I’m a little obsessed with architecture. Specifically, beautiful windows and doors. They scream for photo ops, and I’m all for posing in front of these glossy black windows on the streets of New Orleans. My gold UA high tops are a jazzy touch. #NOLAvibes #apresbar #avantgardegirl #architecture #blackandwhite #beautifulcontrast
I thought a lot about my first attempt at the whole blog dealio. Deciding to do the dealio was easy. Deciding what to say today, not so much. Surely I will be judged by this initial post—by my words and my wit, or lack thereof. In fact, I just added the word ‘dealio’ to my dictionary so autocorrect stops telling me not to say it. I am witty, autocorrect, so back off your word judginess.
(And that…is now…a word…too.)
F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best, “You don’t write because you want to say something, you write because you have something to say.” That is moi. Typing gets things out of my head. It’s safe, tidy and calm. I’m not a drama queen on my laptop, just a silent, secret mess. Deciding to click the share button-of-truth is a whole different dealio. The truth button is like standing on stage as your chorus director barks, “Spit and enunciate so the balcony can hear and understand you!” In this initial on-stage appearance, I want to be clear with my words. So I’m spitting a little extra today. Because I have things to say.
There are things in this life that I need to sort out. Harry Potter had a hat for that when he and his friends needed sorting. I’d much prefer a magical hat, but for now, I have this BLOG. On the days I don’t need sorting, I amuse myself with the random thoughts that pass through this mess of a mind. These thoughts may make me laugh, cry, or simply stop and think. Since they are my thoughts, they must matter to me. They came to visit my mess for a reason, and I enjoy expressing these VIBES through images, quips, and pithy observations. (shameless plug: @thisgirlkari)
I spit and enunciate better in writing than face to face. I am not implying that I am someone different right here versus in person. I am the same girl, after all. I’m not writing for reality tv and I’m not Insta-filtered. It’s just easier for me to be me here. My last boss informed me that I have a horrible poker face. It’s true! Full exposure of this mind to an actual face would require me to step up my game! Here’s the reason why: When I speak, my tone, inflection, facial expressions and body language tell you a story long before my mouth opens. So the story you hear and understand is often based upon what you see rather than what I say. My eyes get shifty, my voice gets shaky and my hands get trembly. And this girl steers clear of trembly things nowadays. Therefore, I write. It’s self-preservation.
(Back OFF, autocorrect! Trembly is a witty word too.)
When I write, I am a strong girl. My fingers flow. I share without the risk of rolling, judgy eyes in front of me. Written words are safe from anger, retort, and judgment (unless you are named autocorrect). These words are what they are. Not what you thought you heard. Not what I thought I said.
I read a book about being happy. It said that words mean anything you’d like them to. You get to decide. Get to. My life actually changed when I read that simple statement. But didn’t I just say that written words “are what they are?” Correct. But you get to attach meaning to words. Or not. You get to decide whether or not they relate to you. And when they’re written, you get to revisit them as often as you’d like to attach new meanings that sort your life. I often reread my blogs. I remind myself of whatever it was that I needed help sorting on that particular day. “What did I mean when I wrote this? Whoa. I wrote THAT. Ok, I get this girl a little more now.” If these things I say touch you, hold onto them and sort away.
This GIRL is real and only slightly edited. What you see is what you get, minus a few botoxed wrinkles and bad words. I’m a single mom who is fiercely in love with her two beautiful daughters, but only partially with herself. I am a work in progress, people! Someday, my girls will read this insignificant little blog and find it of great significance. It is the inner workings of their mama who was raised to be a strong girl. Once upon a time, I thought strong meant the ability to hide. Then I discovered that hiding is not the way I was meant to live this LIFE. I’m a turtle with a hard outer shell, but soft on the inside. When I’m with my girls, I peek out of my shell so they understand what strong really means. Because I have things to say to them.
Girls, a soft turtle belly is a good thing. And your mama is a life force to be reckoned with. I do not need 15 minutes of fame. I do not need my day in the sun. I am not waiting for an ah-ha moment to signify I’ve evolved. My life is a journey. It is a reckoning in and of itself. My evolution is every minute I remember to stop and breathe, and to love you (and me) a little harder. And this life of ours may still feel trembly and shaky at times, but it is full. In this moment, my words are clear and I am strong. Today, I am unshakable.
Each night I have my girls, we talk to each other as they are going to bed. One is in 8th grade, the other in 5th. They are best friends, although they have vastly different personalities. Our nightly ritual is to read or to look through their old yearbooks. They love seeing how their friends have changed over time. I usually lie on the bed next to them and just listen to their banter back and forth. The other night, my older daughter was reading something different. She found her younger sister’s diary from several years ago–this was apparently ok with the younger one who was in the other room getting ready for bed.
She stopped reading to herself and said, “This page says to name a time when you were very mad or sad and explain why.” What she said next was something very personal to all of us. Our family changed that year and a 2nd grader’s diary entry took my breath away. I had never heard her words in that diary or in that way. She walked in from the other room and laid down on the bed next to me as if to say, “Mama, do you hear me?”
Ironically, there was a poem folded up and stuck in between those same breathless pages. The oldest one had written this poem around the same time as the diary entry, and somehow it ended up in her younger sister’s diary. It was called “Hello.”
She took the poem and said, “Oh I remember writing this. This is dumb. I think I’ll just rip it up.” Then, she stopped, for just a fraction of a second. Her eyes shifted to mine and immediately darted away as if to say, “Should I? Do you want to read this, mama? Do you see me, mama?” I took the poem from her and asked if I could read it. A tiny smile flashed through sad eyes, and then it was gone. The poem spoke of the impact the word hello has upon a person, as well as the meaningful implications. She also noted that it was “the opposite of good bye.”
Do you know the times in life when you are so happy that your heart is bursting and you think, “How can my heart grow any bigger?” I love those times. This was not one of them.
This was a time that I wished I didn’t have a heart, or rather, one that felt. I wished I were heartless. That’s how I felt hearing the words from the diary and reading the hello poem. The girls needed a distraction from old feelings and quickly moved on to new topics in the diary. I did not. I was still lying next to them trying to send them silent messages from my heartless heart: “Your mama feels you, I promise.”
Nothing about changing families is fair to kids. Just because their yearbook images reflect change doesn’t mean they get any better at dealing with it. They just get better at hiding the fact that they are still dealing. You simply must be able to live at their level of awareness and within their reality. This is a very powerful, innate gift as a mother. It may be more convenient for my heart to be heartless rather than to burst with real pain and emotion, but I can not ignore the pleas behind the poems or read the lines in the diary rather than reading in between them. I can not simply see a smile without noticing the sad eyes behind it.
I hear, see, and feel it all–and all of those things bring me to my knees. But if my girls end up knowing what it means to hear and be heard, to see and be seen, to feel and be felt, then that is worth something. It is understanding and that means love.
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