what not to say

Posted on March 13, 2012 by heidi

When I wound up in a car crash followed by a long recovery I had incredible support. I also encountered people who didn’t always think before speaking. These people have good intentions, but it comes out all wrong. It happens to the best of us. Indulge me in some unsolicited advice on what not to say to those who have been given more than they can handle. (For those of you who are used to more serious posts from me this is more tongue-in-cheek with a side of serious)

When someone is relegated to a hospital bed and has been for months, don’t say, “You have so much time to rest now. Didn’t you say you wanted to be ‘less busy’?”
This isn’t what I meant when I said I needed rest. Being in and out of surgery brings its own brand of busy and I would gladly trade agony in the hospital for my active prior life.

Sometimes it’s best not to relate. An acquaintance said, “I totally thought of you today when I stubbed my big toe. It hurt like hell.”
Hell is toe loss, my friend.

Don’t ever say, “God can still use you.”
Um, what? Still?

Don’t offer up clichés.
It could have been worse.
I don’t know. Losing my limbs and a large portion of skin is pretty bad.
At least you’re alive.
Refer to previous answer.
What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Even though I love that new Kelly Clarkson song it doesn’t quite…fit.
God won’t give you more than you can handle. Again, refer to first answer.

Don’t tell them in an outburst of love that he/she is an angel. We’re not. I’m not. For those of us who are going through trauma we are trying to get through. We do not have wings. We don’t possess superpowers, although we secretly wished and prayed for them. There are no rules for grief and we want to get to the other side in sometimes the only way we know how. By hanging on.

Give the person who is going through the worst time of her/his life grace.
We want to see our loved ones restored and return to their bright, shining selves. We want them to be okay. One afternoon, heart-deep in mourning, Scott asked me, “When will you stop being angry?” I said, “When I stop.”
Know they want to return. They want more than anything to feel good and whole again. In the 2 years after the crash I would often be in my wheelchair, my mind screaming, when? When? Because, my God, I just wanted to feel alive again. And not this half-person I’d become. Your beloved longs to be okay more than you want them to be okay.

Finally, don’t judge. No one is an expert on pain. Love, have patience, and be there.

I’m working on a guide for my book, something practical and helpful to add to the end of my story.  A little how-to with some step-by-step. So, this is something I’m trying out. I’ll write a post on what to say/do soon. For now, do you have any advice on what not to say?

Posted in YeahWrite, are you kidding me??, my story, writing | 107 Comments

changes

Posted on March 9, 2012 by heidi

Benjamin lifts the blanket warm with sleep, and squeezes my arm, “Mommy, let’s snuggle.”

I open my eyes slowly, one at a time. Gray morning light peeks through closed blinds. “Okay, Ben. Let’s.”

He buries his face into my neck and he begins the day with a sigh, “I wish you had your feet.”

I look over to where my ‘feet’ reside. Made of acrylic and metal they lean against the nightstand waiting for me to slide into them. I whisper, “My feet are right there, Ben. I’m okay.”

And I mean it…

I am honored to be featured over at Studio30 Plus today! I just became a member of their wonderful blogging community for people age 30 and up. I submitted an original (not from the blog archives) piece and I am absolutely delighted to be in their magazine. I wrote it in response to their writing prompt this week which was changes. You can find the rest of the story called Whole here. Please join me, won’t you?

Posted in Studio30 Plus, guest post, my story | 13 Comments

surrender

Posted on March 6, 2012 by heidi

When you come from a long line of women who move with bravery and backbone, you’re destined to do the same. Perseverance is your crown. And like the women before me I wear it well. I was born a fighter. My dad said so.

I close my eyes and I breathe. In and out.

Under obligation, through worry and over the unknown I search for that spot inside me where peace resides. The place that tells me I’m going to be fine. No matter the outcome I am here – whole and healthy. My life is good.

While my body rests my mind races. It is dark, the house is still. Outside and over my children is a blanket of stars. The night isn’t enough to quiet me; there is always one more thing. While determination is in my bloodstream rest is foreign to me, to the women before me. If one learns by example then my example is to never stop.

I am crowded, too full to sleep. Thoughts zig-zagging through my brain. Longing for more, always for more, I wonder where I will go, where life will lead. What can I do? Change is everywhere.

I’m on my side, pillow scrunched under my head, hands curled under my chin. I remember holding my babies when they cried; gently patting their small soft backs as I sang lullabies into virgin ears. Soon, soon with long slow blinks, their mouths forming an ‘o’ they surrendered to sleep.

