"It is Good."

 

I was four or five when my family moved out to Carriage Lane, to the country, or the boonies, as we called it.  

The house was placed on 1.65 acres of Florida pine-laden, sandy soil, with an expanse of land for a front yard.

I saw bare land.
My parents saw their dream.

With hundreds of tiny sprigs of St. Augustine grass, our family kneeled in the sand,
dug holes, buried the runners,
standing with a hose spraying well water,
urging the runners to sprint.

Between Florida sun, daily summer rains, and the regular back and forth spread of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, the grass grew and grew.

From that bare plot eventually grew a miniature Garden of Eden, full of chest-high azaleas, shoulder-high camelias covered in pink blooms, dogwoods, oaks, and roses.

I’m not sure, but it seems like I couldn’t even see over the handle of the red Toro push mower the first time I was given the privilege of being like Daddy and
pushing the vibrating beast over ankle-high St. Augustine,
learning to create squares,
seeing the line between the cut and uncut,
adjusting the mower to get a full cut with the right wheel just over the edge,
turning 90 degree angles again and again until there was only one swath left.

Every week without fail, the whole family converged on the yard—pulling weeds, raking pine needles into piles to create our large driveway, trimming bushes, and most importantly, mowing.

How I loved the rumble
And the clean lines that defined that job.
The power,
The clarity of the work,
—and  don’t forget the sweat—
But all was worth it when it was complete.

Here I am, maybe 48 years after my first mow behind that red Toro.

As I pull the handle on my red and black Honda,
I still see the yellow wooden toy block my parents drilled and used as a handle on the Toro when the plastic handle broke.
I still hear Dad’s voice, “See the line, Kim?”
I still feel the cleanness of my edges along the sidewalk, the curb, the plant beds.
I still turn my 90 degree angles,
I sweat and sweat and sweat,
But the sense of accomplishment and joy is there—

As I look over my back and front yard,
I also imagine I feel a bit what Mom and Dad did on Carriage Lane,
Perhaps a bit what God did on Day 7:

“It is good.”
 

Winged Parachutes

  

1970s

I loved childhood summers in North Carolina.  With no cell phones in existence then, and with no television in our rental places at Lake Junaluska, my sister and I spent our two weeks of cooler weather outdoors, reading, imagining, creating, building, and playing.  The soft grass, the smell of clover, the small creeks with smooth rocks, and the fireflies were so different from our norm.  We reveled in the joy of those days.

 We took over a small rock foundation that became a fort, and we protected each other from the marauding pirates.  We skipped and sang as the famous Lewis Sisters.  We owned a restaurant, making menus and serving food and charging customers with tabs we wrote up.  We worked as civil engineers, moving rocks and twigs that blocked the flow of creek water.  We filled mason jars with the tiny lights of fireflies dancing inside the glass.

My first remembered experience with dandelions came in one of those early summers.  What joy!  Pulling the puffed stem from the ground, I gripped it carefully, wrapping all my small fingers around the green furry stem.  I held the puff in front of my lips, careful not to move it too much too soon.   I took a birthday-candle-blowing-out breath and blew.  

It was pure magic.  Those small white seeds rode the wind currents and parachuted down across the lawn, releasing their passengers.  I would pick another puff, make a wish, and blow again, confident that there were no bounds to the magic of nature and the magic of life.


Early 2000s

I watched my two little boys in the yard at Mom and Dad’s place in North Carolina.  Born in a different decade, and born with technology that I couldn’t have dreamed of 30 years earlier, they were quite a bit less sure of what to do with their time without a DVD on or a GameBoy in hand.  

They watched with fascination at the chipmunks (otherwise known as “chinkminks”) who  scuttled across the yard, diving in small holes at the base of the hickory tree.  They marveled at the different grass, the sound of the wind coming down the hills through the leaves of the many trees.  When their cousins appeared, the art of “cousining” resumed after a 12-month hiatus.  With 4 boys under the age of 6, the raucous laughter and crashing of cars and the sound of tussling and wrestling filled the air.

