless. That obedient.

I remember what I’d tell them and that look they’d get. That look that said, you don’t understand. And honestly, I didn’t. I was 18 years old telling people, who’d lived and loved longer and harder than I, that I understood. But I didn’t. I didn’t understand losing a spouse, a home or a child. I didn’t understand rape or same-sex attraction, incest or depression. I didn’t understand the struggle to stay faithful. Because I was faithful. And it was a pleasure and privilege to be so.

I didn’t understand until I moved to Atlanta and left my friends, my ward and my comfort zone behind. In the beginning, I attended church regularly and even worked at the church bookstore, but I didn’t quite fit like I had in Illinois. There was no draw. I was no longer the golden investigator worthy of attention and praise. I was simply a member (which should have been enough, but wasn’t).

And slowly doubt started creeping in.

I moved to Utah thinking that would help, but I hated it. The place was not what I thought it would be. The people weren’t either. So, I blamed my unhappiness on that. But in reality I was different.

I had changed.

Over the following years, I waxed and waned.
Bad things happened. Good things happened. I was strong. I was weak.
And God continued to chase me.
To charm me.
To convince me.

And He still does.

Despite identifying as LDS, I don’t attend the LDS church.

I’m the one the missionaries seek out and check up on. I’m the one who receives visiting teaching messages by mail which almost always end with, “I’d love to meet you.” I’m the one who fell (or jumped) through the cracks.

I still love the church.

I really do.

I just don’t know if I fit there.

And that is bittersweet.

My sacred place

April 21, 2014June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

“Go to the desk. Stay at the desk. Thrive at the desk.” -William Matthews

Everyone has a place—their place—where heart and breath slow, and stillness and contentment reign. Maybe it’s the inside of a train, the white sand of a beach, or a treasured bookstore. Maybe it’s a cushy chair at a local beanery, the zoo, or a bench at MoMa. Or maybe, if you’re truly lucky, it’s a space within your own home.
Since my mother-in-law’s arrival we’ve been working on my nook. Truthfully, I’ve been adding to my stash since last year, but I needed her expertise to bring the space to life. To make singular items create a mood and tell a story—my story.

And that’s just what she did.

My nook is my sacred place.

It asks nothing and gives everything. It smells of sage blossoms and vanilla and is guarded by cheery owls and pink hippos. It highlights my love of polka dots and dresses, quotes and candles. And it houses a tribute to our three little angels, who watch over me from the halls of Heaven.

Generally, I go there to write, but it’s also great for naps, tears and counting to 10 (not necessarily in that order).
Everything there is a reflection of my heart and a representation of my spirit, from the decorative boxes holding pictures of loved ones to the small collection of books by my favorite novelist, Elizabeth Berg.

This place oozes me.

It honors my past and cherishes the possibilities of my future.
It brings the kiss of life to my craft and heart.
Four simple walls and a collection of stuff do all that.

What a wonderful and blessed thing!

Want What You Already Have, Be Who You Already Are

April 6, 2014June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

My mother-in-law is here from Brazil. Her mission is two-fold: take care of me and make me better. So far she’s done well. She’s been tough when she’s needed to and soft when she’s wanted to. She’s made parmesan potatoes and corn soufflé. She’s made beds and folded laundry. She’s washed dishes and hung curtains. She’s sat with me, pretending to understand American TV. I’ve sat with her, pretending to understand Brazilian politics. She’s made me laugh. I’ve made her cry (good tears). And sometimes—just a few times—she’s made me crazy. Those moments fade though…

My love for her never does.

We have a quiet understanding. Our hearts’ songs are the same. I was reminded of that last night as we chatted in the darkness about life and love. Hope and dreams. Betrayal and forgiveness.

She told me her greatest deceptions. And I told her mine.

She reminded me of her childhood. How she was nursed by a maid because her mother was too busy with her siblings. And how she never formed a bond with her afterward.

How her father, a handsome German who saw life from the bottom of a bottle, fired his pistol into the night sky to scare his children into submission. Or scare himself into sobriety. She wasn’t sure which.