There is a time to fight and this is not the time. I breathe. In and out. I give in to the night. I surrender. To peace. To rest.

Swept up

In this ballet girl!

Annie is part of a ballet character duo this year and here she is on stage mid-performance as one of the two Dueling Maestros!

Posted in YeahWrite, in it, inspirational, obsess much?, writing | 61 Comments

let the light in

Posted on February 28, 2012 by heidi

I crack open the blinds to discover what I had anticipated. Sun. Light streaming in through the window, I quickly open all the blinds to let more of it in, until the house is alive with sun, until sun sheds its light on me.

I’m startled by Benjamin’s appearance, his hand on my arm. I didn’t hear him come down the stairs. Hair rumpled and face still soft with sleep he says, “Mommy, my chest hurts.”

I bend to him, my ear to his chest, “Okay, take a deep breath.”

Ben’s small chest rises and falls. “Another breath. Really big.”

There it is. A faint rattle. “Alright, go grab your blue puffer.”

I tidy the kitchen and Ben returns. He holds up two fingers. “I took one, two puffs.”

I ask, “How do you feel?”

He shrugs.

“Well, why don’t you get changed and we’ll see how you feel in a few minutes.”

It’s time to begin a new day, a new week and I don’t feel ready. I’ve filled out school field trip forms, called the pharmacy to refill Ben’s prescription and lunches are made. I shiver and wrap my arms around myself.

I woke up to anxiety, my eyes snapping open at 5am. I showered, hoping worry would wash away.  I carried anxiety down the stairs and tried to put it down, to leave it with my laundry as I stuffed it into the washer, to place it on the counter with the dishes, but it clung to my chest and furrowed my brow.

I need to breathe. Just breathe.

I gaze out the windows and I take stock. I’m stressed. I’m waiting. Are my kids okay? Is Annie doing too much? Money’s tight. March is busy already. What am I doing? What am I doing? Good things are coming. They have to be, right?

“Benjamin, how are you feeling?”

He’s at the dining room table crafting, assembling a small house made of foam. “This is making me feel so much better.”

I smile and kiss the top of his head, bury my nose in his bedraggled hair inhaling the scent of him – of shampoo and little boy. What is that saying? Life is what happens while you’re waiting.

I look up.

Through the blinds, through the glass there is sun, blue sky, glory.

I draw a deep breath. A little anxiety falls to the floor.

I want; I need to let the light in. And when I do I feel so much better.

Swept up
In The Civil Wars
I love all kinds of music, but I especially love music that makes me feel and these guys make me feel. One of my favorite songs of theirs is Poison & Wine. Check it out here.

Posted in in it | 15 Comments

I never thought I’d wear sunglasses

Posted on February 24, 2012 by heidi

I am thrilled to have Kate from The Big Piece of Cake as a guest on my blog today. I can’t even tell you when or how I found Kate’s blog. I just know that when I did I subscribed immediately. I was hooked by her humor, heart, and honesty. I was hooked by her. If you aren’t reading her blog yet you should…you really should. While we haven’t officially met, Kate and I have become friends. What you are about to read is one of my favorite posts. It’s beautiful and heartwarming and makes me think. And that is Kate. I can’t wait to finally meet her in NYC this summer. It’s going to be epic!

Oh, and I’m over at her blog today where she posted one of her favorites from Fancy Feet! Pulled from the archives it’s called Summer and you can read it at The Big Piece of Cake.

Here is Kate’s post…

A few weeks ago when we were at the beach, my mother in law and I packed up the kids to visit one of my friends at her nearby house. She and her sister were staying there with their five children, four of whom were boys.

Once we all found each other, we spent most of our time by the water. We stood sentry watching all of our boys hurl themselves into the surf. And we counted heads in the foam while trying to hold a conversation between exclamations of “don’t throw sand!” and “that’s too far, come back here!”

My boy was right in the middle of this. This sensory overload of wind and water and squishy, grainy sand between his toes. He was in his element – in the elements. He needs to feel things and he needs to immerse himself in the moment without inhibitions. And what better place than the beach?

He also loved being in the middle of all of those boys. They were his people. They understood the joy of throwing wet sand in the air just to feel it splatter all around them. They wanted nothing more than to live in that moment with the waves crashing around them, drowning out the sound of their screams of laughter. They were just like him.

In that moment.

But only in that moment.

They called to each other and knew when to push and when to pull. They knew when to stop and when to start again (obviously when mom was looking the other way). They understood the rules of the game. They both made and discussed the rules. In bits and pieces of course – but still, they communicated. Communication came easily to them.

