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Gratitude

I made the last turn, headed up the driveway and pulled into the garage.

“We made it buddy,” I said to my golden retriever Barkley. “Finally.”

We had set out from Seattle ten hours earlier, it felt good to be home.

I opened his door and watched as he bounded from the car and began sniffing the yard, curious to uncover who had come by in our absence. I stretched as I watched him, my muscles aching after a long time in the same position.

After my father’s brain cancer diagnosis, I’d been making the trip back and forth monthly, anxious to soak up as much time with him as I could while escaping tension at home. Things hadn’t been going well in my marriage. When my husband’s mom died the year before from cancer, his grief lead him down an unexpected and destructive path. As I started to unpack the car, I replayed the conversation I’d had with my husband earlier in the week.

“I always wished for more time with my mom,” my husband said. “You need to spend as much time as you can with your dad. His prognosis isn’t good.”

“That’s what I am doing. I am getting here as often as I can,” I replied.

“But you keep coming back to Montana for me. I need to set you free– from me and this marriage so you can stay with your dad.”

“That isn’t what I want,” I sighed.

We’d been in this moment before. Many times. He’d been home less and less, certain he didn’t deserve me after all that had happened. He had talked of divorce a few times, but we’d managed to keep pushing on. Sometimes I thought I was holding it together by sheer will, terribly afraid I was going to lose both of the men in my life; one to death, and one to divorce.

Back in Montana, I grabbed the last couple bags from the car, yelled–“Let’s go Barkley”– and headed for the door, not noticing my husband’s truck wasn’t in its usual spot.

Inside, I habitually tossed my keys to the small dresser inside the door–but they clattered to the floor, landing in a pile of dust bunnies. The dresser was gone.  

What is going on?

I walked slowly up the stairs to the main floor, my heart pounding. Barkley raced ahead. I could hear him taking a long drink from his water dish as I crested the last step into the living room. Everything appeared normal.  

I set my load down and walked cautiously from room to room. Everything seemed in its place, and yet my hairs remained on end, alert.

In our bedroom, I slowly opened the closet door. Please no. Please no. Please no.

Inside, half the closet was empty.

No. No. No. No. No.

I rushed to his dresser, yanking drawers open. Empty.

All his things are gone. There’s nothing left of him in this house. His clothes. The dresser his grandpa made him. Everything personal to him is gone.

He’s gone.

My knees buckled and I collapsed to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably, rocking back and forth as months of fear and grief crashed in. I felt Barkley lay down next to me, giving me a tentative lick. I clung to him, making his coat wet with my tears. As day turned to night outside, he remained steady, comforting.  

I can’t do this. How am I going to survive this? I was barely hanging on before.

My phone chimed, startling me. I reached for it. Its bright light cut into the dark room as I opened the message.

Oh that’s right, gratitudes.

Every night for months, I’d been sending three things I was grateful for to my accountability partners. I have nothing. My world is shattered. My husband moved out and my father might be dying. What could I possibly be grateful for today?

Barkley’s tail thumped nearby. Our eyes met and the tenderness of his expression melted me. Gentle, loving, steady Barkley. I could start there.

I typed his name.

Two more.

I read the gratitude lists my friends had sent, realizing their consistent and punctual arrival had interrupted my grief, providing me with something positive to focus on.

I typed their names.

One more.

My grief headache pounded at my temples, but the tears had dried. The calm that follows crying had descended. I didn’t know what the next day, or week or month would bring–and I didn’t know how I would survive. But in that moment, I knew, somehow, I would.

I typed out my third gratitude.

I am still here.

by

Tease

The boat rocked as we made our way down the river. The sun shone overhead, its heat softened by the occasional passing cloud. I stood at the bow of the boat, casting my arm forward and back, trying to mimic the fly fishing cast I had learned before we set off. The rhythm of it soothed me.

“That looks great. Aim for that little pocket of darker water over by the shore. The fish love to gather there,” my companion said. I took aim.

Forward and back. Forward and back. Forward and back. On the third cast I let the fly touch the surface just briefly and was rewarded with a tug on the line.

“You got one! Real him in.”

Caught up in the excitement, I scrambled to follow the directions.

“He’s a nice one. Great work, especially for your first time,” my guide encouraged me, grabbing the net to contain the fish.

I smiled back at him. “Thanks for teaching me and bringing me out here. I’ve always wanted to try fly fishing.”

