Archive | October, 2014

These heels were made for walking…..

19 Oct

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A good girl with a rebellious heart.

Comfortable in the sea of black pants and sweater sets, car pool lines and packed lunches. My defiance for the norm tends to show its face in my choice of shoes.

I wear heels. A lot. Great, kick ass shoes.

I don’t wear them for men.  I’ve had the same one of those for more than half my life. I’m certainly not looking to start that process over again. He actually prefers flats…canvas tennis shoes to be exact.  I’ve told him that he may have married the wrong woman… thankfully, he vehemently disputes.

What I’ve learned over the last few decades is that wearing canvas tennis shoes literally kills my spirit with each eyelet. I was born to wear heels. The higher the better.  Add grommets and I’m in shoe heaven.  They make me feel tall….skinny…and put together.

What surprises me are some of the remarks I get from other women. It is as if I was parading around in nothing BUT heels.

Don’t get me wrong, I can decipher the comments. Most are genuine and sincere. “Great shoes!” They smile and I beam in response. We are forever connected by the love of fashion.

Sisters from another mister.

For those who sling digs, hidden under the cloak of a compliment…Keep it to yourself Missy. I can see you. Your raised eyebrow  and tilted head, scoffs stuttering out, over and between your words.

I’m wearing shoes, not a dunce cap.

Simultaneously holding the ability to empower…and crush…with the flick of our tongue. Why choose the latter?

The older I get, the more I realize women need women. Women who support one another in ways men just can’t understand. Women to lift each other up when we are at our wits end trying to balance work, family, laundry, finances, church groups and toilets….

Nothing looks more beautiful on you than love. The good news is the more you share it, the more it comes back to you.

Come on ladies. Let’s rise above. Put on those heels, and rock it.

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Into the Light

11 Oct

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Because life isn’t always sunshine and puppy dog tails….and it is OKAY to bring that part of you to the table too. Pull up a chair and have conversation with it….and about it.

Surely we’ve learned by now that life is to short to hide behind the curtain of perfection. Keeping you trapped with the illusion of control, it is nourished by fear.  Movements limited by the box you’ve constructed around you. Each layer of protection adding a brick to the pile, building until it towers over you,  impairing your vision… and ability to see the future. When hope retreats, the shadows slithers in.

Shining a light on the pieces I’d rather hide leaves me vulnerable. Yes.

It allows space for judgment. Yes.

But where there is light, darkness must flee.

I fight the demon of depression with all my might. Tremendously thankful that he rarely wins these days. However, it isn’t for lack of trying on his part. Like an old boyfriend who thinks there is a snowball’s chance that the love will rekindle, he shows up regularly at the gate holding roses and calling my name.

“Aren’t you tired? Sick and tired? Come rest in my arms.”  he whispers

Tossing a small wave as I walk by the pen that contains him, I smile internally.  Smirking because today I have the upper hand.  He doesn’t know just how blessed I am.  Don’t misunderstand, he isn’t interested in hearing. Unreasonable and manipulative, he is.  He disputes my truth, throwing daggers into my picture perfect memory.  But today I move like a ninja, avoiding his taunts with quickness and agility. My bouncy step flippant to his gestures. His words rolling off my shoulders, crashing on the cement beneath my feet, my ears muffle the sounds.

Admittedly, though,  there are times I get a little to close to the fence. Mesmerized by the reflection of self pity, he pulls me in. His breath swirling into mine. Brushing the hair out of my eyes he requests a dissertation of all the wrongs. His arms around my shoulders, pulling me closer as I melt into him. Buying me drinks while we talk, he piles each ill on top of the other. Stacking like a game of Jenga. Trusting him now, I mouth the last crime against my heart. Before the sentence completes,  the ills tumble to the ground, embarrassing me with erupting  sound of shattering glass in an otherwise quiet room. Heads turning quickly in my direction  to see the mess I’ve made. It is public humiliation.   Knowing my weaknesses, he pushes my emotions to the top until they over flow, spilling out in the form of tears.

He is no friend of mine.

Yet my feet do not move. Stuck as he dives deeper into my pain exposing wounds that have yet to heal.  I’m paralyzed in the darkness.  Weak from  being in the pit to long, the lack of sunshine and food. I use the last remaining scraps of energy I can muster to rally the truths of Faith.  I lean into the scripture they speak, allowing it to form a shield against my body. Limp from exhaustion, their wings carry me to the safety of the sidelines… and I rest.

Breathing in God’s grace until my lungs are full,  I rise stronger than the time before.  Bones mended, heart healing by the freshly oxygenated blood in my veins. Vowing to never return to this cottage of despair, I stand to brush the dirt from my backside, shaking lose the excess. My legs still wobbly, I walk towards the sun. It’s light eclipsing the mess I’m leaving behind.

Desperate  for more control over the curves thrown my direction. I recant the words softly spoken over me in battle.

 Choose Life. Choose Happiness.

