Look up, look UP!! See. . . right there on the header?
Today is tax day and you might have other things on your mind. So, this is just a gentle reminder that the Thrifty Goodness fund-raiser for the Women’s Resource Center starts today. Everything you need to know to participate can be found on the “15 Days” link in the header. I think it’s going to be a FABULOUS 15 days in April, don’t you?
He got down on one knee and asked me to marry him again.
I said, “Yes, yes, yes!”
The day dawned brightly; sunlight streaming through every window. The sun has found its way back into my world, and I find myself warm again.
All is not lost, after all.
The Dalai Lama arrived in Seattle today for the Seeds of Compassion Conference. We’ve been waiting for his arrival and the arrival of our tickets with baited breath. IZ and I caught a glimpse of his motorcade on the news tonight and I think we both exhaled at the same time. IZ and BW’s tickets arrived on Tuesday, mine came in the mail today. Whew. Hotel booked, bus routes scoped out, we have a plan.
It’s a long story and all the details aren’t worth rehashing, but the bottom line is demand for these tickets so far exceeds availability that people have been scalping them. We feel very fortunate to have received 3 and to be able to attend this historic event as a family. Our tickets come from two different sources—which means we probably won’t be sitting together. Considering how many people asked to go and were turned down, I don’t even see that as a deficit. My ticket was reserved for me as a member of SDI and I just feel so blessed that Seeds of Compassion had two more for my family. This is the sort of thing that I usually attend by myself; it’s amazing to be going with IZ and Boy Wonder. That the event is in Seattle is icing on the cake.
And I needed cake. I really, really did.
So, we will be in Seattle very, very soon. I can’t tell you how much I have to do between now and then. Everything converges on the 15h; my ad with Modish, my fund-raiser for the Women’s Resource Center, and of course this event. The past few days have been a whirlwind of activity and I find myself a bit overwhelmed by it all, if in a good way. I keep reminding myself: BREATHE.
Obviously, I will be writing more about this conference and keeping you posted about the fund-raiser as next week approaches. But I hope in the meantime, you’re feeling blessed by the miracle that is your life… and that you’re remembering to breathe.
I’m so ready for warmer weather. I’m calling “Olly Olly, Oxen Free!” on the sun. This goes way beyond wanting to hang out in short skirts and flip-flops. Way past being pasty white. We are deep into the realm of transparent. I’m so clear you can see my blood coursing through my veins beneath my skin and that would weird me out if I wasn’t so depressed.
No, seriously, I’ve reached that point where I’m fairly convinced that insanity will ensue if I don’t get a real dose of vitamin D, STAT! I’ve reached the, “Girlfriend is going tanning” point and I don’t want to hear one *coughcancercough* from any of you. M’kay?
What does STAT mean anyhow?
Clearly, I’m cracking up. Yep. Losing it. It’s official. I’m not sure who you should call.
Speaking of losing it and depression (I’m not even trying for clever segues at this point) my wedding ring went “missing” last week. And the only the thing I’ve discovered in the process of turning this house inside out looking for the missing “symbol of our relationship!” is that our floors are abysmally dirty. As in, “report Girlfriend to the health department” dirty.
I blame the cat. For both the loss of the ring and the floor. I’m kinda convinced she decided to play with it when I foolishly left the “symbol of our relationship” on the couch. (don’t ask) I can’t prove it, but she looks guilty. Ok, so technically, the ring is my fault; but the floors are all Snickers. I could knit a sweater with just the fur she’s left behind the couch. The couch that is pushed up against the wall leaving no room for her to get behind it and still she manages to shed ridiculous volumes of hair. Behind the couch. I don’t want to talk about what I found under the ottoman. It wasn’t my ring, we’ll leave it that.
IZ says I can’t punish the cat without proof. Which sucks. Because, that leaves only me to punish. I’m not sleeping and I’m mourning and I have this really sick feeling that unlike all the other times I’ve lost this ring “symbol of our relationship”, that this is it. This is the proverbial straw and I’ve done deceased the camel. It’s not good people, not good at all. IZ assures me that he will still love me if it doesn’t turn up. I’m trying to decide if I’d still love me, though.
The truth is, no words work. He’s tried. With these sorts of losses, I suspect you suffer alone. I mean, what words can be said that can lessen the blow of losing a wedding ring? Nothing is going to make me feel less like the ass I know I am. Stupid girl. Telling me, “You know, you’ve been trying to subconsciously ditch that ring for years,” only makes me feel worse because that’s probably true.
