Miracle: Rediscovering Grace in the Restoration of Faith

December 4th

Miracle: Do you feel you experienced or witnessed miracle this year? How so?

It might depend on how you describe a miracle. Some people describe seeing them in the moonlight, or in the sunshine, or in how the rays of sun glisten through clouds.

Miracles, for me, come through receiving grace. It seems that it often takes feeling a hurt deeper than you ever have felt before and sensing that your friendships, or your job, or your sanity will come crashing down. The sense of feeling as if you don’t do something and quickly you’ll never recover is what I call grace and a defining moment. 

A long-term relationship ended just shy of one year ago. It pained me and yet I so desperately wanted to prove that I was going to be fine and that I could move on, I pushed myself to move on and be alright without ever actually confronting why it hurt so bad to begin with. Several months passed before I realized that this "thing" I wasn't dealing with could destroy every other relationship I had: feelings of doubt, feelings of mistrust, and a general feeling of abandonment. 

I was exhausted - emotionally, hurting and fearing that the people I love and who I believe cared about me and sustained me during the initial difficult time would back away. 

Tired, feeling very much alone, and with nowhere to go, I went to a Church. It wasn’t like any Church I’d ever been to... a satellite campus and broadcasted at  a high school auditorium. Yet, I walked without resistance into the quad of the campus to see a sign that said, “A Place Where It’s OK to Not Be OK.” I immediately felt tears streaming down my face. 

I was undoubtedly torn. At one point, I didn't know who I could trust nor did I know why I wondered and doubted that. This Church I had just walked into announced they were starting a series called, "Torn: Trusting God When Life Leaves You in Pieces." 

The Pastor, Jud Wilhite, said at the beginning, "Maybe you don't know why that relationship ended, or maybe you don't know why it hurts." The tears at this point poured down my face. 

I thought, and somewhat still believe that the people I wanted to confide in, or had already vented to, may have considered me too emotional, or presumed I would have already moved on. I felt as though also these people I loved had their own concerns that I didn’t want to bother them. My ears heard the words, "It's not about you." 

My heart ached. Of course it wasn't, it was about all of them. I wanted to be there for my friends and for my family but knew I couldn't because the hurt I felt inside was greater than any love - at that moment - that I could receive or offer. 

Drug addicts.

Domestic violence victims.

Assault survivors.

Foreclosures.

Job loss. 

And so on... 

Many of us often rationalize that our hurts, a simple breakup, or the natural end-of-life death of a loved one, are not significant enough in either the eyes of God or our peers because our neighbors may be dealing with something that much "worse" or difficult.

In discovering grace, it becomes known that it doesn't matter what it is because you're the only one who is experiencing it. Only you know what it feels like to lose the job, to be abused, to have lost your house or try to quit... something. The one common theme is that each of us can be torn by that one issue only one of us knows about. That's where we can come together. 

So, when I realized my life had left me emotionally in pieces, I chose to seek my faith. It was the beginning of the return back to feeling at peace with myself, at the risk of losing loved ones and friends in the process.

Whether fortune or unfortunately, I had to work at rebuilding my faith, then myself, before I could tackle anything else. It's now all an evolving process. 

Torn: Lyric Video from Central Online on Vimeo.
My prayer for the end of this year, is that through the restoration of faith and self-worth, may also my relationships with family and friends be restored too. That also, one day, if a friend is hurting and feeling like they need to climb out of darkness, I can either have the awareness or the invitation to offer a hand in that climb.

Join the Journey. Answer the Prompts & Tweet Your Link using #resonate11 & #reverb11

Putting the Puzzle Pieces of Life Together

In five days it will be one year since I started this blog process. It started out as one kind of journey, and as life changed, it has become another. 

Writing often helps one put the
puzzle pieces of life together.

The other night, while on an airplane traveling to a getaway I wrote a poem. Writing, for me, has always been an idiosyncratic process. It just happens. When I write what reads like a poem or song lyrics to me the words flow in one stream of consciousness. Once, I wrote a two page poem, front and back, while in between classes in college. I had about seven minutes to do it.