Having released the fish after the customary photo, I cracked open a Corona and settled into my seat, leaning back to feel the sun on my face.

My companion guided the boat towards a little pool of calm water to rest. This wasn’t our first encounter. We’d been regularly running into each other at the bar after work. He was young and made me laugh; the perfect distraction to ease the pain of a recent and brutal breakup. This fly-fishing afternoon was the first time we’d purposefully gone out together, and it was working. I felt relaxed and happy for the first time in months.

Caught up in the mood, I set my beer down and made my way towards him, straddling his lap.

“Really, thank you for today. It’s just what I needed,” I said, leaning in for a kiss.

I felt his hand run up my back, stroking it softly. “Sure. I like spending time with you.”

Our kiss deepened. His scruff was softer than my ex-boyfriend’s. The kiss felt foreign but not unpleasant. As the alcohol’s warmth descended, I lost myself in the moment, my body sinking into his as I let my guard down.

Then, I felt his fingers move from my waist, to my bikini strap, trying to free the knot. I stiffened, broke our kiss, and climbed off his lap, heading back to my spot at the front of the boat.

“You’re such a tease,” he said laughing. I flashed him a flirty smile in response, one that didn’t quite reach my eyes.

Such a tease. His judgement clung to me. I knew I didn’t actually owe him anything, and yet I felt I did. He had unknowingly bolstered my resolve to leave a destructive relationship by providing me with a distraction. His interest in me had helped me begin to move from self doubt towards confidence. His infectious, carefree take on life had brought about my first moments of joy after several challenging years.

I was grateful. But I was also fragile. A painful divorce followed by a terribly toxic relationship had left me wary of being used, afraid it would add baggage to a heavy load I already struggled to carry.

We floated slowly down the river as I worked through complicated questions. Do I really want to take the next step with him, or do I just hate being called a tease? Should I say no and risk losing his interest and company? If I lost him, could I resist returning to my ex and our destructive relationship? Was I willing to risk finding out?

The boat bumped the shore, jarring me out of my reverie. We’d reached the end of our journey. I helped to clean it out, picking up the empty bottles I’d dropped at my feet as I wrestled with the potential fallout of each decision. With the boat on the trailer ready to go, I felt the weight of the moment. I needed to make a decision. And one choice marginally outweighed the other.

While I wasn’t necessarily ready for sex, it seemed to be his preferred currency. And I couldn’t afford to lose him. There was simply more potential for damage without him than with him.

He is kind to you. We have fun together. No one will judge you. It probably would have happened one day anyway. I encouraged myself as I climbed into the truck and slammed the door.

“Want to come back to my place?” I asked looking over at him. He smiled broadly and nodded his ascent. I cracked open another Corona.

by

Slivered Almonds

I surveyed the ingredients on the counter, comparing them to the simple recipe pulled up on my phone. Satisfied I had everything, I turned on the burner, filled a measuring cup with slivered almonds, and dumped them into the pan.

“Here goes nothing,” I said to the little dog at my feet.

Earlier that day, knowing my cooking skill limitations, a friend had given me the task of bringing a bag salad to our gathering that night.  Determined to fancy up the bag of butter lettuce chilling in the fridge, I had decided to make candied almonds.

“Let’s hope replacing brown sugar with regular sugar doesn’t mess anything up. Think that will work?”

The little dog cocked his head in response. I took it as a yes, and dumped the sugar into the pan, sprinkled in a little cinnamon, and picked up the spatula.

“Stir continuously for 5-7 minutes until toasted. Do you think they literally mean continuously?” I asked him. Met only with silence, I turned on a timer and began stirring.

Cooking has long been my nemesis. I am beyond uncomfortable in the kitchen. The loosey-goosey nature of cooking directions does not fit my desire for perfection and precision. Burned bread, chewy chicken, soggy vegetables, and other less perfect meals had caused me to hang up my apron years before.

“See where trying to be brave instead of perfect gets me?” I asked my little companion. “At least no one is expecting anything more than a bag of lettuce from me if this is an epic fail.” More silent staring and a tentative tail wag.

I glanced at the timer. Three minutes to go. As far as I could tell nothing was happening in the pan. I watched the almonds cut trails through the sugar, wondering how the two would ever cling to each other.

“Maybe I should have added butter.” A few thumps of the tail and the small butt wiggle he reserves for his favorite things. “You like butter?” I asked. More wiggling.

