Tinsel Wars

“There are two ways of spreading light; to be the candle 

or the mirror that reflects it.” – Edith Wharton

The Tinsel Wars of Lakeland, Florida, began approximately in 1975.  After wrapping the tree with lights and placing ornaments and the angel topper, Dad took the old box of silver tinsel that was put in a sandwich baggie from the previous year and hung the tinsel strand by strand, placing each intentionally and purposefully.  As children, Kelly and I had no patience with this.  How boring and slow!  We plopped 5 or 6 strands on one branch.  Dad, of course, noticed, gently separating them onto numerous branches.

The War progressed as we grew older.  Throughout the month of December, we would take a bunch of tinsel strands and purposely clump them in one place, waiting to see how long it would be before Dad would notice.  Of course, he did.  Of course, he separated them.  As we grew older, it became a tradition to continue this game.  Each year, as the Christmas season came to an end, each strand was purposefully and intentionally removed and placed back in the old box and back in the sandwich baggie.   As busy as my mom and dad were, being this intentional with something as cheap and trivial as tinsel almost seems silly.  (P.S. that 49-cent box of tinsel lasted my entire childhood).

Just as tinsel was created to reflect the glow of warm candlelight, it is my goal to soak in the warmth of the glow of friends, of family, of special moments, and of small details and then reflect this warmth to others.

How I love the “glow” of my husband’s desire to help others.  Anthony passes on his passion for others in his work on YouTube as HomeGuyWaco.  Even as the real estate market shifts and he finds himself busier than ever, he still finds time and joy in helping other agents with technology and questions, and he is always welcoming to anyone and everyone who wanders near our tailgate tent–whether they wear our colors or not.

In January, Andy, our oldest, moved to Reno, Nevada to intern with Tesla as New Product Manager.  He now is a full-time employee.  He and I got to spend a delightful few days together this summer, soaking up the cool weather and beauty of Tahoe, and fixing up his backyard with a patio table and solar patio lights.  He loves what he does, and all of his hard work has paid off.  It is such a joy to see him find his purpose.

Jonathan emanates passion and joy, speaking energetically about the Earth, the oceans, and his concern for the environment.  He and I have gotten to spend more time together this year, time eating and talking at restaurants, shopping at the grocery store, and trimming an oak tree.  Little brings more joy than to see how selfless and loving he is.  I dream of big things for him.  

The Tinsel Wars continue, even if I have no tinsel on my tree.  There are moments throughout the year, especially in December, when I face the decision between intentionality OR a desire to rush past and do things in a hurry.  The clock, the obligations, and the Outlook reminders all seem to want me to clump the “tinsel” and move on.  Sometimes, though, I make the decision to slow down, focus on each “tinsel strand,” and place it right where it needs to be.  Sometimes this means deciding to leave grading behind and sitting in the stillness of my back yard, or acting on the recognition of the hurt and grief in the voice of someone I care about.  It might be an email to students who are struggling, an inflatable unicorn gift, a driveway chat with dear neighbors, a listening ear provided, or a hug offered when the need is felt.  

My wish for 2023 is that someone shows you the intentional care you deserve, reminding you that as insignificant as you may sometimes feel you are, the truth is that you matter—you are loved.  Likewise, my hope is that you are able to reflect this love and warmth in small, deliberate ways to those around you. 

 

The picture above, by the way, was found in a box with my dad's train in it just a few days ago. The box had largely been unopened since my dad's death in 1993. Inside the box were 3 containers of tinsel, including this one with an Eckerd Drug sticker on it inside of a Service Merchandise bag :) 

Gilligan, the Skipper, and I

 

It is true that those of us who grew up in the ‘70s never worried about attacks with guns in school.  Our desks back then provided perfect shelter for nuclear fallout, and we knew that those cracked eggs taught us to say “no” to drugs.

However, it is surprising that anyone growing up in the ‘70s ever left the house out of fear of falling into a quicksand pit in the backyard.  Quicksand pits seemed to appear everywhere from Indiana Jones movies, Lost in Space, Batman episodes, and Gilligan’s Island.

Gilligan, the Skipper, and I have one thing in common:  we have all had our bouts with quicksand.

The common beliefs about quicksand pits in the 1970s were:
1. Quicksand pits were common.  Everyone needed to be prepared.