Sometimes, with writing, the words just come because the story is already in the author. 

At the top of the page on yellow legal pad paper I wrote, “Written just shy of 11 months from the day since my life changed (not that anyone is counting).” I wanted to put some finality on the shock that comes when a relationship ends; or rather, when my relationship ended. 

If you remember, I started this blog because my boyfriend at the time would call me things that hurt my feelings. The ending of the relationship though, when that happened, it hurt more. Then, there were a lot of other feelings that came out over the course of time. Removed, I finally had a way to address what it felt like in that instant that everything changed. 

Who knows, maybe this will help you or someone you know deal with the pain, heartache, grief, or whatever it is. 

I don't know what you just said.

I'm sorry, I missed it.

Tell me one more time that everything

is not alright.

Cuz I can't think.

I'm lost inside.

I can't find - 

Where am I supposed to go?

You said goodbye, I know

That part I got right.

I'm sorry, but I don't know why?

Tell me one more time that everything

is not alright.

Cuz I can't hear you.

I'm not listening.

I can't find - 

Where am I supposed to go?

You're gone, You're gone.

I'm all alone, all alone.

Just get up and say goodbye. 

It's not for me to leave.

I'm sorry, you've got to go.

I don't know what you just said.

I'm sorry, I missed it.

But that don't matter now -

You're gone, alright, and out of my life.

and now I'm free

Thank God you had to leave.

I am free.

Now that I'm who I'm supposed to be.

And I am fine.

Everything is alright. 

How do you deal with loss? With heartache? What’s your method of dealing with what you know to be good (like the ending of a relationship that should have ended) and also with the sadness that it ended anyway? Do you allow yourself to realize that it’s alright and natural to feel both relief and sadness at the same time? Let me know what you think. If you want... 

Photo Courtesy:  http://uwbwritingcenter.wordpress.com/2010/10/18/confession-i-write-poetry/

I'm Not Asking "Why?" Anymore

I looked at my phone for what felt like hours waiting for it to buzz or ring or light up.

Nothing. 

My own wrestling with patience prevented anyone from contacting me first, or so it seemed. That’s because I would stop at almost anything to communicate with someone at randomized, seemingly perfect for me, moments. 

“Think about what you need to do for yourself in those moments,” someone said to me recently. I cannot remember the exact wording now, but they continued and said, “Instead of thinking about what hurts or why its hurting, try to figure out what needs to be healed.” 

Have you ever been hurt and knew exactly what you needed to do to help yourself heal? Could you figure out the first step? 

“That’s a good idea,” I said back. In fact, it seems quite simple now that I think about it. After all, when I was younger it was pretty simple to figure out the first step towards healing. 

When you fall down, you get back up again.

When I was eight, I got on my bicycle and started riding it down the steep back hill of our development. It’s not for certain, but I believe I might have been carrying other things with me, weighing down bicycle with a faster speed to the bottom of that hill. Half way down, the front wheel skirted right, the back went left, and I landed underneath it and the bicycle dragged me about ten more feet. I don’t remember if I cried, but I probably did. I have a scar on the inside of my elbow that reminds me just how deep the road carved into me as the bicycle dragged me down the hill. In that moment, I didn’t need to figure out why it hurt or what had happened. It was quite obvious! So, I, in a sobbing and tearful, bloody mess begrudgingly walked my bicycle back up the hill and home. 

Not all hurts are that easy to figure out, and for most people the hurts become a little more complicated when you get older. Not the hurts, but the cause, and the why sometimes is impossible to figure out. Then, sometimes, we, I know I do, get stuck in wondering why something happened that we cannot see the first step.

One thing is for sure, I’m not asking Why? anymore. 

As a child: “Why did Sigmund (the cat) die?”

Parent: “She wasn’t feeling well and she’s in a better place.”

As a teenager: “Why couldn’t I go to the college I wanted to go to?”

Parent: “Because it wasn’t what you thought it was going to be.”

As an adult: “Why did he leave me?”
Parent: “It’s for the best.”