Turning back to the pan I noticed that the sugar seemed to be melting. As I stirred, it began to coat the almonds with a light sheen. Soon a little smoke and toasted almond smell emanated from the pan.  

I glanced back at the recipe.

You can tell the almonds are done when you start to smell the toasted nut flavor and the sugar melts completely, coating the nuts.

“But there’s still two minutes on the timer,” I said to my little helper. “Do you think they’re done?”

I turned off the heat, certain burned almonds weren’t what I was going for.

I spread them on wax paper to cool, hoping they would cool into crunchy bits of deliciousness.

I cleaned the kitchen to pass the time, eventually returning with my companion to the almonds.

“Well, here goes nothing. You want to try it first or should I?” I asked him. He let out an excited whine. I flipped him an almond in response. It was devoured instantly.

“I’m not sure you’re the best judge,” I said, “you didn’t even taste that.”

I picked up my own piece and popped it into my mouth where it dissolved into a lovely blend of sweet and crunchy.

“We did it!” I yelled picking him up off the floor and spinning in a circle. “We actually did it!”

Later that night I gathered around the table with friends, enjoying our last dinner together before one moved across the country. “Where did you find the almonds for the salad Sara? They’re delicious.”

“I made them,” I replied to stunned silence.

“You cooked?” she asked. “But you hate to cook. Why the change? Because you’re learning to be brave, not perfect?”

“Yes,” I answered. “And because I’m going to miss you. You are absolutely worth facing my fears for.”

by

Me

I top off the air in the tires, squeeze them to be sure they are full, and set the pump back on the shelf. Headphones in place and podcast queued up, I push off and begin pedaling, settling myself on the bicycle seat as I head down the familiar road towards the beach.

Overhead, the trees shade me from the sun, dripping Spanish moss down to create a canopy of texture and sound. I feel my hair begin to curl in the humid South Carolina air and smile as I bid goodbye to the twelve wasted minutes I spent straightening it earlier.

I hit play on my podcast and Oprah’s voice fills the silence. I’m in the middle of a podcast series with her and Eckhart Tolle, the author of one of my favorite books, A New Earth. They are discussing the book chapter-by-chapter and they are the perfect companions for my ride.

“The primary cause of unhappiness is never the situation, but your thoughts about it,” Eckhart is saying. “Be aware of the thoughts you are thinking. Defining yourself through thought is limiting yourself.”

I hit pause to let his statement soak in. As I turn it over in my mind, I remember the last time I was miserably unhappy. It was just a couple weeks ago on a hotel balcony in Costa Rica.  

Then, after 48 hours of tension and raw discussions with my husband on our honeymoon, I’d retreated to the balcony, exhausted, deflated, and quickly spiraling into a dark place. Curled up with a box of kleenex in a swinging chair, I let the tears fall. Earlier, he’d expressed a list of hard-to-hear, but valid, insights about me and about our relationship. Those had mingled with a harsh follow-up critique from my inner perfectionist and sent me to a familiar pit of despair. Every negative thought felt so true and real they crushed me with their assessment of my character.

Now, riding my bike toward the beach, I realize that defining myself through my perfectionistic thoughts limits who I am and is the primary cause of any unhappiness. What if I hadn’t been so attached to who those thoughts say I am? Would I have felt such a strong need to dig in and defend myself for two days? Would I have sunk into such a dark place after? Probably not.

Overhead a crow caws his agreement as I hit play on the podcast, anxious to hear more.

Tolle continues: “Ego takes everything personally. Emotion arises, defensiveness, perhaps even aggression. You are defending yourself, or rather the illusion of yourself…If there is awareness in you, you will be able to recognize that voice in your head for what it is: an old thought, conditioned by the past. You no longer need to believe every thought you think. ”

I rewind and listen again, remembering my awful thoughts in Costa Rica. That night, I twisted what my husband said and convinced myself I was a bad friend, a bad wife, an endless work in progress who would never be good enough.

But I also remember, that as my tears ran out, I felt the breeze and heard the sound of the waves crashing on the shore. I noticed the canopy of stars stretching endlessly above me. I became aware of my breath and the feel of the wall under my feet as I pushed off to keep my chair swinging. My emotional exhaustion had returned me to the present moment.

Was that the awareness Eckhart spoke of? The feeling of being so present in the moment that my thoughts still?