How she led a small army of children through Criciuma, setting tires on fire and climbing impossible trees. How she played Hide-and-Seek in the caskets lining her mother’s funeral parlor and once saw a dead child there, thin and fragile like an eggshell. How she snuck off to visit the gypsies—she loved their skirts and scarves—and learned to eat glass and swallow fire from the traveling circus performers.

How her mother all but sang, “When I catch you, Estela. Oh, when I catch you.” And what happened when she finally did. She should have been scared. Really.

How she married too young, became a mother too young, was traded for another too young. And how she spent four years in bed grieving a marriage and a life that never was.

A person she never was.

And how finally…

she. woke. up.

At nearly 70, she answers to no one, which, according to her, is both a blessing and a curse. She wishes her marriage had lasted. She wishes to have someone with whom to share dreams, a bed and a homemade chicken dinner.

Because alone is lonely. She reminds me of that. And in the same breath tells me marriage is a flower that needs the sunlight of hugs and kisses; the pruning of patience, kindness, and forgiveness; and the water of love and respect.

Then she tells me my heart seems lighter and asks if I’m truly happy. I tell her I am. And I realize it’s not a readied response. I mean it. And I love that I do. Because every day I remind myself to want what I already have and be who I already am. Not to wait for greatness, but to make it. Not to fall prey to the idea that I’ll be happy when…

I have an L-shaped couch,
thinner thighs,
OR
a baby in the nursery.

Because those days might never come. And maybe (although I can’t see it) it’s to my benefit that they don’t.

Maybe it’s a horrible lie that: If you want it badly enough and work hard enough, it’ll be yours.

Maybe the truth is: Some dreams aren’t meant to come true.

And what if you wasted all your time, thoughts and tears on the illusion of “when”? What if you rented out all the precious space in your heart and waited…

and waited…

for your happiness to simply (or not so simply) show up?

My mother-in-law did. For a long time. And I think we all have, in one way or another. We have all been plagued by the gracelessness of dissatisfaction, the deep pit of discontent.

So now, in those heart wrenching moments, I imagine my mother-in-law as a child, climbing the towering trees and dancing with gypsies.

I remember my own past: playing baseball and Kick the Can on Tiverton Court, catching fireflies and praying for the streetlights to sleep just a bit longer.

I also remember my present: deeply loved and richly blessed.

Period.

Why Hospitals Don’t Suck: Notes From a Former Hater

March 17, 2014June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

I don’t remember much after fainting. It’s all abstract confetti of snapshots, sound bites and smells like the exam room that suddenly became the size of an Altoid, echoes of, “we’re almost there” from inside the ambulance and then warm pressure from Jenáe’s cheek against mine, hushing me in the darkness.

I was sick.

Really sick.

And scared.

Six days earlier my gallbladder was removed. It was supposed to be a routine procedure with a routine result: no more gallbladder attacks and a return to the beloved cheeseburger. But it was not routine.

I had a series of complications: stones in my common bile duct, an infected bile duct, pancreatitis and, the pièce de résistance, hepatitis. The infected bile duct was what landed me back in the hospital; the other stuff was what kept me there for over two weeks.

It’s no secret that I have had a quiet loathing of hospitals. I think it’s been that way since age 4 when I tripped on Grandmere’s rust-colored shag carpet and broke my face on the base of her dining room table. I was rushed to the hospital then. And a few times since.

I’ve always found hospitals to be a deceitful sort. The way they embrace you as you walk in. The way they’re often filled with light and flowers and a calming waterfall stocked with lily pads and unassuming fish or a player piano, which is just weird. The way the air is heavy and sterile, masking the scent of death, illness and suffering.

The way it so easily is the last place some will ever see.

But let’s be honest. I’d never had an extended stay before.

I’d never formed bonds with nurses and doctors, dependent on them for my every waking need. I’d never looked forward to morning blood draws on the off-chance they’d reveal something different. I’d never been so comfortable being nude before multiple pairs of eyes, looking at me with only my return to health in mind.

In truth, I had never been so vulnerable.

We became like family, FHN Memorial Hospital’s 3^rd floor medical staff and me. Patient ID 216570. Room 3308.