It’s interesting, I think, that the answers are easy when we’re younger and they are more vague as we get older. More deeply, because when we ask such a deep question like, “Why did he leave me?” or “Why did she have to get cancer?” we most likely wouldn’t be happy with the answer. It would not bring us the joy that we so long hoped to feel again.

When I hurt, sometimes I hit the gym and I pound my feet on the rotating belt as if it were pavement. It’s as if I’m chasing after some sort of something on the horizon and I never get there. Other times, I hang out with friends and occasionally enjoy more than what I need to enjoy when it comes to wine. Or, I write down stories that I hope would make sense of the pain. 

Since my last post, I decided to stop asking why and just go to the source that my Grandma taught me as a young girl: my Faith. Instead of asking myself again, why did my life change in the way it did, I asked who will still love me tomorrow? 

If you’re not a Christian, or have never been to Church, it may not make sense to you. But, for me, the message that I knew, and had heard, and trusted for years was much more loud than it ever has been before. In Romans 8, the Bible says, If our God is for us, then who can be against us? 

That’s real soul food, and real comfort, for me, on this journey... to something fabulous. 

If you're interested in learning more about the Bible, please check out this website. 

I Want to Sparkle

It’s September. 

Of course, you already knew that. 

I’m not sure, though, when, or how, this year became to be three-quarters of its way through. Really, I look at the calendar and I’m certain that the pages just turned to June. By the time I recognized it was June, I think it was August. That may explain that.

Time flies when you’re having fun, moving on, learning new things, or growing up. That’s all happened in the last nine months. What have you learned this year?

This year, I learned that I love to be spontaneous, so long as everything else is planned. It’s important to me to know where I’ll sleep, or how I’ll get somewhere, but the rest -- I can go with the flow.

Also, I learned that I’m content with being alone. In fact, much to my dismay, I actually enjoy it. That being said, I do love companionship and hope one day that I can have a relationship where there’s an honest blend of mutual interests and individual interests.

What I learned most about myself and my experiences of this year is what I don’t want, and how to help those who may not want it either. I don’t want to be stifled. 

I want to sparkle.

Getting the frump out of your rump is a permanent process; it is a constant cycle and the recognition of what does deserve and what one does not; and getting it out allows your sparkle to shine through. 

I have something big coming. It’s still in development and it is coming. As soon as I can tell you, I will. I hope you’re as excited about it as I am. 

The Best Way to Heal is to Help

When I first set out to write this blog it started because of a wound that was very deep, but very few people could see it. No matter how hard I tried to cover it up, the temporary bandages didn’t seem to be working.

There are bruises we can see, and there are bruises we can’t. It’s the latter that are the most common and the least talked about. 

When I set out to get the frump out of my rump, I didn’t realize that it came with the shedding of the source of my “frumpage.” 

The truth of the matter is that I didn’t realize I was being hurt until I wasn’t being hurt anymore.

It’s been a struggle, almost daily, these past several months trying to figure out if there’s a story to tell. If I was alone, and if I wasn’t, could others need to be helped. If they needed to be helped, how can I do that? 

It’s clear, as I write this, that the pain still exists. Some of the wounds have healed, but it’s an ongoing process. 

I heal when I can fit into that little black dress and am confident to wear it.

I heal when I am not afraid, or bothered by the possibility of enjoying tea alone.

There are other moments I heal. 

But, the biggest is finding ways to help. Would you be willing to help me help others? 

Bookends, Measuring the Year in a Life

“525,600 minutes how you measure the year in a life?” begs and so tries to answer the theme song of the musical Rent.

When I think about the “year in a life” right now, I think of the word bookends. It’s the marking of both the beginning and the end of something, and the story that’s told between those markers is how you measure that year in a life. 

Bookends are like the sunrise and sunset of the day. 

At the sunset of one year and the dawn into another I made myself a promise. 

“In 2011, I’m going to like myself more,” I said. I wrote it down. I published it on this blog so that anyone could see and hold me accountable should I have any doubt that I could do it. 