2. Quicksand pits were hidden or camouflaged, and you could not know you had entered one until it was too late.

3. The harder you struggled to get out, the deeper you sank (This reminds me of Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby).

4. If you looked, a stick or person was always nearby to pull you out just about the time you went under.

Who knew that all these were true in my experience—even if I have never seen a literal quicksand pit?!

Belief #1:  In life, there are many types of quicksand pits, of sloughs of despond, of places where the icky mud sucks at our boots and makes running impossible. FYI:  John Bunyan in Pilgrim’s Progress wrote about the Sloughs of Despond.  He was centuries ahead of Gilligan.  We all need to realize that these pits are just as deadly as any literal quicksand pit.

Belief #2: These quicksand pits are often unexpected and hidden. Few of us prepare ahead of time to deal with our first bout with these sloughs of despond:  long-lasting depression, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, or overwhelming grief.   Life events spring up on us so quickly with an unexpected phone call, divorce, job losses, abuse, and disasters.   (And P.S. Even if we get out of the sandpit one time, we often never plan for repeat swims in the sloughs when life gets to be too much, and yet it is so easy to find ourselves back in the pit with no fault of our own.)

Belief #3:  The more we struggle, the deeper we sink. I have no idea if it is really true with quicksand, but it is in figurative sloughs of despond. The more we pray, berate ourselves for our lack of strength or faith or resilience, the more we shame ourselves for our failure to remove ourselves from the thick mud surrounding us, the worse it gets. The more we pretend to ignore its reality, the deeper we sink.

Belief #4: Look for the rescue branch.  While it is true that often rescue branches and friends are nearby to pull us from the pit, unless we yell for help, friends have no idea to come help. Ironically, we would immediately ask for help if we were sinking in a literal pit, but asking for help in the midst of sinking in a figurative quicksand pit seems so hard, and we keep silent.  Whether it is out of shame or fear that the rescue person will bring cliches, shame, quick advice, or judgment, we often sink deeper and deeper in the pit.  
 
 

For those who have never stepped foot in a deep figurative sandpit, it is hard to understand those in the pit.  Years ago, prior to my divorce and my subsequent dips in the pit of depression and anxiety, I naively told a woman struggling with serious depression that if she could just get out of bed and be around people that things would be better.  I made it sound like this was no big deal.  How horrified I am today because I know how naive—and dangerous—this statement was.
 

Years ago, I ran across a quote from Island by Aldous Huxley (the Brave New World author).  It was one of those quotes that made me tear up instantly, soak it in, come back to it, come back to it again, and then come back to it again. I am still trying to soak in its meaning as it pertains to me. As someone who feels life deeply, as someone who feels joy so much that I feel like my heart will explode, and as someone who feels sadness deep enough to almost cloud the sun, and as someone who feels all those things for everyone around her, soaking it up and up and up, this quote spoke to me about how to get out of the pit:

“It’s dark because you are trying too hard.  Lightly, child, lightly. Learn to do everything lightly. Yes, feel lightly even though you’re feeling deeply. Just lightly let things happen and lightly cope with them. . . .

So throw away your baggage and go forward.  There are quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair.

That’s why you must walk so lightly.  Lightly, my darling, on tiptoes and no luggage, not even a sponge bag, completely unencumbered.”

If you feel the “quicksands all about you, sucking at your feet, trying to suck you down into fear and self-pity and despair,” just realize you are not alone.  Gilligan, the Skipper, and I, plus hundreds of thousands (or millions) of others, have all been there before.

Look for the branch.  Look for the person who is there who can help you escape the quicksands sucking at your feet.  If nothing else, I am here.  Always.  
 

Rain-Making Lesson 101

    

The radio meteorologist just announced what I felt in my bones---this has been the hottest July in history for Waco---an average of 103.7 for the month.  This is also the driest January to July for this area in history.  

When I say things are dry, it is dry like it has never been dry.

When I say this Florida girl misses rain and big puffy clouds to hide the sun, I miss it like I have never missed it before.

When I say that my yard is yellow, the cracks wide enough to serve as a koozie for my Diet Dr. Pepper can, it is more yellow and more cracked than ever.

There has been a sense of almost-desperation for me this summer---for hope, for drops of liquid, for green, for a new day.  I seem to empathize with my trees wearing leaves showing yellow heat shock, the plants with wilted leaves, and with the crunchy St. Augustine grass in front of my house.