I made friends with everyone.

I knew their faces; I knew their names:

Captain Carter took me for MRI’s and CAT scans. Betsy took me for walks.

Jennifer and Erica squeezed my hands during my liver biopsy (note to reader: never get a liver biopsy), while Elaine cradled my fears.

Jena brought me laughter, OPI nail polish and a recent issue of Cosmo. Jackie brought me peace.

Sam, who smelled of lemon trees, quietly confessed the contents of her car: 3 bags of cookies and 2 bags of M&M’s hidden from her personal trainer husband. Paige confessed she’d never know anyone as brave as her mother and showed me the underside of her wrist inked in homage.

There were others, of course, but these I count as family. As sisters.

They helped me inhale blessings and exhale anxiety and lament.

In the deep of night, they were there. When my bed became a tangled web of breath, lines and limbs, they were there. And when I didn’t even know it or couldn’t feel it, they were there.

Constant.

Unwavering.

At the end of February, I was released. And while I still have a long way to go, I couldn’t have done anything without my hospital family.

I hope to go back for a visit once I’m feeling better. And I also hope to go to nursing school, so I can be the one who holds hands in the dark and hearts in the light.

For now though, I am a reformed hospital hater.

Rehabilitated.

Transformed.

And utterly thankful.

To the three little souls who would’ve heard my heartbeat from the inside

December 13, 2013June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

I’m sorry I haven’t written.

The holidays are hard.

Hard because you’re not here.

And hard because a part of me isn’t either.

The first notable snowfall came this week and I thought of you. I imagined playing with you in the sugary mantle, watching your cheeks turn that shade of pink that the winter wind and cold bring. I imagined your mittened hands reaching for mine, inviting me to make snow angels as the sun warmed our faces and your giggles warmed the places of my heart long cold.

I imagined twinkling lights, a perfect pine and a house that smelled of cinnamon and hot chocolate. I imagined Bing Crosby crooning and sitting together on the floor, your tiny fingers trying to keep the ribbon taut as I tied bow after bow on elegantly wrapped packages.

I imagined teaching you how to make the famous two-tone fudge. How you would pour the chocolate chips into the big metal bowl. How I’d mix and mix and mix until my arms hurt. And how you’d stand on tippy-toe anxiously awaiting your chance to lick the beaters (just as I did with Grandma).

I imagined you had my pretty hair and your Daddy’s pretty heart.

And I imagined you holding my hand to your cheek (as your cousin does) and sighing deeply knowing you were safe.

And loved.

And cherished.

I imagined you knew how much you were wanted.

How much we cried when we found out you were coming.

And how much we cried when we found out you weren’t.

I imagined that you forgave me for anything I might have unknowingly done that made you go away.

And that you forgave me for wanting to go away too.

And I think…

I imagined that I didn’t imagine you.

That you had never gone away.

That I hadn’t needed to be so brave.

That I hadn’t needed to send all my love upward instead of giving it to you. Here.

That I hadn’t needed to hope that Leslie’s mom had walked the halls of Heaven, found you and held you (like she told me she knew she would). And that you had made friends with Jaclyn, Alan and the twins, who were also taken too soon, and whose parents Mommy knows and loves.

That I hadn’t needed to imagine what you’d smell like and feel like cradled in my arms.

That I hadn’t needed to imagine our home sprinkled with baby dust, peppered with dirty diapers and fussing, and blanketed with the sweetness of exhaustion.

That I hadn’t needed to imagine everything because your departure left me with nothing.

That. I. hadn’t. needed…

to. imagine. at. all.

I’ll write more soon, precious ones.

Until then and with all my heart,

Mommy

P.S. Don’t worry…we’ll save the fudge making for Heaven.

Shooting wooden stars

December 1, 2013June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

Image courtesy of marklinfinancial.com

On a recent trip to Canada, I heard a startling fact on public radio:

349 American service members committed suicide in 2012 (to put that in perspective, that’s 54 more than were killed in Afghanistan that same year).

I was shocked. disheartened. and ashamed.