The four boys chased bugs, walked in the creeks, got muddy and wet, and made forts in the house.  They ate everything in sight, from Grandma’s famous pickles to her never-ending batches of sweets.  They, too, became civil engineers, building huge dams, and then became expert rock throwers in the same exact spot their mothers had 30 years before.

I held my breath as they climbed the tree in front of the house, certain that I would hear the thunk of bones on the ground.  Running from dandelion to dandelion, they blew the puffs across the yard, with me cringing each time, loving their laughter but also realizing dandelion weeds would be spread all over the yard.  



October 2020

I held the all-too-familiar hand, the wrinkles a new development I refused to accept.  It was the hand that had weeded gardens, the hand that had written notes and Christmas letters to each of her dear friends, the hand that graded thousands of English assignments, the hand that had spanked me occasionally and nurtured me throughout the years.  It was the hand that held the phone I called each day for almost 30 years since Dad died.  She was dying.  I could do nothing to save her.  My “She-ro,” who was not afraid to climb on roofs and trim trees, who quietly battled anxiety and depression without ever admitting it to herself or anyone else, who was a literal force of nature, couldn’t fight this.

Sitting beside her bed, hearing her take each deep heavy breath, the unreality of the impact of chemo on my mom’s lungs, the unreality of her imminent last breath, and the unreality of being without either parent at the age of 51—-all these unrealities left me numb.  Instead, I sat and held her hand and wrote an obituary she would have laughed about and loved.

Her last gift to me was a light long-sleeved cardigan with the words on the back, “Just Breathe.”  Beside the words was a picture of a dandelion, with seeds parachuting away.  At first, I had misinterpreted and believed it a message to me to stop being anxious.  Perhaps it was.  

However, since she, too, carried the same anxiety, beside that hospital bed in her last moments, I began to think that perhaps she was wanting me to slip back to my younger years, to rediscover the magic of childhood, to dream that the seeds I was planting in the lives of my boys and my other relationships would come true.  

It was a message to believe again.  To believe in me.  To believe in the magic of life.  To grab hold of the furry green stem with bigger fingers and close my eyes and make a wish.  To pucker up my lips and say to the world, “Here’s to bigger dreams, to larger possibilities, to a me that is true to myself.”


November 2020 and after . . . .

When I returned from my mom’s funeral, I suddenly saw dandelions in numerous places in my yard, the puffs just ready for me to blow on.  It was November, and before I even unpacked the car, this 51-year-old woman blew and watched the seeds dance around on the wind.

Now, each time I see a dandelion, including ten days ago, at the age of 54, I breathe and I believe.

Standing Witness---a tree

 

 Summer 2022
The tree, once vibrant and green,
A shelter from the too-bright sun,
The umbrella to many shaded reading hours,
With the strength to hold small boys below.

Trimmed branches became the forbidden fruit of invasive stranglers
That suck the lifesoul,
Diminishing the tree,
Weakening its strength.

So that when the too bitter cold for too many days
(during SNOVID/Sno-pocalypse 2021)
smothers the fresh buds too eager for spring weather,
The tree experiences Raynaud's disease,
Sap constricting, flowing to the trunk, leaving branches vulnerable
To lack of life, lack of love, lack of warmth.

Reaching out with its black-brown fingers toward the sky,
No life flows within.

Death.
Collapse.
Decay.
Loss.


There is no service for a dead tree.
No granite marker commemorating its service, its life.
No Psalm 23.
No line of mourners.
There was me—and only me.
I was not in a black dress and heels.

What sadness to mark the death of a tree that was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the destruction of time, of cold, of lack of warmth.