I’m not the fresh faced teenager who chose such a romantic ring. I’m a glass half full of jaded. No longer do I have dainty little hands that look overwhelmed by the “symbol of our relationship.” You know, I’m pushing 40 and my tastes have changed radically in the past 20 years. Not to mention I’m aging and showing signs, like memory loss, of the dreaded “peri” condition that will not be named. So, no, it’s not the ring I would choose now. But dang, people, that reality does not help! Trust me. I just end up feeling badly that I’m not feeling badly enough.
Except, I do feel badly. Heartbroken and twisted up and sleep deprived. You can add that to pasty white and transparent and strangely referring to myself as “girlfriend.” What’s that about, really?
Clearly, it’s not just the “symbol of our relationship” that I’ve lost.
Someone once said that you can take the man out of the South, but you can’t take the South out of the man. William Faulkner, maybe?
The same can be said of California. I miss my two star state.
Happy Friday, dear readers. I hope wherever you find yourself today, it’s exactly where you want to be.
Whatever words we utter should be chosen with care for people will hear them and be influenced by them for good or ill. ~Buddha
I heard this tentative knock on our front door. Before I opened it, I could hear the unmistakable shuffling of feet and muffled sounds of laughter. Boys. There are boys at my door. Their voices grew clearer as I opened the door. “I’d like a word with Boy Wonder,” said the youngest of the group.
Uh oh.
I stepped into the living room where I shamelessly eavesdropped on their conversation. What I heard took my breath away.
“I’m sorry I was such a poor sport yesterday and called you mean names.” With a peek around the corner I could see my son’s young friend looking a little sheepish, his feet pigeon toed and his face sporting a hesitant smile.
And right before my eager eyes, all was forgiven. In an instant, all was well. As a mother of a boy, I can’t help but marvel at the swiftness of these exchanges. Because, while I don’t have a girl, I can clearly remember my childhood and the drama that seemed to swirl around the “fairer” sex. Watching my son with his friends makes me question if indeed womanhood has been misnamed. But, perhaps I’m over-reaching here. Perhaps this swiftness has nothing to do with gender and everything to do with experience.
The thing that gets me about this exchange is not its brevity exactly, as much as what is missing altogether. No justifications are to be found. No modifiers included. Not one trace of obfuscation. That apology was perfectly devoid of any qualifiers. I’m impressed by what it wasn’t: an adult apology! In fact, it seems to be missing all the hallmarks of every apology I’ve ever heard ,or given for that matter, in adulthood.
What happens to us as we grow up that makes us loath to admit responsibility without qualification? Why is it so difficult, when it is clear to everyone involved, to admit we are wrong. Wrong without excuse. Wrong without exceptions. Wrong without explanation. JUST PLAIN WRONG.
And in being wrong, sorry. Terribly sorry for our behavior. So much so, we do not recognize ourselves in the mirror and cannot imagine how we must be viewed. Simply put, we were mean and we’re sorry.
Not, “I was mean, but my sister picked on me all day, I’m sorry.”
Not, “I was mean, but I didn’t really intend to be mean, so I’m sorry.”
Not, “I was mean, but I had a hard day at work/school/life, I’m sorry.”
Not, “Well, you did this to me, so I felt justified being mean, but I’m sorry.”
No. No, no, no, no, no!
It’s not that the “Why” doesn’t matter. Sure, there are reasons for our behavior. Not that we ever really want to admit to all of it. I mean, if the reason is, “I was a real shit!” then, yeah, it’s not so fun to look at that! But in truth, there will be plenty of time later for the reasons. Tacking them onto an apology dilutes the emphasis on our contrition.
If you’re listening to an apology riddled with explanations and qualifications, it can be difficult to hear that contrition. Oh, it’s there. It’s just buried beneath a pile of “yes, buts”. It seems a bit cheeky on the part of the penitent to require you to dig through their denial for your apology. “Here’s a shovel, you’re going to need it, because I’m sorry.” And beyond cheeky, it’s presumptuous to assume those we’ve wounded are interested in our “whys”. We hope they will want to hear our explanations; but tacking them onto an apology is rawest form of entitlement.
No, instead, I would suggest that when we find ourselves in the wrong we choose courage. Courage to admit we screwed up. Courage without qualification. Courage without excuses. And it does take courage to face those we’ve injured and not explain our actions away. It takes a great deal of personal fortitude to face the consequences that come with such an apology. It is possible there will be no easy fix, no fix at all. Qualifying our behavior does not abate the risk, it only lessens the blow for us. And in the process, we side-step being responsible. I’m not sure we can actually call it an apology if there’s a caveat.
We cannot go through life without injuring those we love. It’s just not possible. What marks us, what lays claim to our character, is what we do AFTER we realize we’ve been, well, a shit! We can only strive to be courageous. We can only hope to claim our inner eight-year old self with pigeon-toed feet and hesitant smiles and simply say, “I was mean, I’m sorry.”
