reflection

Bullying and Transphobia – More than One Day a Year

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At the beginning of this week, I reposted something I wrote a few months ago about bullying – what it is by definition, my middle school experience and a more recent one. When I wrote that many months ago, I was angry at the thing that was going on; at the bullying being done against me. The bullying – without remorse, without shame, in fact quite the opposite with almost a smirking, cheerful triumph. I would have thought it was sad if I wasn’t so upset about it.

It was written in haste and fury and the tone probably got away from me. It was also written in the middle of the stress that triggered me all the way back to middle school.

That’s one of the ways triggers work. They lie hidden beneath the surface, in the unconscious until one day something happens that reminds the deep down and it affects you in a strong way with feelings rising that are at once familiar and unfamiliar and they are uncontrollable. Not uncontrollable in your reaction, although sometimes, but you can’t control being affected by it in whatever way you are.

On a conscious level, I didn’t go strawberry picking until my first son was old enough. I didn’t have any other opportunities really, growing up in suburbia, no strawberry patches where we lived, but if I thought about being on a school bus alone I was brought back to that day. When I thought about strawberry picking, even the day I went with my son, it came back to me. I wouldn’t call these triggers as much as memories associated with those very specific instances but it’s very similar to triggers that many (including me) feel much more strongly.

The bullying I experienced a few months ago was different. For one thing, I’m in my forties and my bully is well into his adulthood. For another thing, I forgot that not everyone works in the logical and open-minded section of the world. I was silly enough to think that if I spoke to this person rationally, he would realize how abusive and (verbally) violent he was being. I was wrong about that. For the third thing, this is the internet and people take their anonymity to cause more harm than good very seriously. Up until this point, I had been lucky enough to have experienced the latter folks – the compassionate, the kind, the helpful. This change was a surprise and fairly or not, I was still taken aback by the cruelty of it.

I’m sure this sounds naïve, especially for a forty-something mother of three, but I’ve always believed the best in people and this behavior was beyond my comprehension.

Having said that, I still believe that, but my eyes are opened a little wider and I parse my words a little more. I worry about offending people even though I can’t control how people will react to my words or my actions. I try not to let bullies affect me, but it’s hard not to. When it happens, I’m twelve again. I’m hurt, but I don’t want to rock the boat; I don’t want to make things worse for myself.

It’s fear, plain and simple.

And it’s wrong for other people to make us feel that way; to the point that we change who we are to avoid them.

I chose this week to talk about my bullying occurrences for a reason.  This has been Transgender Visibility/Awareness Week, culminating yesterday with the fifteenth Transgender Day of Remembrance, memorializing those transgender people who die violently each year.

If all we think of is the bullying, that’s bad enough, but coupled with the transphobia and violence especially against trans women of color, although trans men are not immune, it’s nearly epidemic.

It’s not a simple case of being bullied for who you are, for how you present yourself, but to fear for your life in a very literal way, knowing that if you meet a violent death it will probably be horrible. The bullying that comes for others after one of these murders must be terror inducing. I mean I get panic attacks thinking about my experiences and even with those, I’m not afraid of dying violently. There must be something alarming about hearing that someone like you deserved to die because of how they present themselves, how they identify.

For simply being themselves and living authentically like the rest of us try to do, they are given a death sentence, and for many this comes after a series of torture and abuse apart from the everyday kinds of side-eyes and bullying trans people face.

That’s why for me, it’s important to draw attention to every death, every torture that’s publicized in the news, every misgendering, every transphobic word that those of us not in the community don’t see as hurtful because we simply can’t understand how hurtful it is.

For every one that’s publicized there are inestimable numbers that are not reported to the authorities or the media.

Whether you know someone personally who’s been bullied for their gender identity or not, this is the responsibility for all of us to make everyone feel safe in their space, and in their skin on their own terms.

Be supportive, but be careful not to bully them into conforming to what you feel are your rights to information and take care not to put three dimensional people into a one dimensional box. Take care not to label those who choose not to use labels, and don’t assume you know better than the individual person. That probably should go for everyone you meet, not only trans people.