I bore witness to the death of the tree,
Wearing shorts and a tank top, sneakers and socks,
With tree trimmer, pole saw, chain saw, ladder, wood chipper, and  clippers,
With buckets of energy, gallons of muscle strength, and a lot of sweat,
With curses of frustration and tears of grief and so much love,
I slowly trimmed the dead from the tree.
I placed the limbs into the wood chipper, and from the chewing and cutting and grinding
emerged the tiny chunks of oak to nurture other botanical brothers and sisters.
I loved on the tree the only way I knew how—-
By honoring its contribution to me by caring for it in its last moments.

Summer 2023
What sadness to mark the death of a person who once was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the deterioration of a person due to time, lack of warmth, lack of acceptance, lack of love.

I stand witness to those I have loved,
Those whose bodies gave way before it was time,
Those whose life purposes were cut short by tragedies,
Those who have carried hurt and loss,
Those with heavy secrets that were too much to bear,
Those whose depression and anxieties smothered the lifesoul,
Those who experienced the coldness of the desperation felt by Raynaud’s disease.

I stand witness the best way I know how,
by
Getting up each morning, dressing, calling others, reaching out to those around me,
Learning and reading, asking questions and challenging the preconceptions I had,
Growing and exploring and daring to try new things,
Grading and driving and cleaning and cooking and mowing and texting and shopping,
Laughing and loving and giggling and cheering.

I honor those I have loved
By continuing on,
By pushing forward,
By recycling the hurt and ache in my bones and heart, the loneliness that overwhelms, the questions that circle in my brain,
By recycling the dead growth in the wood chipper,
By refusing to give up.

I can love on my loved ones of the past the only way I know how—
By honoring their contribution to me by caring for others—and caring for me.

Unleashed Reservoirs--the call of water

The water called to me,
Giggling and playfully teasing me as a little girl,
Of walking in cold mountain streams,
Teetering on slippery moss-covered Appalachian rocks,
Family members holding hands and traversing the uncertain ground, the rushing current, and the shore all too far away,
Slipping and plunging with shrieks into the clear water, 

Innocence, belief in the goodness of life,
Togetherness and joy,
Potential.

The water called to me
In a hushed whisper, inviting me to ponder the roaring noise of stillness,
Moments of escape from the beelike activity of life,
One small pebble thrown,
And ripples then forming in outward-facing rings,
One evolved into many,
A purpose, a bigger picture,
The interconnectedness of the flow,
The power of influence, the buoyancy of friendships,
Motivation.



Once again and again, the water called to me,
As to a frightened rabbit alone on the shoreline,
Inviting me to find peace in the small wind-rippled currents,
But my life flow was repeatedly dammed behind a construct of
Mores, expectations, guilt, and inadequacy,
The murkiness of life hiding truth and purpose,
Vision blurred and cloudy,
But to the shores,  the water echoed back to my confusion,
Reminding me of its ever-flowing vastness,
The interweaving nature of all water, 

Rushing and rippling and absorbing each other.
Then, water trickled, free falling down my cheeks,
Cleansing,
Clarifying purpose and meaning,
New eyesight.



The water called to me again just a year ago, 
Daring me, pulling me,
Challenging me to plunge into the depths,
To dive into the unknown,
Fulled clothed and yet so nakedly vulnerable,
Bidding me to leave the safety of the shore,
To blindly trust the water’s ability
To absorb my hurt, to lighten the weight,
To buoy me,
To make me alive.

The water that day provided me a reflection
Of the young girl turned woman,
Who has the power to choose—
To tiptoe and slip into the flow,
Or to dive headfirst and heartfirst,

To reflect from the shore 

Or to listen to her heart’s desire to explore the depths,

A choice to float on the surface and soak in the peace,
Or instead, when the moment is right, 

To pick up a paddle and push forward to the spot where the light rises in the east,

New beginnings,

Re-creation. 

Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and other Lies/Truths

His three-piece suit and Florsheim wingtips never stopped my 45-year-old father from crawling through play tunnels with toddlers in the church nursery.  His position as a school principal never made him too sophisticated to stack blocks on his head and have them intentionally fall to the ground to the laughter of young children.  