Communication does not come easily to my boy. He doesn’t know when to stop. He doesn’t know when pushing isn’t welcome. He doesn’t know the rules. He doesn’t know how to join. He wants so much to join – to play. But he doesn’t know how. So he just watched.

And I watched him from behind my sunglasses, happy to see him having fun even if it seemed a little lonely. Happy that he couldn’t see the tears welling in my eyes. Happy that my friend couldn’t see the tears either and only heard me talking about doctors and school and how well he’s doing. Because that’s really all I want anyone to see.

When I was a teenager, all of my friends wore sunglasses. but I never did. I didn’t like them. They gave me “raccoon eyes” in the summer and felt out of place with my coats and hats in the winter. Not to mention the fact that they never did look good on me. Back then it was always about how I looked.

Now I’m the one doing the looking. I don’t care as much about how I look. Sunglasses will never compliment my face with its long, slightly crooked nose – but I need them to see my children through the glare. I need them to see the road when I’m driving on a sunny day. I need them to be responsible. So I wear them. And I’ve found that they are pretty useful. They allow me to be the observer and they can hide what I don’t want people to see.

I also wear my sunglasses at the neighborhood pool where I take my children most late afternoons. After the twins wake up from their nap, I load up all of our towels and waters and changes of clothes and snacks and push the double stroller uphill, calling for Oliver to wait for me at the corner. Which he always does – but I ask him to anyway, just in case.

When we arrive, we head straight for the baby pool. At two, the twins are still too little to stand in the shallow end of the big pool like their four year old brother. This suits me just fine since Oliver is still young enough to be satisfied with the baby pool and I can sit with a magazine while they play. Or at least I can for a few minutes at a time, since I frequently have to administer warnings and time outs for bad behavior.

One thing I like about this time of day is that the pool tends to be rather deserted. More accomplished mothers are thinking about cooking family dinners at 5 p.m. My children will only eat kid food and my husband and I don’t usually have formal meals together due to all of the corralling required before their late, but “works best for them” bedtime between 8:30 and 9:00 p.m. When no other families are at the pool, only our own rules apply.

If Oliver is splashing, I can ignore it. That is, as long as his siblings don’t mind. And they often join in. If Oliver is being too rough and pushing them as part of some inexplicable game of his, I can just watch and see how it goes. I don’t need to stand or look alert as a show for the other parents. I can see just fine from my shady seat. My sunglasses cut the glare. Everything is crystal clear and I know exactly when to step in and when to let them work it out.

But more often than not we arrive at the tail end of another family’s pool time. And I have to stand and administer twice as many time outs as I would if we were alone. I have to find ways to tell the other mothers that Oliver has a hard time knowing when to stop. In Oliver’s mind, if another child seems to like being splashed at from across the pool, why wouldn’t they like it at closer range? And at that point, why not cut out the middle man and just shove them back into the water? Sounds fun to him!

So I can spend an hour having the same one-sided conversation with him over and over. Telling him to stop. Asking him to be gentle. Pleading with him to listen.

He wants to comply. I know he does. He wants to please me and he wants to please these desired friends (he has the makings of “a pleaser” – something else that worries me – but that’s another concern for another day). He wants to get it right. He just doesn’t know how.

I always keep my sunglasses on when we’re at the pool.

The other day, a few kids a year or two older than Oliver were in the baby pool during adult swim (everyone seems to call it “break” now – is “adult swim” no longer PC or something?) Anyway – they were being rowdy and Oliver was thrilled. They were pulling out the hose that was supposed to be filling the pool with more water. They were spraying each other with it and splashing and eventually ran to get their water guns.

As they stood there spraying each other and yelling unintelligible things about Star Wars, a movie that I doubt any of them has actually seen, Oliver decided to join in.

It didn’t work. He didn’t know the rules.

He splashed around in the middle of them when no one was splashing. They asked him to stop, but he didn’t understand. If they were shooting water at each other, then why wouldn’t splashing be allowed? A younger sister in the group, exactly Oliver’s age, explained, “we’re playing Star Wars now – you can play Star Wars too, but you can’t play with us if you keep splashing.”

So of course I had to intervene.

At this point, I didn’t think I had ever said, heard and thought the word “splash” so many times within the space of five minutes. It had completely lost all meaning and was just a rude noise that made me feel decidedly uncomfortable. It was an expletive. A swear word. I wanted it to not exist anymore. I was done with it.