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One of my favorite songs that help me walk into the sun: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzGAYNKDyIU

Redeemed by Big Daddy Weave

The Mask

9 Oct

mask Stepping onto the scene of the masquerade ball, my mask broadly smiling with dimples in my cheeks, long lashes and painted lips. I dance until my feet tire.  My belly hungry for connection.

With the setting sun, I wrap up the sum of my day and eat it for dinner.  The taste not quite what I desire but I chew it anyway.  Swallowing slowing, drinking between bites, so as not to choke on the pieces.

My mind craving light. I search for it in the history of the hours previous, flipping through the words, the movements, allowing  space for kindness.  But finding myself standing alone on the porch, my offering brought inside, the door closed behind.

I turn and walk home, sadness riding on my shoulders.

The mask that  previously fit like a glove has become a bit lose lately. The elastic stretched and fraying. It is possible that I’ve outgrown the mold from which it was formed. Afraid it will fall off at the most inopportune time, exposing the pink skin beneath, I keep my movements small. Contained.

Working to replace what is worn , I try to fashion the mask into something usable.  My spirit prolonging the effort…mobility slowed. It is conflicted.  Uncertain if it should repair or remove, noting that each presents its own challenges. Undecided as to which is worse….Which it can endure.

The road is quickly disappearing beneath me…. Road

Without a net

4 Oct

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Writing gives a voice to the words I’m afraid to speak. Sitting at my keyboard, I press out the wrinkles of confusion.

Baring my soul with every stroke, exposing the spidery blue-green veins lying just beneath the surface of my skin…. Hoping you won’t slit my wrists with your tongue.

It is a vulnerable response to the interpretation of my world and those living in it. Yet, one I willingly chose, without the safety of a net or protection from the elements.

On one hand it is extremely risky. On the other, deeply satisfying.

Words tumble out…and down the page, head over foot. Thoughts scattered like a game of pick up sticks. They are looking for the softest place to land, restless until it is found.

The text doesn’t look for congruency. THAT is not their intention.  Frankly, it isn’t needed.

They simply sit on the page wanting to be acknowledged. Neatly organized in their freshly pressed uniform of choice. Relaxed hands folded in their lap, feet crossing at the ankles. They wait.

See me.

Hear me.

Understand me.

Put me in coach

3 Oct

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I don’t like sitting on the side lines. I’m an “ALL IN” or “nothing” kind of girl.

I want to be on the team and I want to participate in EVERY game.

….or I want to go home and put on my pajamas.

IN or OUT

Piece by piece, I devour the play book..over and over… I study until I find gaps. Then I work to fill them…My appetite for dissecting strategy never wanes. Every nugget feeding my passion to learn.

I want on the team but my ego isn’t comfortable being center stage. In fact, I’m a bit skittish to be the pitcher. All eyes focused on his windup. A collective gasp from the stands, releasing only when the ball meets the catcher’s glove.  His choice of pitches are constantly questioned by those not wearing a uniform.  Their voice loud as it drifts through the stands and onto the diamond.

In baseball, there is no possible way to win the game with an inadequate pitcher. If they are having an ‘off‘ night, they get pulled. Often in the middle of the inning, forcing a walk of shame back to the dug out. Not before, however, a seemingly supportive one-on-one with the coach.  Backs turned to on lookers, I often wonder what they are saying….How do you publicly tell one of your premiere players it is time to sit down now….. As a player, how do you handle that with grace?

It is a tough position to play.

I would not sign up for the whole world to witness that. In fact, I’ve spent most of my life avoiding the walk of shame… like the plague….

The catcher is required to wear so much protective equipment, he barely can move.  Leg guards, knee savers, a heavily padded leather glove the size of a dinner plate, vision limited by a cage protecting his face. Which is no doubt further limited by the sweat dripping from his brow. They are outfitted for a fight…. Some would say that I rarely back down…they could be right. However, I never go looking for it.  No, this position doesn’t sound appealing to me.

I’m happiest on first base. It calls my name.

First base has a foot hold in the action but also has a bit of distance from the voices in the stands. He doesn’t rest idly waiting for a play. He is in the game, with every swing of the bat.  Multitasking is a must, monitoring all of the bases for movement with each and every hit.  Thinking instantaneously,  maneuvering nimbly and with out hesitation, he eagerly awaits the ball in play.

As my cleats hit the clay, I realize I’m also desperate to not miss my opportunity at bat.

In the batting cages, I’m perfecting my swing, my stance.  Striking out is not an option. I’m simply not patient enough to wait for the bating order to come around to me again….That is a whole lot of sitting and a whole lot of waiting.

I wasn’t made to be a bench warmer.

With diligence and the right amount of preparation, I’ll be ready when the pitch rolls down the plate.  Hearing my bat kiss the face of the ball, splitting the air like the sharpest of knives, I’ll shoot my  hands in the air for the victory lap.

When the inning turns over, I’ll resume my spot on first base.  Scanning the field every few seconds to analyze the players of game, mindful of the ever changing strategy.

When it is quiet, and honesty rises to the surface, I want in the game.

ALL IN.

Put me in coach, I’m ready to play.

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