The broadcast went on to share the story of a 31-year-old Marine. He’d been in Afghanistan. He’d come home to four children and a wife who loved him.

And a personal hell of what he’d done and seen.

He was depressed. He reached out. He went to the VA. He asked for help. He was told there was a 3-week wait for inpatient care. By the time they were ready for him…

He.

Was.

Gone.

His widow said she’s angry she’s without him, but happy…

He’s. Finally. At. Peace.

I remember the Recruiters walking the halls of my high school. I remember their tables. And their signs…

“Be all you can be.”

I remember friends approaching those tables and being told of benefits and opportunities and a college degree paid for through service.

I also remember getting a call from an Army Recruiter. He was interested in my language skills (and my affinity for learning languages) and thought the Army would be the fertile soil in which to be planted.

And. in. which. to. grow.

We asked lots of questions (I take that back…my husband asked lots of questions. I sat and quietly stared, dumbfounded by the questions, the responses and the meeting itself).

In the end, there was no way to guarantee my safety. So, there was no way I was going to join up.

Despite the good I could have done, self-preservation kicked in.

No guarantee.

No dice.

Since then (and despite having family members who’ve served) I’ve never thought much about the military. I mean I’m thankful for them in the quiet moments before and after my head safely hits my pillow, but I’ve never been brave enough to bring myself to a place of discomfort over their service, sacrifice, and, at times…

Suicide.

I was not born with much of a backbone. Not the kind that willingly (and oftentimes gladly) puts you in harm’s way.

Not the kind that runs, drives or flies toward danger.

Not the kind that sees friends fall…and continues on.

Not the kind that catches a person in the crosshairs, pulls the trigger and doesn’t feel as though he’d/she’d lost a piece of himself/herself in the process.

Not the kind that carries the heaviness of such a burden.

For. a. lifetime.

There are people much better than me who have signed on that dotted line, sworn that oath, and found themselves running, driving and flying toward danger.

They risk everything so that my head and yours can safely hit our pillows. So that we can say one more “Good morning” and “Goodnight” to those we love.

They serve. They sacrifice. And eventually…

God willing…

They. Come.Home.

And to what?

A broken system?

A waiting list for care?

A hope that 3 weeks won’t be a week too long?

They deserve better and we have the responsibility to demand that for them.

At least I do.

What kind of country recruits you for the type of service from which some never return and then fails to provide the necessary aid?

3 weeks to get care!!

It’s preposterous and an outrage.

It’s a disgrace to these United States, to our flag, to all those who have served and will serve.

To those whose names are etched in stone in Arlington and in cemeteries (both formal and informal) around the globe. And whose faces are not-so-simply etched into the hearts of those who love them.

In the grand scheme of things, I am small. Some might say insignificant. I am smaller than the tiniest grain of sand on the tiniest beach on the tiniest island on the planet.

But those who know sand, know it only takes one, tiny granule in the right place, at the right time to make a pearl.

And that people seemingly smaller than me, have made a difference.

There are millions of posts on WordPress.

M-I-L-L-I-O-N-S

And it’s easy to fall through the cracks.

Don’t let this one.

Don’t let our service members.

Extend your hand…

Extend. your. heart.

“Too much icing. Not enough cake.”

November 17, 2013June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

I stood in the mirror this morning and, like I do every November 17, watched myself turn another year older.

As I stood there, I took some heart notes:

My hair has darkened and thinned. My skin is less vibrant in the right places and more translucent in the wrong. My nose is more freckled (the kind that don’t fade after the long days of summer do). And, in general, I feel creakier than ever. Like that annoying floorboard in our master bedroom that sings its song with every passing.

I’m not complaining, mind you.

Just.noticing.

When I was younger, I wanted to look like this:

And be named Samantha or Alexandra.

NOT D.a.n.i.e.l.l.e.

Not a name that encouraged the boys to bow to me irreverently in the hallways:

“Ah…yes, Daniel-san. You VERY special Daniel-san” (the Karate Kid generation will get this).

No.

It was NOT fun.

I didn’t change my name. And I don’t look like Christie Brinkley (not that I’d want to now, though she is lovely…she really is).