But Oliver wasn’t. He didn’t understand, and I had to pull him aside. No time out though. How could I when he had only the best of intentions? Instead I offered to drag him around the other side of the pool. Something he loves and I hate. He loves the feeling of the water rushing all around him from head to toe. I hate the feeling of hunching over to pull a 60 lb. four year old from one end of the baby pool to the other.

Meanwhile Star Wars continued, Oliver still didn’t understand what was wrong with “splashing” (excuse my French) and I hid behind my sunglasses.

And I made plans.

Apparently shooting water at each other is generally okay at the pool. Or if it isn’t, it’s not unusual for kids to not know when to stop. Quite simply – it’s not weird.

So while I pulled Oliver around the pool, I made plans to take the kids gun shopping the next day. We didn’t own any water guns, but we would soon own an arsenal.

Oliver could learn to shoot a water gun. And the next time there was a game of Star Wars at the pool, we’d be ready. You don’t need to have good communication skills to play shooting games.

I never thought I’d like sunglasses. And I never thought I’d encourage my children to play with toy guns. But I guess I never thought I’d be doing a lot of things.

I have a friend who also has a son with special needs. His are very different from Oliver’s but there are so many parallels to our lives… I love this girl. She speaks my language. The language of mother grief. Of future worry. She worries that her son will wear all black and write dark poetry about death and Japanese anime. I worry that Oliver will be Tommy Boy. We have to laugh. It’s necessary – and we both understand this.

It’s nice to be understood. And that’s probably what most breaks my heart about Oliver. No one really understands him. So I’ll give him a water gun if that helps. And I’ll laugh, and I’ll hope. And I’ll always wear my sunglasses. Just in case.

Posted in guest post, inspirational | 12 Comments

part 2 – be true – your life is a story

Posted on February 21, 2012 by heidi

I should have prefaced my previous post with from the past. (I did change it a couple of days ago.) 2 years ago I was wrestling with writing my story. Even though I had been giving speeches I was terrified of spending time in dark places to tell my story beyond 30 minutes. Now I’m all in.

Near the beginning of a speech and toward the end I say this: Everyone has a story. This is mine. What are you going to do with your story? Your life?

Each of us has something in our lives we need to be true to; whether it’s to stay the course knowing this is exactly where you’re supposed to be or to pursue another direction or to uncover a path you didn’t know existed like finding a secret door to a secret garden where wonder and delight flourish (my childhood wish). Whatever the choice is, it’s about creating meaning in our lives. Not merely existing. Not giving up. Being true. Meaning can be found everywhere.

We live as story – as a work of art with many parts, colors, and layers. A significant word in the top corner, a ray of sun to the left, poetry to sum up your soul, a stormy cloud that threatens, roots that run deep into the earth. Parts of your story haven’t made it to the page, yet to be discovered and explored.

My story isn’t only about recovery after a devastating car crash, but about my childhood, my marriage, parenting, the wacky things my kids do that make me gasp and laugh sometimes all at once. (Oh, the day I had yesterday.) Friendships that enrich my life. Obligations I must meet. Being compassionate. Still, there is more. Destiny that begs to be drawn.

And I want meaning in it. I demand it.

Sometimes we can’t control the circumstances in our lives, but we can choose how we’ll respond. A part of life slammed into me, undid me and emptiness stalked me while I sought my version of whole. Finances continue to make me batty and I can’t chase every dark cloud away, but I can choose well and reach meaning.

While we fill in our stories and attempt to make pieces fit as others slip through our fingers, through our stories we get to help people. The meaning in our lives can be in front of us, beside us. It can be simple. Sometimes it’s picking up a friend’s child for school to help them out, buying someone a cup of coffee, being good to your spouse, teaching our kids about compassion, and noticing others. Sharing grief. Going out of our way, we let people know they’re not alone. Our stories cross and intertwine.

Your story, your life is never done with you. It’s always moving, shifting and you’ll want to be in it – right smack in the middle. So you can’t miss it. With all the cost and risk. With all the sadness, delight and wonder. With all that you have to offer. Living your story is worth it.

Swept up

In Barefoot Contessa Vancouver

Now for something frivolous and fun, and meaning can definitely be found in fun…this sweet store is one of my favorite places to shop. From clothes to belts to jewelry it is all things lovely as the ladies that work at Barefoot Contessa will tell you.

