Caren’s Click

I met Caren through the Owning Pink Posse and more specifically through Megan Harner’s “Journey to Health” blog.  We connected and cheered each other on in our spiritual and healthful paths.  In the following Caren shares how her “sexy journey” led to a big realization about what she really wants out of relationships and life. You can read more from Caren at her website The Perceptive Woman.

A Different Kind of Sexual Awakening

I don’t remember when I first discovered I was a sexual person perhaps it goes so far back that my forty-six year old brain has tucked it away for safe keeping. Suffice to say, I learned at an early age how to use my looks and sexuality to get what I wanted, or so I thought. I have been defining myself by my sexuality for years. Never really looking for love but more for the relationship or encounter of the moment was how I lived my life. I dated but the ultimate result ended up being a very hot sexual relationship more than a meaningful, mindful one.

I can remember being on an airplane in my late thirties and reading a book with a political subject and having a man look at me and say, “YOU are reading that book?” As if to assume that me; with my big breasts, perfectly manicured toes, perfect hair and makeup, could not have a brain. At the time, I thought it was funny, giving me more reason to look at men as a game rather than a partnership.

I didn’t realize this was what I had been doing until, I saw something about an ex boyfriend on the internet. He and I had dated and could have gotten married. But he broke my heart and I never fully recovered. It was in that moment that I used my insecurities to give way to a lifestyle without love but filled with plenty of physical contact.

No longer was I looking for a relationship, that idea left me in my late twenties, I was more about casual dating. No man was going to get the best of me. I was not going to be hurt again. But it was the underlying current of the past that I finally realized why I was using sex as a means to find love. I let myself be defined by my circumstances at the ripe old age of twenty-one. My pattern went on for years and then as easily as it began, it stopped for a while. I was in a self imposed sexual drought. I put on weight so that no one would want me. I became best friends in the gay community and set out on a sexless road. That lifestyle came to a crashing halt several years ago when I met one of my latest ex-boyfriends.

He was a catalyst for me to be sexy and sexual again, but the reality was the pattern was about to repeat itself. After he and I dated for a short time, we decided to just be friends with benefits and so it went for another year. I finally had enough of him and embarked on internet dating, where I went on countless dates. I met so many men, but they just wanted to take me home. I didn’t go. I finally met someone online and embarked on a relationship that was not all about the sex. There were real feelings there.

So fast forward about two years and I have finally realized how much I allowed my sexuality to not be sacred. I put myself into that box and am now climbing out of it slowly. I no longer want to be seen as a sexual being, but a woman, with beauty and brains. I cringe at the men that look me up and down. I know men will be men and they are visual creatures but I have yet to come to terms with it.

What I have come to terms with, is me. I am a vibrant, beautiful, and yes, sexy woman. I am smart. Beauty, brains, and sexy all rolled into one. I have been fighting the system and not dressing the part of the sexy woman, going so far as to not do my hair or makeup, all in the name of hiding. But what I am realizing is that I am hiding from me. I am re-learning that sexy is about confidence not just sex. I can be sexy and smart and still be respected, not just by men, but by myself. It has been a re-birth of sorts for me to awaken to a new kind of sensual and sexiness. The kind of sexiness that is just for me and whomever I feel like sharing it with. I share it because I want to, not because I have a need to prove anything. I find my validation in other ways. Life is so much sweeter when you find what you have been searching for all along is inside you. I want that version of me to emerge. I will now only engage in the physical when it is for me and my partner. No hidden agenda, just love. This sexy woman is now looking for love in all the right places.

Renee’s Click

This is the second time Renee has written a “click” for me.  The first one was a fictionalized click. I introduced you to her last Wednesday so the only thing I’ll repeat here is her blog which you can find by clicking here.

I’m generally not the type to dwell on the past or even think too much about what’s happening at any one particular moment. I go with the flow and deal with things as they come, my mind quickly racing through ways to solve specific problems and come out on the other side with my life intact.

So when Leslee asked me last week to write a Click Story for her blog, it wasn’t easy to come up with an idea. I racked my brain trying to think of a moment in my life where I suddenly realized something profound, a moment that maybe changed my life – for good or bad. I couldn’t think of anything for a couple of days.

And then it came to me … the perfect “Click” moment for a blog about finding one’s spiritual path. In fact, there are two of them and they are both connected, so I chose to write for Leslee about the moments I discovered who I am as a spiritual being, what I believe and why.

My mother grew up Catholic and my father Jewish. Neither was or is especially religious, but I learned about Jesus and heaven and hell and all of those things. We lit Chanukah candles and exchanged Christmas presents under a decorated tree. I even went to church or synagogue every once in a while. In fact, I still do all of those things, but they have different meaning for me now.