I just worked on my cake.

Those who know me will tell you that I’m not much into makeup. I wear it, sure. I. just. don’t. make. myself. up.

I was always told less is more:

“Show off a pretty eye or a pretty lip, but not both.

Never. both.”

So, I graduated from the minimalist’s school of outward beauty prep (or “the icing”, as I like to call it). My icing consists of cream blush and ChapStick/lipstick. That’s all I have patience for (with the exception of special occasions, like the one below):

When I was younger, being outwardly pulled together was of the utmost importance since inwardly I was falling apart.

I had always been relatively cute and slim until the waves of adolescence battered my charming shores and a lack of movement (coupled with an excess of junk food and emotional eating) lead to a heavier, then heavier, then still heavier version of myself.

At my heaviest, I weighed nearly 180 pounds.

My icing then was designer clothing. I thought that if I was overweight, at least I was wearing the “right” clothes.

It was all in my head, of course.

Guess jeans didn’t stop me from being called a cow by a previous “best friend” during Senior Pep Rally and Coach purses didn’t stop me from hearing the words, “Hey…fat girl” ride the autumn wind while walking campus as a college freshman.

And nothing saved me from my own self-hatred and demeaning heartlogue.

My weight and my love/hate relationship with food have been relative non-issues since I took back my health in 2006.

And designer clothes aren’t a part of my current reality.

I’m a Kohl’s girl at heart.

And. proud. of. it.

But I’d like to think (no, I have to believe) that I care more about my cake than my icing. That being inwardly beautiful means more to me (and to you) than a beautifully painted face or a beautifully adorned body (that’s me below…NO icing…post-wake up and pre-hair fluff (forgive the bed head and the dragon breath)):

Every November 17, I will stand in the mirror and watch as I turn another year older. And while I’m sure I’ll have more to notice as time rushes on, I hope that I will always be more cake than icing.

That the moments that take place between the heartbeats are more important than the size of my jeans, the shade of my lipstick and the wrinkles on my face.

Hope.

“Fall harder. Rise up better.”

November 5, 2013June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

Image courtesy of designbolts.com

My husband and I recently moved.

We left the Lake (where we’d been showered with peace, perfect sunsets, and night skies so bejeweled I swore I could reach up and pluck the stars from the velvet welkin) and returned…

to. the. suburbs.

I was much more accepting of the move than my more-often-than-not better half. In my head and heart, it was a need more than a want (a necessary evil, if I’m being soul-scrapingly honest).

Sure, we’d had great experiences there, but then it was inhabited by people without character…

without heart.

And I feared that their toxicity had somehow crept into the nooks of our home and seeped into its structure, just lying in wait to emotionally slime us, to beat us down and to challenge our gratefulness and belief in blessings.

Another thing left behind (other than my father and his fiancee, who certainly trump sunsets and stars) was our church. While we weren’t nearly as involved as we’d have liked, we felt supported, loved and safely held in the arms of the congregation, especially by our Pastor, Bob.

With the hope of finding another congregation to call home, we began our Church Hop yesterday. We attended service at an old church with a new name. The people were different. The music was different. The feeling was different.

Nearly everything was different.

My husband leaned over less than halfway through and whispered, “Do you like it?”

I stared straight ahead and shook my head…

No.

No, I didn’t

Shortly after, the lights were dimmed and a video was played.

It was about dreams. How we live for them. Then abandon them (before they can abandon us, perhaps).

And a string of words appeared on the screen…just before the tears appeared in my eyes:

Fall harder. Rise up better.

I don’t know about you, but I have always been terrified of failure…

Failure as a wife, daughter, sister and friend. Failure as a writer. Failure as a want-to-be mother. Failure as a student of books and, more importantly, life. Failure as me (insignificant and yet very significant (to a select few) me).

FEAR is a powerful word; it is also a powerful emotion. Powerful enough to emotionally and physically immobilize us (if allowed).

Truth be told, I’ve made countless decisions out of fear. The fear of falling hard and rising…

Poorly.

Broken.

Damaged.

No. More.