Posted in in it, inspirational, my story, speaking, writing | 16 Comments

be true

Posted on February 14, 2012 by heidi

Nearly 2 years ago…

I pulled out a dish from the dishwasher and banged it onto the counter. I yanked open the cabinets and shoved in the mugs until they clattered loudly in protest. When I got to sorting the cutlery tears filled my eyes and I sighed, defeated. I’m crying. Again.

I was guilty.

Exercising deep breathing I leaned against the counter, my back to the dishes and stared at my fridge.

Among school photos of my kids and their friends, photos of families that no longer lived near us, magnets with clever quotes from unknown authors the letters that spelled story stood out. Write me. Pursue me. Be true.

Story had been stalking me for almost a year. I had reasons to run. What if it’s just too hard? What if dredging up the past is damaging? What if I’m not a writer? What if it’s for nothing?

Compelled, called – whatever the word was for this thing I couldn’t escape. Passion, dream. Nothing made me the feel the way writing did, like it was an answer to every question I ever had. Could I follow a dream not knowing where it would lead? Would I surrender to the unknown? Unable to commit I became busy with a job, my family, and distraction.

Not following my heart began to hurt. Discontent seeped from my eyes, squeezed my chest in every dark corner, at every quiet moment. Be true.

I walked over to the fridge, peeled off each letter and lay story in the palm of my hand. I sorted the photos, quotes, my life to make room; and letter by letter I placed story in the center, where I knew I could find my heart.

Swept Up

In the Valentines my kids gave me
Annie made our family a giant Valentine and Benjamin handed me 7 pennies along with 3 kisses. Before you think Scott is a schlep, he gave me a dozen gorgeous red roses, which are not featured here but displayed on our mantle.

Posted in in it, my story, writing | 16 Comments

the gift of girlhood friends

Posted on February 7, 2012 by heidi

“Hi!”

I looked up.

Past my yard, across the alley there was a girl with her elbows propped up on a fence, her chin resting in her hands. “Hi,” she yelled, “How old are you?”

She had rosy cheeks and dark hair divided into pigtails. We had just moved in and this was my first encounter with a neighbor, another child. And she was talking to me. I cupped my hands around my mouth, “I’m four!”

“Me too!” This girl was bold. “When’s your birthday?”

I knew my birthday and proudly answered, “October 17th.”

She grinned, “Me too! I’m Rita. Who are you?”

I was stunned by her, taken with this apple-cheeked confident girl. We shared the same birthday – no way! My age! “I’m Heidi.” Please be my friend. What if I say something stupid? Overcome, I ducked inside the house. More words failed me, and I hoped and prayed she wouldn’t disappear.

She didn’t.

Long conversations hanging off the fence, joint birthdays, sleepovers filled our days; and best friends were born.

***

It’s been nearly 20 years since I’ve seen her. Will I recognize her? Should I get coffee or just wait for her? I’ll wait. I check my phone. It’s 1:48. I will see her in 12 minutes. A woman just sat down. Is that her? It doesn’t look like her, but it could be her. At 1:55 I find the email that includes her phone number. I call and her voice mail message transports me to girlhood. The voice that greets me is older, but I can hear the girl I knew. I look up and that has to be Rita pushing on the glass door. It is her! We hug and cling and exclaim. “It’s you! I can’t believe it’s you! It’s so good to see you!” And then we’re laughing, shaking and talking. We can’t stop talking for two and a half hours.

Rita is as deep, smart and rosy-cheeked as I remember who still has an affinity for the color red. As we sit across from each other we interrupt our catching-up (oh, the catching up and the photos!) to point out, “You’re just like I remember. You haven’t changed a bit. Look at us! We turned out okay.”

I look at this bright, bold woman who fell from the sky to perch on a fence seemingly just for me. She didn’t know then how she would make my life better, sweeter. How she would be stamped all over my childhood. How she was a gift. And what a gift she is today.

Swept up

in Childhood. Nothing says childhood like a tire swing.

Posted in Uncategorized | 14 Comments

when I grow up

Posted on January 31, 2012 by heidi

I strode with confidence toward my leg guy (prosthetist) and stopped in front of him to list my demands.

“I’d like a custom liner for my left leg to match the right one. Do you think I’d be eligible for new sockets because these sleeves keep sliding and the suction isn’t so great and I’d like to look into having fancy schmancy covers for my legs that have toes. Toes! My legs look like Grandma legs and I’m just over it. With the pantyhose and the lumpy ankles…”

I waved my hands around to make my point and I finished with a flourish, “Let’s look into this!” I offered a winning smile. The smile of my 8 year old that will get her way no matter what, this is not negotiable. And then I remembered I’m a grown-up. I pushed my shoulders back, “What do we need to do to make this happen?”