A post called “Floating on the Wings of Earthly Angels” told the story of how very real people turned up in my life in previously unimaginable ways. Emotionally, spiritually, and some days, physically, I was floating on angels. Now, I am again, and this time no one had to say anything. I already knew. 

Anyway, days grew into weeks and weeks grew into months and somehow I found myself standing seven months after that post without a single question or doubt that everything had in fact happened for a reason. 

Tomorrow will mark one year since something quite specific in my life. It will also be what would have been my Grandma’s ninety-second birthday. When I look at where I will be tomorrow and where I was exactly 365 days earlier and then all that has happened in between, I can’t imagine it only being 525,600 minutes. 

I started July 22, 2010 in tears of emotional hope. 

I ended July 21, 2011 with a smile that could not be wiped from my face that could only be described as ethereal joy. No hope necessary, it just is.  

The story that’s told in the middle of these bookends is a year in a life. 

It’s told simply: in small and big prayers, in some very big cups of coffee, quite a few bottles of wine, moments of uncontrollable laughter, the making of some wonderful new friends (some old one’s too) and memories, as well as the shedding of a former self that all built up to an overflowing of gratitude. 

Bookends. 

        Oh, and I totally like myself more. 

On Coming and Going

11:14 PM Nashville, TN time, July 4, 2011

Preface:

It's been a long time since I wrote. Not because I didn't have anything to say, but because I was busy living. Not thinking about it or worrying about it, but just living. 

Coming and going.

There's been a lot of that in my life the last several weeks. I graduated (but didn't travel) from Boston University with a Master's Degree. I shut down my computer for everything but work and social media and lived and laughed up life.

I went to Palm Springs and soaked up the sun and made a lot of new memories... Stories I will tell my children one day.

Mom and Dad came to visit and bought all my "new" friends their drinks. My Mom even did a shot.  In this visit my parents became my friends.

My two best friends came to visit and a friend from my Palm Springs days did too and we all partied together.

Then, I went. I packed for what would be three full days and three nights of a weekend that could only be described as life-changing. I went to Nashville, TN to be picked up from the airport by one of my most favorite people so I could meet his beautiful and awesomely wonderful wife. Then we, my same friend who visited just two weeks ago, another friend, too, all piled in a car to drive to Chattanooga. Another friend was getting married.

I hadn't slept in 36 hours and couldn't have been happier. I had three of my favorite people - two of my favorite men - sandwiched in a car for two hours.

I couldn't even begin to tell you the rest of the weekend. We went to a comedy murder mystery theater and laughed. I shared a room with a friend that made us laugh so much we couldn't believe our friendship brought us across the country.

There is more. I went to this wedding and was so blessed to have it as a tool or a reason to see one of my best friends. My heart felt torn for the four years I had let (yes...  let) go by. I cried inside and we immediately started planning my return. What a beautiful friendship to meet someone's wife and start a friendship as if we had been friends for years. To meet his Mom and feel as though I was talking to my own. Yes, I cried a little upon coming, but going was the hardest part.

Somehow, the universe might have known and flight delays kept me on the East coast for all of the 4th of July.

It's Independence Day. Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing, let the whole world know that this is a day of reckoning.

This day meant so much to me, and I spent five hours of it in an airport. I came off a weekend of creating new memories and new friendships and different relationships. I am, was, spent. I sat next to a woman at the airport bar.

Airport Mom said to me (I will paraphrase) "Karma is about things happening for a reason, it is not payback." 

It's a statement, even as a woman of Christian faith, that I enveloped my emotional heart around. I wondered, when you feel you left a piece of your heart somewhere or with someone, do you get that back? How? Is it by returning? Is it by faithful or divine intervention? Is going really going? Is it just the beginning of something you never anticipated beginning? Is missing someone the unexpected indication that you love them more than you thought?

Airport Mom's husband passed away in May. She had just returned from seeing her first husband on her getaway trip. She said she loved her second husband. Their time was so short, and she believed she served a purpose in his life, and he hers. Somehow, their path was the road that may lead her back to her first husband. The true love of her life.

If a chance meeting at an airport bar provides a lifetime of wisdom; imagine what a chance encounter at a wedding can do? Or a split decision amongst friends to share a hotel room? Or to eat Twizzlers? 