For those of us not in the trans community, it’s brought to us once a year as a day of remembrance, after the murders have already happened. For the trans community this is every day, and they can’t click the next link to avoid it.

Trans people are not a cause. Stopping the transphobic bullying and epidemic levels of murder in their community is a cause, and one that we need to focus on until there is no need for more days of remembrance.

Reflection on Conversion

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“…shows that conversion is not just a one-time event but a lifelong process.”

-The Word Among Us, May 26, 2014 issue

 

When I began my religious studies to become a Roman Catholic, I expected to get the basics, ask some questions, go through with the required rituals and sacraments and then I’d be Catholic.

And while, yes, that is the basic, no-frills description of any person’s conversion, reading this quotation in May really reaffirmed what I had been thinking already for a long time: conversion is not an overnight event. There isn’t a test you have to pass.

There is a period after the Easter sacraments, a mystogogical period to delve further into the mysteries of the Holy Spirit and the Sacraments. I may have been told that this concludes after Pentecost, but I seem to think that I’ve also been told that it continues for a year after joining the Church.

Whichever it is, I feel like I learn something new every day. Whether it’s a new Scripture that I’ve never heard before or am less familiar with than the more ‘popular’ ones; whether it’s a new (to me) day on the calendar, a saint’s day of someone I want to explore further or discovering something deep within myself that I want to reflect on. It is literally an everyday occurrence that either brings a question to be answered or a reflection to be meditated on.

Coming from a Jewish background, I feel as though this conversion is more of a transition. Just as the New Testament is the second part of the Bible for Christians, I feel that my Catholic faith is a second chapter with my Jewish life as the first and the third chapter is written as I move forward spiritually.

For me it’s a never-ending progression as I gather more information and history of Jesus in his time and through his teachings that can only lead to discover knew interpretations for my spirituality to grow deeper and more entwined and woven through my soul.

This wasn’t just a life-long commitment to Jesus; it was a life-long process of learning who I am through Jesus.

St. Kateri Tekakwitha’s Shrine

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We’re reminded throughout the year and the Liturgical calendar of many of the saints through their feast days. Recently, we’ve observed Sts. Simon and Jude, the North American Martyrs and Pope St. John XXIII and Pope St. John Paul II.

Today is All Saints’ Day; that day on the calendar that honors all the saints. Although not today, it is often a holy day of obligation where Catholics are expected to attend Mass. I did attend this morning, and since there is no specific saint mentioned it is a good time to remember the saints that are important to us.

The saint I chose for my confirmation name is St. Elen (of Caernarfon). I wrote about her back when I was going through my sacraments.

Last week was my annual fall retreat, and today I get to tell you about one of the unexpected directions I was sent on during that week: the National Shrine of St. Kateri Tekakwitha.

She was one of the three saints I considered for my confirmation before I was finally led to St. Elen.

I contemplated having St. Kateri because:

  1. She was local,
  2. She was Native American, and
  3. Her name began with a K like mine.

When I read her story what stood out to me was how she was the only Christian among her relatives, and that struck a chord with me during my conversion. I was the only one moved to follow Jesus Christ, and so was the only one talking about Scriptural things. Obviously, I wasn’t trying to convert my family, but that single similarity stayed with me.

At four, Kateri lost her immediate family to a small pox outbreak. She had contracted the virus, and was left scarred by her illness. Upon her death, witnesses say her scars disappeared.

She appeared to three people in the days after her death, and one year later, she appeared again to Father Chauchetière who painted what is considered the oldest portrait of the saint:

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Two of the four National Shrines that honor St. Kateri are in two small nearby villages in upstate New York about a five hour drive south from her burial place in Quebec.

I had heard of Kateri before I became a Catholic, but really only knew that she had been beatified and her place was local. I’ve had a strong connection to Native Americans since I was a child. I think I find myself drawn to cultures other than my own. I had just begun attending Mass when Kateri was canonized in 2012. I received a wallet card from the Shrine as they celebrated her canonization and our whole Diocese celebrated, and I’ve carried that with me since that day in October.