I didn’t plan on becoming an amputee. On my list of ‘things I want to be when I grow up’ under astronaut, nurse or teacher it didn’t say ‘person with missing limbs’. I remember being in awe of Terry Fox as a child. He was and is a national hero. In our schools, on TV, at home we honored this young man who ran across our country with his artificial leg to raise money for cancer research. He had guts, heart. As a seven year old I wondered if I could be like him – did I have guts like that?

Our schools do a Terry Fox run annually and last year I decided to join my daughter for the run, but we walked. As we did our laps around the field Annie informed her friend, who walked with us, “Do you know my mom’s an amputee? She has fake legs. Two of them!”

Her friend nodded and smiled.

Annie took a deep breath. I could see she was about to launch into how it all began. I whispered to her, “It’s okay. We don’t need to get into this now. Let’s keep walking.”

Do you know what’s weird about being an amputee? Almost everything. And, after a while, almost nothing.

Becoming an amputee was shocking, devastating. I woke up to a nightmare, to the message that my life would never be the same. “You’ve lost your right leg, Heidi. And it looks like you will lose your left leg, too.” Dreams of what I would be went up in smoke and I entered a new world of fittings, castings, new terminology and disability. I fought with my identity. Who am I haunted me with every careful step I took in my prosthetic legs.

And now, now I’ve been able to speak on behalf of the burn fund, on behalf of burn survivors to various groups and organizations, to stand in front of many people and say, you can do this. You can get to the other side. I get to share my story to further research and help raise money for people like me. Beyond that I get to live my life and it’s an ordinary one with extraordinary circumstances and moments. I could say to my seven year old self, “You have the guts.”

Thirty years later I walked around a field holding my daughter’s hand as we honored a national hero. And I’m grateful.

Swept up

In Midnight in Paris!

It’s about a youngish couple who travel to Paris for business and are forced to face the illusion that a life different from their own might be better. It’s a movie by Woody Allen starring Owen Wilson and Rachel McAdams and it is a delight!

Posted in annie and ben, inspirational, my story | 14 Comments

go where it’s warm

Posted on January 26, 2012 by heidi

Grace is found under the surface, under the muck. It’s digging deeper, moving beyond and letting go. It is softness, kindness. And I think we should use it more.

We can lean on grace when we’re hurt. When it’s time to defend we can hold it up as a shield. We extend grace to those who need it, to say I see you and I’ll help. With grace we can say ‘no more’ or salvage something that has begun to unravel.

My early teen years were mostly mired in insecurity with moments of reprieve. You would be insecure too if you had the loser trifecta going on. Braces, too-big glasses and bad perm. I’m 37 and I know how to dress myself and I’ve lost the trifecta, but insecurity still flares up now and then. At thirteen I was lost in its shadow and when it shows up now it surprises me. I’m surprised that I can still want to duck and hide. Surprised that I still care that much.

I’ve learned to shrug my shoulders and say whatever. I’ve learned to say no and I can breezily say yes. I’ve learned how to spread my feelings out, explore them, and come away whole. I know when to lighten up.

But, insecurity happens. It doesn’t grab me by the throat – that would be too obvious. It’s sneaky, it creeps. It is a series of small things – a risk taken and worried it’s the wrong risk, a snarky word, an untrue friend. I’ve developed a tougher shell over the years and there are many things that hit and slide, and fewer things that land and stick. I spent a lot of time burying that painfully shy thirteen year old girl, the sensitive girl who broke easily. I’m not her today, but she’s underneath, and this is the time to use grace and say enough, be at peace.

Lately, I’ve come across situations where many of us could benefit from a little grace. I wrote this post in response to a few tweets, conversations, blogs like Kvetch Mom’s post (a great post on when bitchiness is taken too far) and my own life stuff. After pouring out my heart or rambling (easily both) to my friend Karen the other day, she said, “Go where it’s warm.” All my freaking out and oh-so-many-feelings stopped. They screeched to a halt, actually. I whispered in awe, “I love it.” Because it is simple and good and right. Go where it’s warm.

Swept up


I have to give a huge thank you to Sheryl and North by Northwest for being so good to me! The interview that aired Sunday isn’t available – the neat and tidy 15 minute one, but the longer version is up. If you’re new here and wondering what I’m talking about this is the post that sums it up. Check out my interview with Sheryl where we talk story, writing, and that Mennonite energy!

Posted in inspirational, my story, writing | 11 Comments