I learned everything about what it takes to entertain young children from watching him and my mother play with the children at church.  Apparently, I learned a lot since kids come to my house and never want to leave.  I have had kids meet me and an hour later refuse to let go of my hand.  Perhaps it is due to the toys I have with me, but perhaps it is my willingness to be real—and silly.

I worked with children at church for several decades, as a children’s worker, children’s worship leader, and children’s pastor at several churches.

My tailgate kids likewise climbed and crawled all over me, and between the pictures they drew for me or “Wild Bronco” rides on my lap, my own boys recognized that playing with them was the highlight of my year.  


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There is something about children that draws me to them.  

Perhaps it is their willingness to love wholeheartedly with arms wide open.
Perhaps it is their honesty—-even when that honesty sometimes hurts.
Perhaps it is their hope and willingness to believe in the best.
Perhaps it is their lack of judgment and their open acceptance.

It might be their fragility, the sense of that tiny little hand wrapped for dear life around your finger.
It might be the trueness of their smile, the giggles that comes straight from their bellies, or
The wide-eyed wonder in their eyes when something appears to be magical.

Yes, I know I was that child at one time, as I know you were as well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wouldn’t you in many ways like to time travel back to childhood?
To the simple belief in the mistruths we adults tell to children?
Of the existence of our bearded Santa Claus and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the hoppity Easter Bunny with his hidden eggs and chocolate, the sneaky Tooth Fairy, and other lies?

Isn’t it true that we are stuck with the same dreams as little children?  


We laugh at Santa Claus, but we want to believe that someone or some circumstance will listen to our deepest desires and bring us what we want.  That someone or something will fulfill our dreams.
We would love to crawl up into a lap, be hugged, and be guaranteed that everything our heart desires will be ours.
We look for this bearded desire-giver in our spouses, our friends, our jobs, our children, and our God.  We hope and pray that if we find the right person and ask in the right way or if we behave and act like good little boys and girls, our deepest desires can be met.
However, we get disappointed when this person or this circumstance does not solve all our problems.


Isn’t it true that we can laugh at the Easter Bunny but still long for someone who would spend time and energy decorating and working to surprise us with items that bring us joy?
It might be true that chocolate still might work for many of us as adults.  
However, if we think of other surprises, don’t they bring us joy?  
Don’t handwritten cards, thoughtful presents, texts of appreciation, or the happy surprises of life still bring that sense of excitement?
We see the envelope in the mailbox with our names on it, we tear at the patterned giftwrap, or we hear the “ding” of our text messages—-and we are little children again, ready to run for the surprise.


And what adult believes in a winged fairy who comes and gets teeth with decayed roots and exchanges them for money?  (I used to get $1.00 a tooth, but I know inflation has hit!)
Yet, our childlike heart still prays and hopes that there is some possibility of recycling the losses of life—-the loss of death, the loss of a job, the loss of familial relationships, the loss of financial stability—-into something positive with no effort from us.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

What other mistruths were we told as children?
It will be OK.
Mommy will never leave you.
Let me kiss it and it won’t hurt any more.
Daddy’s got you and he’ll never let you go.
No one can ever hurt you.

Wouldn’t you like someone to say all of these words to you right now?—--
And mean it?
And you believe it?
To believe that your loved ones will never leave you, that it will all be OK, and that no one will ever hurt you again?

Wouldn’t EACH of you want to hear those words right now, this minute, this month, this year?
Even those of you in suits and ties with wingtip shoes.
Even those of you looking at wrinkles in the mirror.
Even the single moms with babes hanging off of her all day long and crying for more.
Even those of us who have almost given up?