That day in October also held an unrelated significance for me as well: it was the original due date of my middle child, who decided to be two weeks early, lucky for both of us since as it was, the day he was born I was in labor for two days, unbeknownst to me.

I had no intention of traveling to a saint’s shrine on my retreat, but when I glanced at a map and saw how close it was to where I had been on Saturday, I realized that I didn’t have many opportunities to visit something so significant, and since she did have some inspiration for me, I was excited to go once it had been pointed out to me.

It was raining when I got there, so I browsed around the gift shop until it was a light enough mist for me to walk around. The buildings of the shrine close this weekend for the winter (because none of the buildings have heat), so my timing couldn’t have been more perfect. I plan to return when they have one of their events through the spring and summer.

I wandered through the museum first and then upstairs to St. Peter’s Chapel, which is a commemoration to the chapel that Kateri was baptized in. The nearby spring that was used to baptize her (and other converts at that time) still flows. Visitors claim healings and cures after drawing from the holy spring and praying for intercession by St. Kateri.

She lived in the village up the hill for most of her life. It is currently the only completely excavated Iroquois site in the country. Although the area had a history, it hadn’t been a shrine to her until Pope St. John Paul II beatified her in 1980.

The air was cool, the mist was wet and the sky was grey. I hadn’t realized until last week how much that type of weather is my weather. Very often I talk about my trip to Wales; more like pilgrimage, and when something reminds me of Wales, it is much more than the anecdote of a week’s vacation. There are so many non-religious, spiritual things associated with the simple phrase, it reminds me of Wales.

The fact that walking around the wet grass, seeing the bright yet muted oranges and reds against the greens, browns and greys as light played off the puddles was so reminiscent of my Wales that I had to sit and catch my breath. I was also moved to sit for quite a while in the chapel reading James Martin’s second prayer. The spirit was truly with me on this day. It was the perfect reading for the place; a perfect place to meditate on the Gospel, on Fr. Martin’s reflections, and to feel my own.

I walked.

I sat.

I prayed.

I meditated.

It was very consoling; reassuring of all that is right in the world.

It was exceptionally reflective and it gave me the impulse and the space to be reflective.

It reminded me of why I became a Catholic as well as why I became a writer. Both are similar answers even though they don’t come easily to the conscious mind: I can’t be anything else. Neither was anything that I was looking for, but instead they found me. Both are faith driven, both are involuntary, instinctive, and they both need caring to keep them potent.

Let me share the beauty of St. Kateri Tekakwitha’s Shrine with you:

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The Train Station

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Apart from a variety of subways and commuter trains, I’ve only taken long distance trains twice for traveling. The first was across the UK in the 80s, which was a blast, and the second was last year to visit my friend and his friends to watch and celebrate the Supernatural ninth season finale.

I loved the visit, but the train travel made up half of the fun. It was an adventure.

My anxiety gave me bits to worry about, and I would have to stay over in Penn Station from 2am to 7am until my last train home, but all the parts in between were new and wondrous, and sleeping on my suitcase at 3am in Penn Station was not actually as bad as I was expecting.

I have always called this my retreat week, and as I mentioned earlier in the week, that may not be the correct word to use. In my search for a better word, journey came to mind, and while I still haven’t settled on it (or any other), I was zapped with creative lightning, better known as inspiration and actually said out loud: What better place to begin this week’s journey than at the train station.

It wasn’t bright and early, but I managed to get myself to the Amtrak station at the tail end of Sunday morning, and began by taking photos outside.

I don’t remember the old station, but the new one is very attractive and welcoming. (I sound like a tourist guide.)The last time I was there was Easter week and it was cold and cloudy and rushed.

When I went in this time, I took inventory of the place – coffee shop, gift store, waiting area, ticket counter, post office section and people.