We are all coming and going to somewhere - where the heart is, where we hope the grass is greener, to where we believe we really belong. 

It's in that coming and going that we really live. It's not in that destination. This weekend I lived possibly more than I have in years. I lived in the in-between of coming and going, knowing it was not a short-lived reunion. It was just a passage of time leading to several lifetime friendships.

I hate goodbyes, but there are no goodbyes in coming and going.

"I'll see you soon."

To my friends referred to here, I love you more than I can articulate.

To my Airport Mom, I am in awe of your optimism and honest contemplation of your life's path, and the reminder to relish in the journey. Now, I really do understand that everything does happen for a reason.

That is the richest lesson, however full of heartache, one could ever stand to learn.

I Need Coffee. Did that Make Sense?

If you’re a regular reader, or sometimes just pass through, I apologize for my weeklong absence. 

I took time away from this journey to work on another journey. This involves some work on your part. Don’t worry, it’s not like homework. It’s very simple. 

If you’ve ever read this blog, why do you read it? What are you looking for? Is there something missing from your life, or is there something you’ve found?

Here’s the thing:

I believe many of us spend our entire lives trying to figure out the secret of life. But, as Faith Hill sings, “The secret of life is nothing at all.” 

There is also a question about “happiness.” That is almost a buzz word these days. What makes you happy? Who makes you happy? Why do they make you happy? 

Can’t we just be happy when we wake up in the morning?

Alright, so here’s the thing. When someone tells you something that you don’t really want to hear but you know to be true, how do you react?

Ok, because once someone told me, “You don’t write well. I can’t understand what you’re saying.”

It drove me nuts because my teachers had all selected me for writing awards growing up. I didn’t understand how my educators could respect my writing but my peers and colleagues could not. 

In college it proved to be a real problem. Fortunately, I had a professor who listened to me in class and recognized my thought process. 

Professor Lisa Smith was her name. I remember because she always sat on the desk at the front of the classroom and I sat in the front row. I mistakenly always wanted to call her Lilith. You know, like Frasier’s wife (ex-wife) from “Cheers” and “Frasier”? 

Anyway, she finally said to me, “Annie, you need to write your papers like you’re writing a letter.”

I said, “What?” I mean, what happened to the bing, bang, bongo format?  I seem to remember learning that in fifth grade. Introduction, three main parts, and then a conclusion. Bing. Bang. Bongo.

“You need to just start writing and don’t stop until you’re done,” Professor Smith said. “Don’t even start a new paragraph. Don’t edit it. Just write it and submit it.” 

I later found out that I wrote, thought, and spoke just like Lorelai Gilmore on “Gilmore Girls.” My thoughts hop-scotched, to me, naturally from one spot to another. If I tried to formalize the thoughts in some sort of restricted and legitimized writing format, it didn’t make sense. Oh, and I also like coffee just as much as she does. 

“What?” I said.  

“Just write it like you were talking, without a filter.”

“Wow,” I think I said, or I thought I said.

Anyway, I was a sophomore, I think, and for the first time in my life, someone with the power to decide my success decided with me, and not against me. She recognized that I had something to say, and to let me say it, even if it meant allowing me to choose my delivery. 

Lesson learned then is a lesson learned now and every day that I think many of us struggle.

Happiness isn’t about changing who we are or becoming who someone else wants us to be, it’s about being able to be exactly who we are, when we want to, and how we want to.  No disguise. No disappointments. 

So, a few years later when a news anchor said, “I don’t understand what this says,” I knew she was wrong.

I said, “let me see that.” I grabbed the script from her hands and I read it aloud.

“Oh,” she said. 

There were no more words.

I finally made sense. 

____

Question: What makes you happy? When do you feel most understood? Have you ever tried to change who you are to make sense to other people? Did it work? Let me know!

We All Have Little Girl Dreams of Making it Big

UPDATED: April 7, 2011


Ok, so I wrote this post last night after watching "American Idol." Then, without anticipating it, a person who seemed to be just about everyone's favorite, Pia Toscano, was eliminated on Thursday night. Clearly, she is in a caliber of her own and does not need a show like "American Idol" to be successful. 