Sometimes life feels just like a Texas summer---arid, dry, dusty, and brown.  All that is green and full of hope is withering.  This summer marked the death of my father-in-law.  It also held moments of grief when I received news about a friend’s diagnosis, and moments of held breath as another friend awaited test results, worry over a younger family member, and more.    

As a result, there were moments of questioning about life, about relationships, and about myself.  I have had to reconsider what feeds and waters my soul because, without rediscovering several sources of refreshment, depression and anxiety can take hold in mighty ways, weighing me down in a flood of tears.  

Each of us needs a source of water.

Thankfully, there have been moments of emotional refreshment, of spiritual rain, of figurative renewal.  

Most were not accidental.  It seems that figurative rain rarely happens by chance.

I believe we have to make rain happen.  Rain-making involves deliberate, manufactured, conscious decisions to make joy happen in my life.  

My figurative rain-making dances this summer have included:

• an inflatable rainbow unicorn worn by my bonus brother 
• Jonathan’s excitement about making Sloppy Joes for himself and time eating and cutting tree branches with him (I have spent more time with him this summer than in the past 4 years)
• a shot glass toast with Gatorade Protein water for brighter tomorrows
• a drive to Tahoe with Andy and my favorite Horse Dog and a drive the next day to pick up patio chairs from an online auction with him---(he, like his mother, loves a deal)
• a gentle teary hug from a friend’s daughter at Poppa Rollo’s
• moments with friends in their kitchens, in restaurants, on the phone, and even in the pool as we laughed at a Ted Cruz look-alike
• my visits to museums and the Alley Theater in Houston
• my golden retriever swimming around me in the stocktank pool
• driveway conversations over glasses of wine with my dear neighbor friends
• irreverent laughter with my bonus dad
• “Not Today” T-shirts that reminded us to make us find humor in sadness
• my Labrador with a look of pure joy on her face as we drive down the road in 90-degree morning weather with the windows down

Just as real rain will soak the hardened ground and revive life in my brown yard one of these days, this figurative rain is reviving me as well.

Each rain-making moment represents a drop of life.  

Each rain-making moment promises the start of new life in me.

Just as the rain will eventually hit my roof and water my thirsty plants and trees, I am trying to soak in the relationships and small moments of time that bring joy that can refresh and revive my soul.

If you see me in my yard dancing for real rain, just realize that I have been dancing for figurative rain this summer-----and it has come.  

Feel free in joining me.  Put on some dancing shoes.  The rain-making is available to all.

Matryoshka Dolls and Me

 

I can still picture my tiny hands opening  a Matryoshka doll and being fascinated at the smaller doll inside and the smaller doll inside of that as well.

The most amazing part is to realize that each of the true dolls is a piece of art, the object of an artist’s time and effort.  

Equally amazing is that, by themselves, each doll is beautiful.  However, it is only when they are in a set, when they are placed in relationship with the others, that I can truly appreciate the artistry. 

When I think of myself, I think of how the Kim of 2022 is really a compilation of all the younger “dolls” inside of me—the young child, the teenager, the young person, the new mother, and the middle-aged woman.  The Kim of 2022 cannot exist without each of those other people within me.

Unlike Matryoshkas, my current outer shell doesn’t look as sweet and innocent as the little baby version of myself.  Were others to look carefully, they would notice wrinkles, circles beneath my eyes, my calloused hands, and the cellulite.  

LIkewise, if others were to look carefully within, they would notice that my worldview is very different than that of the young girl sitting beside her father on a porch swing, looking out at the Blue Ridge Mountains.  No longer am I fully convinced of the truth of cliches, of the platitudes that are meant to comfort, or of simple beliefs like the one that hard work always results in positive results.   Today, I am often embarrassed by some of the things I used to say, do, or believe. 

The younger and smaller versions of me were largely influenced by her parents, their worldview, the evangelical church, and the context of the 70s and 80s.  As with all young Matryoshkas, it was only as I got exposed to the world that I realized not all of those beliefs worked for my reality.  

(A personal sidenote: How wonderful it was to see my mother in her 60s and 70s change some of those same views the older she got as well.  It takes great courage at that age to break out of the previous Matryoshka version and create a new one!)