I didn’t look too out of place – I had my briefcase with my notebooks, an umbrella, so I more or less fit in with most of the other travelers.

I found a seat and people watched for a few minutes, trying to squint my eyes enough to see the departures board as if I needed to see when that train was getting into DC.

For a second, I forgot that I wasn’t actually going anywhere.

I still felt like pretending. I took out my Kindle and that was where the unexpected urge to begin James Martin’s Together on Retreat with the First Prayer appeared. Seriously – I was just going to play a game and see what I wanted to do there.

My space wasn’t silent; it was barely still, but even so I felt the solitude in spite of the people milling about, hugging, taking pictures, checking the sizes of their carry-ons, calling each other from across the station. I noticed a Tardis hat, and the Red Caps finding wheelchairs and carting luggage around.

I could feel myself inwardly smiling.

It reminded me of the sensation of traveling: the list making, the packing, the plans, and the heartbeat of excitement that is the mix of adventure and anxiety – that typical but not typical wonder, not of getting from point A to point B, but the thrill of everything that comes in between.

I began to read.

His first prayer is to reflect on the scripture Mark 1:16-20, the call of the first disciples. This was very dramatic for me, having only recently been called. Once He (Jesus) beckons them, they follow. There’s no real suspense for us, the reader, knowing the outcome of this nearly two thousand year old book, but the part of me at home in the train station was envious, not only of their first-hand account of Jesus’ teachings but of their impending travel to parts unknown.

I wonder if they thought about the new things they’d see; or the old things they’d see with new eyes. Did they just go without a second thought or was there deliberation in hindsight?

This is one of the reasons that much of my writing, even the non-travely writing often has travel and journeying metaphors. Moving from one place to the next, whether physically or emotionally remains how I describe the changes in my life, physically and metaphysically.

I’m walking a path, parts of it are dark, parts of it are scary, but portions are also light and exciting. Sometimes we have a traveling partner, a companion, and sometimes, for some sections of it, we travel alone. Well, not quite alone. Walking with G-d, we are never alone.

And so the train station was so many things that day. I didn’t notice how long I’d been just sitting there, reading, contemplating, meditating and writing. It was more of jotting things down, and typing notes into my Kindle where I agreed with Father Martin. He was like a whisper in my ear, sharing his time in the Holy Land, and letting me take his experiences and use them to create an oasis of Holy Land around my seat by the window.

For a moment, I wondered if I could afford one round trip ticket. What is the cheapest ticket that I could buy and still get back by tonight? I didn’t bother to check. Sometimes, the journey isn’t getting on the train; it’s finding the next place on the map and heading thataway.

There are so many things to think about this week.

No point sitting still; I hear the whistle; it’s time to go!

The Unexpected

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So far this week, at least the start of it, has been something else, in many ways, both good and bad. My anxiety reared its ugly, irrational head, some personal and family issues came up, and to be honest, this is my only week and I’m ignoring them/head sanding for the moment. That’s not to say that I’m not thinking about them or the situation; on the contrary, I’m thinking about them a lot, but this is the one week I can concentrate on me and not feel guilty about it. There are some health issues that I need to think about and deal with and I’ve been praying on that as well. That is one of the reasons I went to the healing/anointing mass on Monday. The one regret that I have for this week is that I can’t afford a couple of nights at a hotel/motel, like a pretend vacation, but not a vacation, kind of a prayerful, working (writing) vacation or some other word that hasn’t come to me yet.

Back to the guilt, I have always been in Mommy-mode, even in high school and college. I guess it’s hardwired in my nature, but it backs me into a corner and despite the instinct that everyone comes before me. It hasn’t always bothered me; it’s just the way it is, and because of that it’s kind of expected, including by me.

Part of the last two years, as I write often about, is discovering who I am. Part of that person has been hidden under fear of expectations of who I was supposed to be. The past can’t be changed, but those losses can be acknowledged and mourned.

The enormity of how much has changed for me is almost too much to confront, but who I am now is still evolving.