Even though I participated in the "I'm outraged" and "what just happened" reaction, I do believe that she, just like every little girl (and boy) who tries to do what they believe they can do, is already a winner. 


Now a question for you, what is it that you really want to do? What's stopping you? 


ORIGINAL POST BELOW: 


Thanks to Charlie Sheen winning seems to be everything these days.

It’s not about winning, though. It’s about trying. It’s about getting up after falling down. It’s about trying that dance move one more time. It’s about wearing that ballerina outfit even though you think you look like a marshmallow when you’re wearing it. It’s about singing country, if you’re a little bit country, instead of singing rock ‘n roll. 

Just saying.

When I was about 7, I was in a little dance troupe. I was in a class called “intermediate jazz.” I wasn’t reformed enough for the ballet. I was way to attention-deficit for that, and not quite coordinated enough for tap (as much as I wanted to be). I had these small-town, big-girl dreams of making it big. 

Our dance teacher decided we would be dancing our final number to “A Spoonful of Sugar” from Mary Poppins. Little did any of us know then that a spoonful of sugar made me dangle from the chandeliers and not dance. 

I can still remember holding hands with the other members of our all-girl group as we wore these checkered red and white leotard outfits with frilly white things attached to them and sparkling red hats. We skipped are way to the right, and then around, in a circle. Then there was something about “jazz hands.”

Courtesy: franticmeerkat.com

Apparently, if you spread your hands open really wide you can feel the energy coming out of your fingertips. I think it was just the blood freaking out about which way to travel.

Somewhere, in the home archives, and not in this house, my parents have a picture of me in that dorky little outfit. Man, I thought I was something else. And, like almost every 7 year old girl, I knew, I was going to be a star. 

23 years later, all I an say to that is just dance. Lady Gaga got that right. Just dance. 

And, in the words of my eighth grade language arts and social studies teacher, to my friends, and to those who try, “You’ll always be famous to me.”

It’s not about winning. It’s about believing. 

It’s not about being famous, or even trying.

It’s about being you. Red and white checkered leotard with frilly white thing, and all. 

You Don't Know Something Stinks Until it Smells

The first week of Spring is coming to a close, even though it roared in like it was Winter saying it was going to stick around another week.

I refused to let that get the best of me. Just because I can’t lay out by the pool or go running in the sunshine right away doesn’t mean it’s not Spring.

For whatever reason, I’m particularly excited about this year’s Spring. 

All I can think about is Beatrix Potter, Peter Rabbit, and having tea parties in rooms surrounded by tulips and girl friends wearing pastel Easter Springy-dresses! 

It might be throwback to my childhood, but I would be lying if I didn’t tell you that my guest room is starting to look like the Easter Bunny’s Workshop. First of all, the bed spread is very spring-like with all the flowers on it. Secondly, I have pastel post-it notes marking which card and gift goes to which person. Third, I can’t seem to stop myself from gathering up little books, magnets, lotions, and candies for a list of people.... (Yep, made a list, checked twice or so already) who are on the recipient list.

It’s all part of bringing back good mail. It’s a campaign I’ve been on, mainly because I’m tired of getting just junk and bills in my mailbox. I’m sure you are too. Just saying.

Going to the mail box now is like an Easter egg hunt. You don’t know if there’ll be a surprise when you look tomorrow! 

For all the good things that Easter and Spring can bring, one lesson from my childhood really stinks. Or, sticks out. Honestly, you don’t know something stinks until it smells!

One year my Dad hid eggs all over the house, the backyard, as well as jelly beans. I seem to recall finding jelly beans and eggs for days after Easter. Maybe even a week. Once they were all collected some of the multi-colored sugar-shaped eggs were hard and nearly broke my teeth off. I’d also had about seven egg-salad sandwiches a day - and I had moved on. I was ready for Summer. 

I don’t know exactly when it was, but we had gone somewhere, and when Mom, Dad, and I arrived back home, we opened up the front door and..... Blast.