The sweet, not-so-honest words of comfort and
The figures of childhood joy and mystery—Santa, the Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy—
All speak of the deepest desires of all of us–
Our desires to be seen, heard, cared for, and sacrificed for,
Our desires to be surrounded by those we love,
Our desires to be looked out for and guarded,
And our desires to have everything make sense.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Perhaps I am drawn to children because they represent a chance for me to lose some of my adult maturity and full-time seriousness/responsibility,
Perhaps their simple joy rubs off on me when they are near,
Maybe their innocent, belly-filled giggles and wide-open love remind me of what life is all about,
Maybe it is a chance for me to hope and pray that I can believe again in all the things I used to believe about life, about people, and about God.

Regardless of the reason,
I believe in the magic of children,
In their power to heal the broken-hearted,
In their ability to revive hope and joy.


Spoiler Alert:
If any of you adults brings a child around me, plan to be ignored.
Plan for the Fisher-Price buildings to come out all over the floor of my clean living room,
For the game of riding “Wild Bronco” on my lap,
For homemade peanut butter chocolate chip Rice Krispies treats,
And for me to be seen crawling on my knees in a play tunnel,
Laughing and giggling and being silly.


Final Thought:  
Who knows?  
Maybe I don’t need children around me 24/7 to adopt some of these ideas in my oh-so-serious life.
I may not pull out the Fisher-Price buildings, but what seems silly and a waste of time?  
Maybe I need to spend time putting aside adult responsibility and just doing something silly and fun.
Maybe I need to make a sinful edible treat—-just for me—and eat it without worry of who might see the smeared chocolate around my mouth OR worry of my tightening pants,
Maybe I need to pull out my kite and go running through a field,
Maybe I need to gather some friends more often and laugh and giggle and, yes, even be silly.

There is still plenty of summer left.
That maybe may become a reality.
 

Still . . . .

 

 

This is the sound of surviving

 This is my farewell to fear

 This is my whole heart deciding

 I'm still here, I'm still here

 Nicole Nordeman, “The Sound of Surviving”

The sounds emanating from my house the past 6 months (or 12 months) may not have sounded like stereotypical concepts of survival or strength.  

My house has not carried refrains from Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking” or Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” or Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman.”

It has sounded a whole lot like sobs, curses, and words of frustration as I moved items around my house by myself.  
It has sounded like phone calls to dozens and dozens of companies.  
It has sounded like yells when two-tier authentication locked me out of every account we had. It has sounded like a crazy woman talking to herself, reminding herself that she can do it, that she only has to handle today, that she has done it before and can do it again.

It has looked like a sweaty middle-aged woman trying to go through mountains of belongings, rubbing her sore back and bemoaning her limited strength.
It has looked like a woman in front of a computer screen staring into the distance rather than focusing on grading.  
It has looked like dogs barking, rubbing against me, and joining me in the bathroom like a toddler, as they desperately tried to get love from someone too tired to give it.
It has looked like a woman walking from one room to the other, only to forget what she is doing and repeating her steps.
It has looked like me cooking food and then realizing I had made 3 times too much to eat.
It has looked like me smiling and saying everything is fine when at many moments it wasn’t.

However, I am here.
At the end of this May, a bit more than six months after my nightmare began, I am still here.

This is no little statement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There are choices in life—-
When tragedy strikes, one choice is to curl in a fetal position and let life move by.
It is also a choice to protect your heart so much you feel nothing ever again, to doubt every person you meet for possible ways you can be hurt.
It is possible to live in rage and anger at the unfairness of life, of choices people have made.
It is also possible to just live in denial and move through life as if nothing happened OR live in fear that the worst-case scenario might happen.
It is so easy to slip into a self that is less vibrant, less unique, less “out there,” less passionate for life or others.

However, as the Nicole Nordeman song lyrics say,
I have made the conscious decision—-with my whole heart deciding
To still be here.

For me, this decision to still be here means that
I am still here for the tears, the ache, and the loneliness.
I am here for the laughter and joy of singing at the top of my lungs when I feel like it,
For the wind in my hair as I ride down the road with my windows down,
For the bills, the paperwork, the vacuuming, and the cleaning.

I am still here for the disappointments and the joys,
For the thrills of life, for the beauty of spring flowers, for the sweat of lawn mowing,
For the piles of electronic assignments and emails,
For the endless house repairs that need to be done.