An obvious change is my level of religiousness. It isn’t just that I believe, because I’ve always believed in G-d and afterlife, but I believe in other things. I attend church at least four times a week. I’m thinking of joining a ministry. I didn’t become Catholic to fit in, but because Jesus asked me to follow him, much in the same way he called to the first disciples to follow him. For me, not the literal words, but the essence in a shimmering light. I don’t often talk about my moment. I still may write separately about it.

I have ideas of what I want to do this week. Primarily, I try to jump start my writing, but it appears the Spirit has other plans for me, guiding me to more spiritual places: the water, the train station and the city murals, the Anointing Mass and now today, to St. Kateri. I almost took her name as my confirmation name; she was one of my choices before settling on St. Elen. St. Kateri’s story is somewhat similar to mine, choosing the path apart from her family; speaking openly of her conversion.

I’m meditating and pondering more on what G-d’s plan is for me. Where do His wants and my wants meet? Can I openly, more openly be the spiritual person I feel deep within myself, rising more insistently to the surface? How can those around me get used to my love for the church and church things? I don’t have to go to church; I want to. I need to. My soul needs to. Not my immortal soul that goes to Hell if I fail my “obligations” but my soul-self, the me I am deep within who needs the church like I need writing.

Like I need air.

I know it’s not who I used to be. I know it’s not what my family and friends are used to, but it is who I am, and while I’m still changing, this won’t.

It won’t all spill out at once, but I can’t keep myself hidden. Some things are still hidden from me. I can feel them poking, but they’re not ready to be released and I’m probably hot ready for them just yet.

I’m not the same person. And once I truly accept that, I can start being my authentic self and slowly the people around me can adapt, hopefully.

As you can see, this consciousness streamed. My impromptu writing almost never ends up where I’ve expected it to go. I do wonder where tomorrow will take me. Maybe somewhere to help me explain what I need and who I want to be.

Sept 22 (Luke 8, Proverbs 3) Reflection

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There were several things in Monday’s Mass that struck at me with familiarity. The first was the Reading: Proverbs 3:27-34, in particularly verse 27:

“Refuse no one the good on which he has a claim when it is in your power to do it for him.”

And the Gospel of Luke 8: 16-18

16 “Now no one after lighting a lamp covers it over with a container, or puts it under a bed; but he puts it on a lampstand, so that those who come in may see the light.17 For nothing is hidden that will not become evident, nor anything secret that will not be known and come to light.18 So take care how you listen; for whoever has, to him more shall be given; and whoever does not have, even what he[e]thinks he has shall be taken away from him.”

 

How many reminders in the Scriptures are there for helping your neighbor? And we all know that it isn’t always literal neighbor, but a euphemism for fellow man or rather mankind.

If you have the ability, as Proverbs says you should help without questioning yourself, your neighbor’s motives or needs or whether or not you feel like it. It can be just as hard to ask for that person or more than it is to go without.

And Luke. How many passages do we read that have to do with light shining in the darkness? Following the well-lit path? Showing someone else your own light?

The light is so many things – our lives, our faith, the brightness in a child’s eyes, the glow of the sun’s rays through stained glass as it skitters across a wooden or stone floor. When I first came into the church, I couldn’t help but notice the different lights: the skylight, the small stained glass windows, the large Blessed Mother in the front, the large windowed cross in the back and of course the candles and how each light reflected itself, but also shown differently in the shadows; to be more nuanced than simply light and dark.

I saw Christ in the light – the proverbial awakening of my soul through the spirit.

I have come full circle through most of the passages. It won’t be complete until the third year of Gospels, but for some of the readings I’ve heard them before, and they still jump out at me as I recognize their impact on my heart.

Monday’s Antiphon was the first one I ever read, and that was a random picking of a page back when:

I am the salvation of the people, says the Lord. Should they cry to me in any distress, I will hear them, and I will be their Lord for ever.

 

He did.

And He is.