Damn. It stunk. It stunk like a sewer on a hot summer day near the Salton Sea. 

So, what happened? Dad stuck an Easter egg in Mom’s china cabinet. The egg, mind you, had ideas of its own. It didn’t want to stay put. So, it exploded all over that thing. Dad had to cart the china cabinet, dishes inside, into the garage, empty everything out, scrub it down, and in the process decided to cut two inches or so off the height of the china cabinet.

Mom was not pleased. I don’t think this was the kind of Spring renewal she was hoping for.

I’m telling you, you don’t know something stinks until it smells. 

------------
How about you? Do you have a memory from Easter that taught you a lesson? Or when was the last time something really had a stench? What was it?

We Need Not Take Everything So Seriously (Part 1)

Maybe, if I just keep chasing them around in circles they’ll want to be my friend.

At least, that’s what I thought. 

I was in the third grade and I was new to my hometown and my school. I didn’t know anyone. Friends didn’t come by me easily because I didn’t talk to anyone. I was too shy and too afraid of what they would think if I did speak. 

When I moved to Southern California it was between my second and third grade year. I honestly didn’t believe that my friends, or the people I believed were my friends, didn’t live near me anymore. 

“Mommy, when are they going to take their masks off?” I asked my Mom about a year after the move. I was referring to my new friends who weren’t anything like the friends I had left behind, but I was certain they’d show their faces soon. Oh, the amazing imagination of a child! 

Then, I started to meet people. Popular people. Pretty people. Mostly, they reminded me of my old friends.

This is probably when the me that I am now first started to emerge. I remember going to some Scholastic book sale in the library and a girl didn’t have any money. I did. So, I let her go around the store and buy whatever she wanted. At the end of the little book outing, I spent $80.00 of my allowance money. I never got it paid back. 

That was my first lesson in realizing that your friends can’t be bought. I didn’t feel the joy in giving then. I felt let down. 

That same year, I remember trying to be friends with a girl that I thought was a lot like me. She was studious, and quiet, and seemed reserved, but friendly. I couldn’t figure her out, though. 

I called a family friend on the phone, who used to be my babysitter. She would call me, “Little Annie Petersen.” And, still calls me that to this day (makes being a 30-something feel like being a 3-year-old-something sometimes, but a fantastic thing none-the-less). 

“Listen, Annie,” she said. “You need not take everything so seriously.” 

To be continued... 

All the Other Kids Grow Up Too

How many homes does one have in their life? Not just a house, but a home, a place where there is a sense of family or community?

I just had to come back one last time, sings Miranda Lambert in “The House That Built Me.” 

In 1994, I went to high school with my direction facing the rear view mirror. I thought if I could just return to middle school every now and then I’d remember what I was afraid I’d forget. 

Del Dios Middle School became so much like a second home to me, I spent afternoons in the teachers lounge. I copied papers and put spiral bound backs in student print out documents. Mostly, I chatted. 

“So, I have this teacher who....” 

“I want to be President someday, still, but....” 

Honestly, I don’t think I ever had anything interesting to say, but I didn’t want to leave. 

Just as much as I didn't want to leave, I was in love with my Grandma. When she passed away in 2006, I could't believe I hadn't returned to her home, where so much love could be found, in so long. So, in 2008, I made the journey. I thought, finally, coming home. But, Grandma's house wasn't Grandma's house anymore. I looked for any evidence that it was, and immediately, outside I spotted what was once my swing, worn, tattered, used, and rusted, yet waiting as if just to say "hello." 

My "Swing" Outside Grandma's House (2008)

You leave home, you move on, and you do the best you can, I got lost in this whole world and forgot who I am. 

In 2002, I left my first job at what was then a Fox affiliate in San Diego. While working there I described it as a playground.

“Anne Marie, how can you run around barefoot!” someone would yell from the sports office.

“Because I can!” 

People would be tickled by the copiers, mini breaks were taken upstairs to make hot chocolate, and no matter what we all always went out for drinks afterwards. 