The time is now for living and loving hard. Falling harder. And rising up better.

For not allowing fear to numb us, but to stimulate us.

For not allowing failure to define us, but to refine us.

For not allowing rising up to frighten us, but to empower us.

We still may get emotionally slimed (odds are good we will).

But I’ll be ready.

And will rise up better.

My hope is this:

that you will too.

Words break hearts

October 23, 2013June 17, 2014 / Dani / Leave a comment

Image courtesy of quotesvalley.com

I remember the first time I uttered those words…

We were playing Red Rover (you remember how it goes: “Red rover, red rover, send [insert name] over)”.

One the of the boys from the other team broke through my linked hands with the girl next to me, then took away the best boy from our team.

During his mad dash through our clenched hands, one of my fingers was hurt. I almost started to cry. He called me a baby and mimicked my squeeze-back-the-tears face to which I replied:

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but names will never hurt me.”

He stuck out his tongue at me.

And the game continued.

Recently, I’ve thought about those fateful words.

Recently, I’ve come to the following conclusion:

They are a

horrible,

horrible

lie.

I have been called many things: most were untrue, some were dead on, but all were hurtful…maybe more so than the sticks and stones, which leave marks that, over time, fade and, more than often, disappear. Words, however; especially the toxic, cruel, and emotionally disfiguring variety; seep beyond the flesh to the heart and soul of us and reside there, if allowed, for a lifetime.

Some things said to or about me in anger or disdain I’ve forgotten to remember or simply let go of. But there are a select few which play over and over again on my heart recorder and, after all this time, still have the power to wound.

To cause doubt.

And

To cause shame.

With the now international attention given to bullying, I’ve questioned my thoughts as both a victim and as a perpetrator.

I don’t remember ever intentionally being cruel or singling out any specific person, but memories of our own ugliness tend to be less searing than the ugliness of others, so I suppose I did and have.

I may just have been oblivious, but bullying back then seemed to be on another, much lesser, level.

Victims didn’t take their own lives

And

they didn’t take the lives of others.

I do remember a girl being taunted by a group of boys on Senior Sleepover Night in the parking lot of our high school. She had been outspoken and brave condemning underage drinking when most our age just succumbed to it. Her car was mobbed that night. It was doused with beer, pelted with cans and then urinated on.

She must have been traumatized.

They must have been given a slap on the wrists (if memory serves me right, they didn’t walk in graduation).

No lives lost.

No lives ruined.

I don’t remember suicide attempts or threats. I don’t remember fourteen-year-olds being charged with aggravated stalking. I don’t remember eight-year-olds hanging themselves from trees. I don’t remember twelve-year-olds jumping off silos. I don’t remember ever hearing the word bullycide. And I certainly don’t remember being afraid to go to school.

Probably because I wasn’t.

I had that luxury.

The luxury of going to school to learn.

The luxury of not worrying that I wouldn’t make it home because I disagreed with someone, looked at them the wrong way or, Heaven forbid, won the attention of a boy to whom someone else had laid claim.

A luxury that kids today don’t have.

Over dinner last night, my husband voiced his concerns about having a child in today’s world. How he’d feel selfish bringing a little one into such a mess of violence and injustice just for the sake of having someone call him Daddy.

I disagreed.

We’re broken.

Surely.

We all are.

We’re broken people raising other people that, in their own ways, will be broken too.

But, isn’t that the beauty of things?

That we’re broken and through each new day, each new experience and our interaction with others we can learn, grow and attain the tools necessary to do better and thus be better?

I don’t believe that most people are horrible, vicious, heartless sub-humans.

I can’t allow myself to believe that.

If I did…

what’s the point of living such a life?

If there is no good?

If I don’t believe that people are better than the circumstances in which they’re born or which they simply or not so simply create?

I don’t pretend to know much about much, but I’d like to think that I know people.

That, more often than not, I see things, at the heart level, that others miss.

So p.l.e.a.s.e.

let’s be more vigilant with the thoughts that are planted in the soil of our minds and hearts.

It is from there that the words come.

And it is precisely there that the heartbreak stays.