May 14th Reflection

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This campus is a dichotomy in practice. It is stone and marble and brick and lamp posts and tulips. Face one way and it’s the bustle of a city, traffic, walkers, bicycles, radios, chatter, convenience stores. Face the other way and it is green and benches and pastoral.

Today I will walk down the block to the church for Mass. This makes me happy. Shrill sirens scream behind the buildings, people chatter. I sit in partial sunlight under a big tree with rust colored leaves, comfortably, just enough sun in my eyes, warmth on my skin and a cool enough breeze that my decision to not bring a sweater is validated.

I look on at St. Rose, immortalized in stone, arms crossed, eyes closed, wondering about her. My Google list is long and she is at the top to learn about the woman for whom this campus is named for.

I close my eyes (and I hear Kansas – a by-product of a 70s childhood and A supernatural fandom), but only for a moment and the moment’s gone, but the moments here last a bit longer than a moment.

The parking is mostly good and I think about coming back here in later weeks as an inspirational place. Sit and be. Think and write.

Contentedness overlaps with excitability and the bells are ringing to announce the hour. I don’t have a ride home, and I am not worried in the least. This feeling reminds me of a similar day in Williamsburg. I haven’t reached the space of pure contentment and zero anxiety of that day, but this is very close. The winding paths and benches, the stone foundations and the brickwork, the root cellar doors and the leaves barely moving in the gentle breath of the air all remind me of Colonial Williamsburg. I thought it was the place a year ago – goodness it’s exactly a year ago to the day, isn’t it – I thought it was the pace – the childhood memories, being newlyweds, the home of my best friend but it is more than my life experiences as sitting her about five hundred miles north gives me nearly the same feels to grasp onto and gravitate towards.

It is this inner spirituality, inner peace inner light that comes on the breeze and adapts to my surroundings. The devil is in the details but really it is G-d in the details, doing without us noticing until our souls do in fact notice and feel that déjà vu to center us wherever we are.

Like right now.

And here.

Reflections for this Holy Week

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I wanted to write something for the reflection for my church’s blog on March 26th (yesterday), but the words aren’t coming as easily as I had expected (or wanted) them to. I chose today’s date because it was one that was very significant to me.

One year ago today I began attending daily Mass during the week. It kind of came about accidentally, but in the last year, I’ve discovered that nothing is accidental.

Every day that I attended, I discovered something new about the Lord, the church and myself.

For one thing, I became calmer. I wasn’t looking for it, but it was a definite change in my mindset.

It began on my drives to church in the mornings. They had the effect of washing away the troubles and the bad part of the last night and the morning. I wasn’t trying to get rid of it, but my mind would clear itself and when I arrived at the church door, I was ready for whatever message was coming my way.

For another thing, more likely than not there was a question in my mind, a struggle, something that I needed help with and had nowhere to go, and nine times out of ten, the answer was there in the Mass. If it wasn’t in the Gospel or the Responsorial, it was in the homily.

As a child and young person growing up, I wasn’t Catholic, so the few times I would attend church for friends, for weddings or funerals, it was awkward. I was awkward. I understood nothing, I never knew when to stand, when to sit, when my eyes should be open or closed. How did everyone know what to say and when? I was uncomfortable whenever Jesus was mentioned.

However, from my first day here at Mass, I wasn’t awkward. I wasn’t looked at strangely. I was welcomed. I felt welcomed. My questions were welcomed. No one cared that I wasn’t Catholic, and they went out of their way to explain anything to me that I asked about. I was allowed to explore my faith and myself and the pieces of the church that I had never seen before or been exposed to, and discovered much more than a place to rest my depression or simply a place to go.

I still didn’t know what to do, but it didn’t matter. I stood when the person in front of me stood, and sat when they sat. When they turned to shake my hand, I shook theirs, and in that moment of touch, it was like a bolt of lightning. I felt my face alight with a smile and joy filled my soul and I looked forward to that touch every day; the connection as our eyes met, our hands met. I would close my hand and keep that touch in there for as long as I could. It gave me energy. It gave me hope. It gave me promise and purpose and love. And I held it close.