Negative experiences shaped me, but likewise, people walking beside me in life changed the shape and the look and the worldview of the future Kim Matryoshka.    Their words and influence painted new strokes on the person I am today.  Some of my artists included:

• a pastor who believed in me when it seemed no one else did.  

• non-religious co-workers who lifted me up each day when many of my Christian acquaintances at the same time were shooting me down.  

• strangers like a bank employee on Bosque Blvd. who provided me with the words I needed to get through the day.  

• a retired Catholic leader who forced me to ask questions about my faith that I would have been too scared to ask before.  I could actually question things?  What an eye-opener.

• the convenience store employees down the road from my skunk house who brightened my mornings.  

• a Methodist minister whose spirit and words were balm in my broken heart. 

• my wonderful colleagues who have become my family, the ones I rely on daily.   

• soul sisters who made me realize I could make friends who loved me because of who I was. 

• a husband who reminded me I was a butterfly who was just coming out of the chrysalis.

While my current Matryoshka version of Kim may not be as shapely as the younger ones, and the hands typing this are wrinkled and calloused, this Matryoshka Kim is beautiful.  Perhaps its beauty is not seen immediately.  

However, in relation to all the other versions of me within, when you see what I have seen, when you feel what I have felt, when you have experienced what I have experienced, the result is THIS VERSION of me, and this version is pretty darn awesome, pretty badass, pretty wonderful.

This version of me is working on loving myself more.  Who knew that always putting others first (as I was taught) would lead to some very negative results?

This version is also focused on loving others more as well—rather than believing “love the sinner but hate the sin,” I am just going with “love them all.”  Who am I to determine sinners?  Or rate sins based on my personal views?  All those people who are supposed “sinners” are just people hurting and wanting to be seen and heard just like me.

This version of me is hesitant to quote Romans 8:28 or Jeremiah 29:11  as a quick way of telling others to move past pain.  

This version of me is just here.  Moving through life.  Trying to offer encouragement and love.

I am so thankful for the original artists that shaped me, but even more important, I am grateful for the artists that shaped the newer Matryoshka versions of me.

The Truth of the Farmer

 

There once lived a man in a small town in southern Illinois.  He was born, lived, and died within a 10-mile radius.  He grew up on a farm, owned his own farm, and helped others farm.  No doctorate degrees graced his walls, no CEO titles were ever amassed, and no massive treasure trove of jewels were hoarded during his lifetime.

But what a life he had.  My father-in-law, Preston George, passed away on my birthday on May 29.  As he grew older, he could no longer do the work, but each day was spent sitting in his chair at the end of the dining room table, drinking coffee and watching over the hundreds of acres behind his hillside home.  When traveling, he wanted to see what the other farmers were doing, commenting on the crops, on the rain (or lack thereof), and giving his opinions about what he saw.

During my week in Illinois, a walk toward the back of the farm found me hopping between rows of young corn plants and soybean plants.  I took in the views of open land, the details of the young crops pushing out of the dirt, and the peacefulness of being alone with nature—away from everyone and everything.

I have read many books about farming in previous centuries, and through the books, I have stepped into the minds of the men and women who made it their life to live off the land.  It is not an easy life.  It never has been.  

The Life of the Farmer:

Farmers live with a constant anticipation of the possibilities.  

They view a little seed and they see the value of that little kernel, knowing that a magical power lies within its shell.  

They work and toil, pray and hope, and do all they know to make sure that seed meets its potential.  

If they are lucky, they see the results of their work.

Truth #1 that came from my walk:  Even non-farmers can farm.

We can live with an anticipation of the possibilities of the people and friendships before us.

We can view the magical power lying within others and within relationships.

We can decide to toil and work, planting little sparks of hope and encouragement and joy within those around us.  

Those little sparks can be encouraging smiles, words, texts, calls, or hugs.

We can tell people we love them, tell them we need them, tell them their value.

We can remind others of their potential, allowing them to break the shell open and thrive.

We can pray and hope, work and toil, spend time and energy and love.

We can help others find the sunlight and discover their inner power.

Truth #2:  For these “non-farming farmers,” we rarely see the harvest.

For those of us who are “farming” in lives, 

We cannot walk down the rows, we cannot step over the crops, and we often do not even know the impact of those we have touched.

There is no harvest season for most of our “farming” efforts.