Like many, I grew up with a belief that there was a God in heaven and He was a man and that all things Judeo-Christian were, without question, the Truth. It’s in our American culture, so unless a person either thinks more profoundly than a teenager usually does or is brought up in a home with an alternate religion, one tends to blindly accept these things.

I had friends who were Hindu or Buddhist, but never really thought much about that. Religion was religion. My mother told me once that no matter what religion a person is, there is still only one God and everyone worships Him in his or her own way.

But then I grew up. I went to college. I started thinking more deeply.

I took astronomy.

To pass my class, I had to go to the community college’s observatory a few times and look out at the heavens and write a report about what I saw. I went at a time when a local astronomy club met so they could help me with using the telescope: the general mechanics as well as finding specific stars, asteroids, comets, the moon, whatever.

As I peered through the telescope at the millions – billions! – of stars and planets in the sky, I had an epiphany (a Click moment): we are not alone in this universe.

I’m not a person who necessarily believes extraterrestrials visit Earth and probe people. I’m not sure it’s possible to ever travel that distance in a lifetime. But I do know that in a space as large and endless as this universe is, there’s no way that we are all there is.

When one looks at most religions, especially Judeo-Christian religions, they are very Earth-centered. God created the Earth and all the beings on it and he watches to make sure we don’t swear or have sex with someone to whom we aren’t married. And if we mess up a little bit, fire and brimstone await us in hell. But why, with all that’s out there, does He care about those things? He must have more important things to worry about, right?

And then I started thinking about how life comes to be. No man or woman alone can create a child. Some asexual organisms can, but with both male and female anatomy only. Even with cloning and in-vitro fertilization, one needs male and female elements. So how can one, single, male god create so much life without a feminine partner? The laws of Nature are against that scenario. Therefore, in my reasoning, if there is a god, there must also be a goddess.

And that was the moment I realized I am not Christian and I don’t want to be. It’s a lovely religion at its most pure, but to me, there isn’t much sense to it. There’s some, but as a whole it’s not something I can buy into.

But what now? I’m not Christian or Jewish. I’m not Buddhist, Muslim or Hindu. What am I?

It would be several years before I’d have that answer, my second Click moment. It came about two months ago when, out of curiosity, I attended a gathering of pagans. We went around the room introducing ourselves and stating what pagan path we each were on.

I didn’t have an answer. I didn’t really know enough to say. I still don’t know for sure, but one man’s answer hit me hard where it counts. He said, “I am a religious eclectic.”

And that is exactly what I am.

Rebekah M’s Click

Rebekah found my blog through Love-olution and sent me the following click story about finding her career path. You can follow Rebekah on her blog Another World Is Probable. In addition to working as a journalist she also wrote a book called Just A Girl From Kansas: One Woman’s Dreams Are Ant-Sized Compared To What Lay Ahead, which will be published by her company Tri-Sight Entertainment next year.

Rebekah M’s click

It would be disingenuous for me to say I’ve had a click moment. More like moments. In truth, my life is a series of clicks, some big and dramatic, some small and subtle. What follows is one of my more dramatic clicks.

As a sophomore in high school I joined the yearbook staff. I loved yearbook. I looked forward to it and didn’t even mind if I had to stay after school to finish some work. At the end of the year I was so proud of our book – the cover, the layouts, the photographs. I thought it was award-winning material. The staff went to a yearbook camp at the University of North Carolina – Chapel Hill and I was sure we would win something.

We didn’t.

Watching all those other high schools win awards I took the determination that next year my high school would win something.

My junior year I became the editor-in-chief of the yearbook because there were no seniors to take up the post. Our theme was Evolution, something concocted by the former editor-in-chief. She laid the whole thing out for me – how we would start in black and white and eventually progress to color. How our typography would begin with a typewriter-esque font and evolve into something more modern. The whole nine yards.

The entire year I poured my blood, sweat and tears into that book. I made sure the whole thing screamed Evolution from our copy to our visuals. I took work home with me many a night to ensure we made our deadlines. Even though it was stressful I loved every minute of it. Even when I wanted to pull out my hair.

The year ended and it was again time for yearbook camp at UNC-Chapel Hill. I sat in the 400-person lecture hall with the lights dimmed and the projection screen lowered with my heart pounding. Would we win anything? Would our name flash across the screen?

Yes.

We won 12 awards that day including first place for theme copy, which I wrote. In that moment, when I saw my name flash across the screen I realized I wanted to be a journalist. Not only that I wanted to be a journalist but that I could be. That it was possible.

It is my firm belief the Universe communicates with us like that all the time. That there are a series of moments where we can give into what is being conveyed to us. Where we can say, “Yes. I believe you. I trust in divine guidance and I’m willing to take the plunge,” or not. I hope you say yes because when you do your heart will sing and the world becomes magical. I hope you say yes because as Paulo Coehlo would say in The Alchemist you are following your personal legend. And there’s nothing more gratifying than that.