I am still here to talk to friends,
To take two of my dogs for a ride to the convenience store every morning,
To drag trash bags full of garbage out of the garage,
I am still here packing up the car with donations,
And I am here to take on new job challenges, starting now as I prepare for the fall.

I am still here for the numerous ways people will disappoint me,
And the numerous ways people will surprise me and love me,
For the hugs and smiles of others,
For my sons whenever they need me,
For my friends in the middle of the night or at the break of dawn.

My story is not over.
I have fought my way over craggy mountains, hanging on by my fingertips to the small crevice in the rock.
I have slogged through the muddy depressions of life, when it was an effort just to move one leg forward.
I have skipped across open fields with spring wildflowers, tugging on the string as my kite soared above.
I have also boarded the party bus a few times, singing songs with friends, watching the scenery rush by, and enjoying just being along for the ride.
However, I have also trudged along without a new sight in the distance, unsure of my directions, but moving forward one step at a time.


My story continues . . . .
Still. . . . .

And that decision to still be here has to be made each day, but today I am marking it with a forever symbol on my wrist to remind me that it is important to keep fighting, slogging, skipping, trudging---just as it is important to enjoy life and laugh and love BIG.

It is important to be Kim . . . . still . . . . regardless.  

As I approach year 54 in a few days, 

I am boldly deciding with all my heart that I am still here . . . . for whatever comes . . .

The Love of My Life

 

 

I met the great love of my life at the age of 3.

My parents had him in the closet, all set to give to a family member for her Christmas present.  I found him, and my heart was eternally given away to him.

He was the one who knew me best in the world.  He heard my whispered words at night for 21 years, and he absorbed more tears and secrets than anyone since.  He joined me on every vacation I went on, and he read over my shoulder as I scarfed down at lightning speed every adventure Nancy Drew or Anne of Avonlea experienced.  He was one of my students when I taught on the chalkboard my dad built for me and my sister, and he always scored high in the leftover gradebooks Dad brought from school.  He even played the part of my groom, Jim, when my sister and I had pretend weddings.

My, he changed over the years.  He lost some hair and the buttons from the front of his outfit, his clothes became shabby, and the elastic has worn out.  Regardless, he was mine.  I saw the lost hair, the lost color on his cheeks, the torn clothing, but all I could see was the love of my life.

The only reason he was relegated to a shelf in the closet was the addition of an 80-pound labrador retriever who loved him almost as much as I did.  I carefully added him to my closet to protect him from the slimy mouth and energetic play of Lady.

The great love of my life was a 3-foot tall stuffed doll sewn to a soft plastic Bozo the Clown head.

To anyone else, including my sister apparently, he was creepy.  You know—-clowns.  

To me, he was my knight in shining armor, my best friend, my confidant, and my sleeping buddy.

Even at age 18 when he was no longer what he was to me at age 6, I had grown so used to his presence against me at night that I could not sleep well without him.  Our labrador forced me to transition to a body pillow instead.

I learned love from Bozo.

The truest type of love possible.

Bozo love ignores first impressions.  Bozo love is based on more than appearance.
From first impressions, Bozo was nothing but a creepy clown.  My eyes see something completely different.  I see him as the one I turned to at night when my heart felt full of disappointment or hurt.  He was the one who provided comfort that I would be OK.

True Bozo love sees beyond the surface.  

Even if you add 100 pounds, lose some hair, pick up new hobbies, I will still be there, loving away.   

I learned from Bozo that the first impression of an individual is rarely the real person. Anyone who ever met Anthony would know this was true.  He had the build of a linebacker and often had a grumpy personality, but he had the heart of a teddy bear, and he always was looking out for the person who needed some protection or some help.  


Bozo love accepts flaws.
Bozo has fallen apart more than once.  My grandmother took him at least 3 times during my childhood to sew a brand new body onto his head.  The week or so that it took her to do this was the longest week of my life each time.