The only way we know of our impact is if others tell us.

Ironically, many only see the physical results of this harvest at a funeral when the “farmer” is no longer alive to see it.

My walk made me ask if we would love more, encourage more, and spend more on others if we could inspect the crops?

If we could see and reflect on the results of our labor?

If we could sit at the end of the table each day and see the growth, would we work harder?

Truth #3:  Farmers know the importance of planting the right seeds.

Farmers know their seeds and crops.  That is why you won’t see rice growing in west Texas or cotton growing in New York.  

The corn in Texas does not come from the same exact seed as that in Illinois.

For this non-farming farmer, that walk made me ask myself what seeds I was planting.

Seeds of joy?

Seeds of resentment?

Seeds of love?

Seeds of judgment?

Planting the wrong seeds will lead to poor harvest.

(And a very unhappy farmer in the long run.)

Truth #4:  Farmers understand negative results and don’t blame themselves.

It is possible to do our very best, to plant those seeds of hope, and still see no results AT ALL.

To pour our hearts into others, to serve them, to love them, 

And still be discouraged by the lack of return.

This is not the fault of the farmer or “farmer.”

As Jesus said in his parable in Matthew 13, it may be because of birds or external predators who interfere.

It may be because of the hard or rocky soil of past traumas and hurts.

It may be because of the weeds of life that block out the encouragement.

Rather than feel the self-blame creeping in, a true farmer often knows that a poor harvest does not necessarily mean he did something wrong.   

Instead, it might be due to the absence of rain, 

the overabundance of heat, 

the lack of sunshine, 

the locusts, 

or the many other catastrophic causes of few returns.

Perhaps we “farmers” can learn from the farmers and not give up.

Finally, as Jesus said in his parable, “But some of the seed fell on good ground. There it grew and made grain. Some plants made 100 times more grain, some 60 times more, and some 30 times more” (Matthew 13:8-9, NLT).

In reflecting on the community that came together for my father-in-law’s visitation and funeral, I was once again reminded that the measure of a life is not based on awards and treasure coffers.  

This is the purpose of life:

Planting seeds of love and encouragement in others.

Regardless of results, regardless of a transparent harvest,

Regardless of the heavy work and toil, the sweat and tears, and the many prayers that seem unanswered,

The harvest is the result of planting seeds carefully in those whose lives intersect with others.

My husband and father-in-law farmed.  

My mother farmed.  My grandparents farmed.

For most of us, we may not own hundreds of acres of physical land or fancy tractors and harvesters.

But all of us can “farm.”

I am getting on my overalls and boots and hat—

Ready to plant more seeds and trust that the harvest will come.

  

On Turning 53

 

I could have cared less when I turned 30. Or 40. Or even 50. Another day, another year. No biggie.

Turning 53, however, seems a bit more significant. Let me explain.

When I was 24 years old, an evening phone call let me know that my dad died suddenly of a heart attack at the age of 52. My dad was larger than life, my hero, the one I wanted to model, the man who shaped my life forever. He was a force of nature. I was convinced he was fount of all knowledge, and he always seemed to have it all figured out.

At age 23, the age of 52 seemed a long way off. The past almost-30 years in many ways represent a long time. I have been without my dad in a physical presence longer than he was with us. I have been without his voice longer than I was with it. My adulthood has taken place without him. Both my children have been born since his death, and my teaching career, my moves, my divorce, my remarriage, and all the other events of my life outside of childhood and college have been without his physical presence. I never got a chance to talk to him as an adult, asking those basic adult survival questions. Very few in my life now even know my dad more than what I have said of him.

So, today, as I turn 53,  I realize I am now older than he ever was.

At age 53, I understand why, according to witnesses, he said in his one moment before collapsing, “God, not now.” There was so much left for him to see and experience.

At age 53, I realize that he probably didn’t know everything.

At age 53, I realize that he probably didn’t have it all figured out.

In some ways I have been thinking of this day since September 3, 1993, knowing that at one point I would be older than he ever was, and I thought by that point, I would know who I was, what life was all about, and what all the answers were. That has not happened. In fact, I am more aware now about all that I DON’T know than I ever have been.

However, I believe death does not end our influence. I have seen him in the care my son has for children, the mannerisms and appearance of my other son, my love of a freshly-mown lawn, my inability to remember words to songs, and my imagination of his presence in important moments of my adult life (and my kids’ lives).