“How to be at peace now?” Tolle asks, before answering his own question. “By making peace with the present moment. The present moment is the field on which the game of life happens. It cannot happen anywhere else…It is when we are trapped in incessant streams of compulsive thinking that the universe really disintegrates for us, and we lose the ability to sense the interconnectedness of all that exists…Only if we are still enough inside and the noise of thinking subsides can we become aware that there is a hidden harmony here, a sacredness, a higher order in which everything has its perfect place and could not be other than the way it is.”

Arriving at the beach, I turn the podcast off, and hear my bike tires rumble over the boardwalk below. Countless times, over 35 years, I’ve ridden this way, knowing the smooth sand of the Atlantic shore will greet me at the end. I return because riding along the ocean in this familiar place soothes something inside me. Here I can always drown out the voice in my head; the one Eckhart is talking about.

But, while it is easy here, I must remember the peace of being in the present moment is always available to me, regardless of my location or life events. And being in the present moment quiets my thoughts and reminds me I am not who they say I am. I am something more.

I turn my bike into the sun. A flock of small sea birds flitters past, alighting on a tide pool just ahead, only to take off immediately as I reach them. We move from tide pool to tide pool as I pedal down the beach. A pelican flies overhead, turning its head to look down on me. For a brief moment, I stare into its big brown eye and hold my breath. The waves crash rhythmically, consistently, the soundtrack for my ride. Ahead of me, a golden retriever plays in the waves, soaked from nose to tail. He turns to his owner and barks. The owner responds by throwing his ball down the beach towards me. He bounds after it, dodging waves and screeching to a sandy halt, having the time of his life.

The voice in my head goes quiet. For the first time in a long time, I feel calm, connected, peaceful, and content. I am the true me, not who my limiting thoughts say I am.  

And it’s beautiful.

by

Battling the Bulge

“Ok, I need to do this. I’ve put it off long enough.”

I grimace at my naked reflection in the mirror. I’ve grown pudgy around the edges. I barely recognize myself; the result of not breaking a sweat in nearly a year and taking a good six months off from paying attention to what I’m eating.

“Sigh. It’s time. You need a jumpstart and a starting point. Just get it over with.”

I kick the “on” button with my toe, toggle to my settings, and place a timid first foot on the scale.

“Here goes nothing,” I mumble.

I step my second foot on, distribute my weight evenly, hold my breath, and say a silent prayer. I look down. My jaw drops.

I officially weigh the most I’ve weighed. Ever. In my life. It sucks. Big time.

While I knew it would be rough, I’m still surprised. My shoulders slump as I step off, defeated.

I reach for my undergarments as my self criticism kicks into high gear. One of the most challenging things about perfectionism are the negative voices. They are immediate, they are relentless, and they are cruel.

“You are ugly. You are fat. You are unattractive to everyone. Soon your husband won’t even desire you.”

“Why can’t you just stop eating so much? I mean come on, people have normal relationships with food all over the world. Why can’t you be more like them? Stop reaching for food in every circumstance, it’s clearly not your friend.”

“And for God’s sake, break a sweat. You are so lazy. You sit all damn day. How hard is it to get up once in awhile a walk around? No wonder every part of your body hurts, you’ve completely let yourself go.”

I grab the closest pair of pants that still fit and pull them on, lost in the rampant perfectionist thoughts. I feel deserving of them.

Behind me the bathroom door opens as I tug a t-shirt over my head.

“Hey babe, I brought you coffee,” my husband says as he sets it on the counter. Next to the cup he carefully places three small sticky notes. “I know I usually leave them downstairs but today I thought I would bring them to you as I head out.”

His sweet words break the berating of my inner voice. I look at him and smile. “Thanks baby,” I say as I lean in for a kiss, “this is just what I needed this morning.”

As he heads out to work, I take the first sip, and look down at the notes.

“I’m so lucky to know you. Who’s blessed? I. AM. LUCKY,” the first one reads.

“I love your stupid face. Stupidly….AWESOME face. You are amazing,” reads the second.

“I notice how awesome you are. I do. I see it in everything you do. I’m proud of you,” says the third.

My eyes tear up a little.

I hang the notes on the mirror as I start to dry my hair to prepare for the day. I read them again and again, letting them sink in.

Yes, I have a little work to do to feel more comfortable in my skin again. But as these notes attest, I am still loved. I am still blessed. I am still awesome. I am still valuable.

No matter what the scale reads.

And you are too.