Today, even with his 3rd body sewn to his head, Bozo still looks ragged.  His foot is torn, the stitching holding his plastic head to his body has come loose.  The face has almost all turned an old yellow.  His yarn hair has fallen out over the years, revealing bald spots.

Yet, I don’t care.  I love him as is.  

It is harder to apply Bozo love to real people.  
Real people can hurt you.
Real people can abandon you.

However, deep below that exterior, deep below those hurtful words, deep below the manipulation or abandonment is often a person with a deep hurt from childhood, scared and anxious.  

The hurt they inflict on others cannot be ignored or pushed under the rug, but Bozo love sees the truth of the person regardless of the actions.

Bozo love forgives—-even if it cannot reconcile.  
Bozo love forgives—even if it cannot forget.


Bozo love recognizes and increases value.
Growing up, we lived in the country where dry months or lightning strikes often caused fires.  I was terrified that our house would go up in flames.  I had a plan developed, one that involved taking all my important worldly belongings in a bag before I climbed out of the window.  Of course, the first item on the list was Bozo.

Regardless of the fact that I could not find a buyer for Bozo for even 50 cents at this point, there are few things in the house that I would not give up still for this childhood friend.  With the exception of my kids’ pictures, my laptop, and perhaps another item or two, and, of course, Bozo, all the rest could be given up without much heartache.

When we see the value in others, despite their appearance and their flaws, we increase their self-value.  

We build them up, we cheer them on, and we encourage them to recognize their own value.
They see themselves as priceless rather than as discount items on a Goodwill shelf.


One Caveat of Bozo love—”Bozo love” Yourself
Bozo love does not come without danger.  Unfortunately, I learned this the hard way.

Unconditional love, as taught by others, suggests forgiveness for others 24/7/365 with no accountability.
Unconditional love, as taught by others, suggests that others come before yourself.
Unconditional love, as taught by others, often suggests that any Bozo love saved for yourself is selfish.

However, this type of unconditional love focused on the wrong person can lead to problems.
Bozo love does not mean loving others so much you ignore yourself.
Bozo love does not mean becoming a doormat or becoming the object of manipulation.

Bozo love means loving yourself the same exact way you love others.  
You accept your own flaws, your own quirks, and your own value.  
You are a clown, and you know it, and you are proud of it!
You have torn spots in your facade, you have missing “hair,” and feel as if you are a trivial item, but you love yourself as is.

Any time you allow someone else to lower your value,
Any time you ignore another’s flaws and instead only criticize your own flaws,
Any time you ignore your own thoughts and feelings and allow someone else’s thoughts and statements to supercede your own value,

Any of these times, true Bozo love asks you to walk away,
To hug yourself, and
To allow yourself to begin anew, forgiving but with boundaries.  
Bozo love sees the value in YOU, regardless of what others see or say.


Because of Bozo love:

• Both of my sons could grow purple hair, get face tattoos, announce they were gay or transgender, live in the Arctic in an igloo, and ignore me altogether, but they would still be loved.   And loved BIG.  And loved FOREVER.  (And, P.S. I tell them both that every chance I get).  My love for them is not based on their actions or inactions. 
  

• I can work with someone who purposely hurt me in the past and try to move forward, carefully, one step at a time.
  

• I can be civil to those whom I loved for ten years who suddenly decided after Anthony’s death that they would rather not have me around. 
  

• I can recall positive memories of individuals, even after they have verbally attacked me, abandoned me, and manipulated me.  This does not mean that I want to invite them to dinner or open myself to more of their games, but I can see some aspects of the children within.
  

• Because of Bozo love, I can peacefully fall asleep at night, knowing I have loved others.  
• Because of Bozo love, I am content knowing that while I love others, I also love myself, with all my flaws, all my quirks, and my figurative 3rd sewn-on body.

The love of my life, Bozo, taught me to love others.  

And he taught me how to love me.