So, at age 53, there is a sense of time as a treasure I cannot dismiss. Each day now is a treasure my dad never got, even though he made it a goal “to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life” (Thoreau—p.s. this was one of my dad’s favorite quotes).  

I still don’t have life figured out, but here are some key truths I learned from him and truths that have been reinforced from my own life experiences in the past 53 years:

1. Don’t follow the crowd. Be yourself. Listen to the beat of your own drummer (again, Thoreau). My dad taught me to avoid waiting in the big line where everyone else is-–literally and figuratively. Find your own door and open it for those coming behind you.

2. Be silly at times. Adults don’t always have to be serious. One of my life-long memories will be of him rolling down the hills at Biltmore Estates, regardless of what other tourists thought. Another one will be of me 14 years ago in my Easter best outside throwing snowballs at the church kids, soaking wet and freezing cold, but knowing this moment would never be repeated.

3. Pay attention to children. Read to them. Throw balls. Stack toys. Put stuffed animals on top of your head and have them fall off. Let them wrestle you. Sing with them. Soak in their innocence and their awe. Children understand the truths of life better than we adults ever will.

4. Pay attention to EVERYONE. No one is too small or unimportant. Some of my favorite people are those who are my serving staff at a restaurant or the cashiers at the convenience store who smile and work as hard as they possibly can. As Dad taught me, they are more than employees. They are people.

5. Don’t be afraid to feel. My dad was the type who would cry at TV shows, during Sunday School lessons, during talks to his high school students, and definitely at my wedding. Just the other day someone asked me when I cry, and my reply was, “Pretty much, any time.I have cried when I am happy, depressed, angry, worried, grieving, and overjoyed.”

6. Tell people you appreciate them. I still have some of the notes Dad left Mom to tell her how much she meant to him. I know he left notes in faculty boxes, small words of encouragement. People need to know you see them and value them.

7. Take joy in the small things. A nice edge to a lawn, a blossoming flower, a growing tree, a good movie, a book, a job well done, or a task completed—all of these can bring joy.

8. Cultivate lasting friendships and relationships. Friends who are like family can keep you going when life gets tough.

9. Live like today may be it. As Dad said the week of his death, “I want to jump into the grave,” meaning that he wanted to live every day completely and fully (P.S. it sounds like he knew what would happen, but I seriously don’t think he did.). There are no regrets when you live life fully. No rocking chair life for me.

10. Love. Love those whose lives intersect with yours. Notice those no one else notices. Love them, too. You don’t have to understand their life choices, but you can love. (P.S. Don’t use religious belief as an excuse to judge others. Love.) Hug. Be willing to be vulnerable. Love.

I Am Going--a mirror poem to I Am From

 The car is packed, the preparations have been made, and I am ready,

Ready for an adventure, for the unknown, for what is unseen or unimagined.

Google Maps and Alexa are turned off because I have no guide to the future.

All I know is that I am ready,

Ready to leave hurtful memories behind, while treasuring saved snapshots of love in my head,

To find new joy in the present, and to anticipate the future.

I am going to a place in my heart where hummingbirds slurp from the nectar,

Butterflies lightly land on purple blooms,

Squirrels chase under trees, dogs play in the green grass.

I am going to a chair under the trees, gentle breeze caressing my shoulders,

A book in my hand allowing me to climb mountains and cross seas,

A song in the air making my soul dance.

To a place where rain splashes down in gentle drops,

The needed nourishment for all living, 

The lightning brightens the sky, and the smell after the storm brings a sigh of gladness.

I am going to a place that accepts that my external age does not match my internal age,

That I may want to play in the sand, swing on swings, roll down hills,

Pick up frogs, splash in a pool, build towers of blocks, build dams in a small creek.

I am going to a place filled with laughter, with friends, with those who value my story

With those who honor my place in this world,

Where friendship soothes my soul and warms my heart.

I am going to a place filled with purpose, with a sense that lives are changed,

With arms outstretched,

A light to others in the dark.

I am a going to a place where friends become family,

Where tailgating kids climb on my back and draw me pictures,  

Where I drop love everywhere I go.

I go to a place where I am me,

Where I treasure the moment,

Where solitude satisfies.