I remember this one time we convinced one of the main anchors and a weather anchor to come out to karaoke, something the rest of us did every week. Somewhere, on video, they are singing “I’ve Got You Babe.” 

When the men would sing, the girls and I would toss panties, yes panties, to them and scream like we were 17. The hostess of the karaoke night also worked at a strip club. She came with props. 

We had some really, really, fun times. Really. 

In 2009, I went back to that first job for a job interview. It was just happenstance, but someone who worked there when I did still remained and said to come on by. 

She took me inside the building, the same building that I had dreamt about getting lost in, and finding myself in, for the previous seven years. I had never left it. 

“Rust,” I said to her as I looked at the stairwell that had once been so clean and white. “Smudge,” I said again as I noticed dirt on the walls. I cringed inside a little because it wasn’t anything like coming home. 

Then, just as I felt a tinge of tears lulling me out of joy, I heard someone say, “Anne Marie.” 

Two years later, almost to the day, I returned to my latest home, hoping to take more than just a memory. For the first time, the place looked the same, some of the faces were still familiar, and the feeling inside was just right. I had come home.

Yet, I recognize there is always some nostalgia in “coming home.” Eventually, all the other kids on the street grow up and move away, too. It’s always fun when you come back to visit and there’s at least a few you can talk to at the mailbox, or catch up with during a morning run. Yet, they all leave too and we’re out looking for a new place to call home. 

They say home is where the heart is, and depending on who is in your heart, and what makes it beat, and has your chest rise and fall; it’s one place, or no place, or many places at the same time. 

I’ve found home in the teacher’s lounge at a middle school, in the studio of a TV station, on the stage at a bar on karaoke night, and in a little desert town where some people think you only retire, and ultimately, wherever the people I love happen to be. 

When Doing Nothing is Absolutely Something

"There are no words." 

When I was younger, my Dad used to chronicle my day for me in these little red day keeper diary books. You can see what it looks like in the “About Me” tab up above. 

Anyway, sometimes he would ask, “Annie, how did your day go today?” Or, he would ask, “What did you do today?”

I’m not exactly sure what would happen next, because many times I was only 3, 4, or 5 years old. Just by looking at the pages of the years between 1982 and 1994 (when I started keeping my own journal and keeping my own stories), I often said a lot. 

Yet, every now and then you open up a page and it simply says, in his handwriting, “There are no words.” 

Today, which will actually be yesterday by the time you read this, I pretty much went about doing nothing. I had a checklist with about 15 items on it and only crossed one thing off. That doesn’t look great for my productivity, but for the self-continuity of being me, it’s great. 

I stopped what I was doing. I stopped chasing the agenda for just a moment, and went to a local resort for spa services. I’ve never been so relaxed while getting a massage before. I mean, when I awoke from my last service I wasn’t even sure which country I was in, let alone the city, or which year it was or where I was going next. Now that’s a good massage.

Leaving afterwards, my mind was completely blank. There was only one resounding voice in the back of my head. It came from a Carrie Underwood song. “Change.”

The smallest thing can make all the difference

Love is alive

don’t listen to them when they say

You’re just a fool, you’re just a fool

to believe you can change the world.

I’m not necessarily seeking to change the world, but I do believe wholeheartedly that sometimes by doing nothing in one moment, you can wake up to a nugget of knowledge in how to do something. Yet, for just a few more hours, the thought of doing something just stewed, while I sat and did nothing. The difference between the momentary lapse of action and the ongoing of nothingness is that the thought process makes me want to leap off the couch of nothingness into absolute action.

A lesson many of us experience now, or at some point of our lives, is that our eyes are closed when we miss the “why” of our negative experiences. It’s when they’re open that we see what’s happened. Then, when we close them again, and reflect, we gain wisdom. 

I believe now, more than I did before, that if an experience can be lived through, one must surrender to it. I must not be so quick to observe my own experience, but sit right in it, allow it to sink in. If I don’t, just like Friedrich Nietzsche writes, instead of wisdom, I’d end up with indigestion. 

in that journey to wisdom, there is nothing, until one arrives... at something.