When I would forget, I could just close my hand and it would be back again.

One year ago I took refuge in the pews of the church, usually empty save for me or the occasional visit by the grounds keeper. Before I began attending the Masses, I would just sit and read the daily prayers in the Missal. I was lost and at a loss and just in the sitting and talking to G-d, I found something. I hadn’t realized it at the time; it took several months to realize how important my mornings with G-d meant to me and how they changed me in a positive way.

In the year since that first day, I have found many more readings that fit into my daily life and give me guidance and a hand to hold when I’m feeling alone.

Mass is not an obligation to me. I look forward to the Mass. And I’m never alone.

I have this deeper understanding of who Jesus Christ was and is and where He fits into my life. It is more comfort than I think I have ever felt.

 

The beginning of today’s Psalm reminds me of why I started coming and why I come nearly every day:

In you, O LORD, I take refuge;
let me never be put to shame.
In your justice rescue me, and deliver me;
incline your ear to me, and save me.
R. I will sing of your salvation.

 

 

Day 1: Retreat

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Cool wind on my face as I step off the porch. Fall leaves swirl all around me. Deep breath. And a smile. What a difference one year makes. And so it begins.

This is what I tweeted/facebooked when I walked out of the door first thing this morning. It was a wonderful feeling. At the moment, I’m attempting to organize my six days of writing. Of retreat. It’s funny, that word: retreat. When the military use it, it’s a bad thing, but when an artist or a writer or just a vacationer uses it, it’s a special occasion, a special time to rejuvenate, to reinvent, to be reborn in something else, someone else. The English language is a funny thing.

So begins my retreat. Or whatever it is. I still can’t pinpoint what I’m doing. I just know that I miss my writer’s conferences. I miss the creativity that fills me from my friends. I miss the poking and the petting that I need, but am so afraid to ask for. I miss the feeling; a feeling. I miss Wales. Actually, that’s not true.

I long for Wales. In the Fall, the hiraeth is strong, so strong. I even enjoy when my friend E talks down about his hometown near Bangor because then I can extol its virtues and the top one hundred reasons why he should also love it too. I know deep down he does, but it’s his hometown and he knows all of its intrincasies, which are boring and sheep filled.

Last year, I went to Denver and got some of this. Plotting a trip for spring perhaps, but this year, I can barely afford to go to Starbucks, but I need something. Not want.

NEED.

I’ve decided to give it to myself. I still have appointments. I still have bills. I still have family obligations, but I’m spreading MY TIME out among the next two weeks and if I can manage my goals, you will be hearing about most of it (some of you more than others), and at the end of the two weeks, I’m hoping to have a foundation for the next year to carry me through with more goals and successes and growiing and journeying down this path; this seemingly new path that has always been a thread in my subconscious that I’ve followed haphazardly.

I’ve planned the family’s menu for this week and done the grocery shopping this morning after Mass. About fifty dollars. I may or may not be home for dinner, and my husband and teenage son will be in charge of cooking. I’ve packed the freezer with waffles for breakfast and I’ve promised not to leave before all the kids get on their buses.

I have also, believe it or not, labeled all the boxes and wrappings of the food with the day of the week that they’re supposed to be eaten on. I thought my husband would be insulted that I did that, but it thanked me. Hopefully, our daughter will stay away from the cheese until after grilled cheese night!

So meals are planned.

Shopping is done.

There will be a lot of introspection and reflection and the things I’ve lost and the ones I’ve found in the last year, but especially in the last ten months, and always harking back to the good and the lessons learned and who I am today rather than who I never was.

Today, I’m at the library in a quiet corner by the window. There is a waterfall, and a frog and trees of just the right color and height (that’s a joke – if you’re reading this in the future, Google: Romney, Election 2012, it might still be amusing).

Today, I organize and plan and prepare. There will be index cards and workshop homework and creating a new blog and a dedicated Facebook page.

I will get back on track for my self-imposed assignments and all the while, not so much finding myself as becoming myself.