Where the tiniest beat of a butterfly’s wings  half a country away changes my world (Yes, I can live with that).

Where my soul is filled,

Where I am completely and utterly myself.

I am going where the dragon flames speak of latent danger,

I am going where the Phoenix rises, a new creature,

Stretches out her wings and ascends to the skies above.

I Am From---a poem

I am from sand, beaches, and fruit trees,

Thick, lush St. Augustine grasses and tall dark clouds,

The smell of rain and the flash of frequent lightning,

Muggy summers filled with sprinkler play and shark action in the swimming pool,

Yahtzee games, molasses sugar cookies, Looney Tunes and Little House on the Prairie.

Family of four hiking in the North Carolina woods, sliding backwards down the snow-covered hills,

And slipping on slimy rocks in the icy waters of the rushing mountain rivers.

Shades of purple and blue curve across the sky in mountainous peaks.

 

I am from lawnmowers, yard work, and raking pine needles,

Gardening, squawking chickens, and swingsets.

I am from Nancy Drew books, Green-Gabled Anne, and any paper-created imaginative world,

from teaching my classroom of dolls, from an imagination

That allowed me to become Tarzan on my tire swing, beating my chest.

From the support of friends who become family, hosting Fourth of July parties,

Lighting Christmas candles in the sanctuary, and organizing puppet shows.

I am from love.

From mother, father, grandparents, sister, friends.

 

I am from adult responsibilities at a young age, shaping me to work without question,

To listen to authority, and to accomplish tasks without complaint,

To stay busy, to never sit still, and to push to be the best I could be.

I am also from parents who showed me how to be a strong female,

From pushing for all A’s, the valedictorian spot, the All-State clarinet player,

The girl staying up late at night to make that A but never really discovering the joys of youth.

The girl who put up with behavior that was funny at the time but learned later it really wasn’t,

The girl who doubted herself thanks to remarks,

The girl who thought these comments were said in love but learned later they weren’t,

The girl who was told she could never make friends, was “too much” and expected too much,

The girl who did for others and cared for others more than for herself.

 

I am from the classroom, Romeo and Juliet, Invisible Man, and mythology,

Pride gained from the sparking eyes of my students who gained new knowledge,

Joy in helping fellow teachers, planning with them, dreaming big dreams.

I am from Everest-sized mountains of papers, of purple ink, of rows and columns of grades.

From grading in the car, at the doctor’s office, in the choir loft, at football games,

I am from staples, paper clips, folders, spiral notebooks, posters, and bulletin boards.

 

I am from nights spent singing to my sons, spent crying as I held my screaming, colicky baby,

I am from days and nights spent by myself with two little ones, from family 20 hours away,

I am from depression, feeling abandoned in a town where I knew no one,

Separated from my lifelong calling, only to find a new calling working with children.

Years of Vacation Bible School planning, Easter Eggstravaganzas, Children’s Church.

 

I am from a time of confusion and loss, a new life, a new Kim.

From a skunk-inhabited house, from swingsets built in the backyard,

From quiet nights without my sons, crying, worrying, and starting all over.

From worries about what new phone calls I would get with new attacks,

From moments of regret, of fear, of loneliness, of grief, of anxiety, of depression.

From years of therapy to find the new Kim, to find the girl she used to be, to find who she could be.

 

I am from the woman who went half her days without her sons, but treasured each moment ,

From little boy snuggles, giggles, and wrestling matches,

From Avatar The Last Airbender episodes, Spongebob, and Finding Nemo,

From stuffed puppy dogs and stuffed Nemos,

From river rafting, zoo trips, aquarium trips, family trips,

From nights spent reading The Three Little Billy Goats, Goodnight Moon

From moments spent outdoors flying kites, playing basketball, and throwing balls,

From the sports stands, the car line, robotics events, the graduations with black gowns,

I am from the cemetery beside my mother’s and my father’s caskets, all at once a little girl again,

I am from new promises, new jobs, new friends, and a new moment to walk down that aisle.

I am from new relationships in which I find love and companionship,

With friends who have encouraged, loved, and supported,

The woman who knows the truth about herself finally,

I am from butterfly promises that arrive as I push out of the chrysalis,

I am from dandelion wishes that are blown with hope and dreams,

I am the dragon stretching her wings,

I am the Phoenix, rising up from the ashes.