What am I doing now? I’m a professional journalist. I don’t work for the New York Times or the Washington Post but I make a living as a writer. And all because of that one moment at yearbook camp.

John B’s Click

I am pleased to introduce John Ballantree (pictured here with his daughter).  He found my blog through the Tarot post and allowed me to do one of my amateur readings for him.  Since he reads and teaches the cards, he gave me some wonderful feedback about what to look for in the cards.  For John, he treats the Tarot like poetry and philosophy, not like a Ouija board or other “fortune telling” device.  It is like a piece of art, placed before you, from which you can draw clues.  You can find John’s tarot website here after you’ve enjoyed reading his click!

 

I lived in Holland, off and on, during the 1970s.  One evening, I was watching a tv documentary about pirate radio stations that used to operate from the North Sea.

You probably know of the BBC, but you may not have heard about “needle time”. The musicians’ union had a deal in place that the BBC could broadcast only a certain number of hours of recorded music, and the rest had to be live, or duplicated by approved-of singers and bands. This became a problem for the listener when we wanted to hear the Beatles and the Rolling Stones, but had instead to suffer through weak versions of rock songs performed by the singers in The Billy Cotton Band Show.

It wasn’t the same, somehow.

The union wouldn’t budge or update its position, so along came the pirate radio stations. They broadcast from international waters and so were not subject to agreements the unions had made. They played records all day and all night, of the groups listeners wanted to hear.  So we had Radio London, and Radio Caroline, North and South, and others.

The driving force behind Radio Caroline was Ronan O’Rahilly, and it was he who was seated on a park bench reminiscing for the Dutch documentary. He was talking about the time when he thought he would have to shut down the station because he needed a new boat and he didn’t have one and couldn’t afford to buy one. The midnight deadline approached, and with a few  minutes to go, the phone rang and someone offered him a boat, so Caroline would be able to continue broadcasting.

As Ronan explained this, he said that there’s business and money and all that, but with the phone call happening in the nick of time, it was as if something else was going on.

The editor could have cut at that moment, but the film kept rolling and after maybe ten seconds of silence, Ronan smiled quietly to himself, and slowly nodded his head. Then we cut to another scene.

The moment has stayed with me. I happen to agree with Ronan. There’s what appears to be going on, and what is really going on. We may be paying too much attention to the appearance, and not enough to the inner reality – though there’s sometimes a nagging doubt that this “reality” is just fooling oneself.

A wistful  look in the eye of an Irishman is maybe not that solid a foundation on which to base important decisions. It seems real, however, and makes some kind of sense.

Then, when I listen to in-laws and people talking about their daily concerns – the price of gasoline, their medical problems, their fears – it makes a lot of sense.

Pauline’s Click 2

I’m so excited to have Pauline back to the click stage.  She sent me this amazing post the other day.  I read it and it brought tears to my eyes.  Please take the time to read it and visit Pauline’s blog here.

Reflections

I woke up at 6:30 and was still rushing to get out of the front door by 8:30. We had a 15 minute drive ahead of us to make the bus for the  pumpkin patch, our lunches were packed, and Buttercup was sitting pretty on the couch watching TV while I rushed into the bathroom to pull my mexi-fro into a pony tail. I glanced at the clock as I walked by. It was 8:15. We were going to cut it close, but we would make it.

I had just put my head in the sink for a quick wet down when I heard Buttercup call me from the living room.

“Mama, I’m making myself beautiful now,” she sang out.

I turned the faucet off and hurried back to the living room on high alert, already knowing what I was going to find. Buttercup had been dressed for hours, her curls pulled into a little pony of her own, since 7 that morning. “Are you excited for your first field trip?” and “Don’t mess up your hair,” had been repeated on a loop from the moment I declared Buttercup adorable and ready to go. We’d been late for pre-school too many times because I’d turn around to pack her lunch only to come back to the little stinker leaning over the sofa rubbing her head into the cushion, fro-ing out her previously ballerina-worthy top knot. I had ten minutes on the clock and my kid was going at the couch with her head like most cats use a scratching post.

“Dammit,” I sighed. “M’ijita! Why’d you go and mess up your pelo? We’re gonna be late now!”

Her face fell. “But I made it beautiful,” she said, reaching up to touch her crown of fuzz.

“Just sit down, I’ll be right back to fix it in a second.” And I hurried back into the bathroom and back with hair products and a brush, and sat Buttercup down to fix her fro, my own still dripping and out of control.

“Mama?”

“Yes, baby?” I had one eye on her hair and the other on the clock. I had five minutes to get us out the door.

“I was just trying to make it beautiful.” Her words were a mere whisper.

“I know, babe,” I said. “I know.”

She turned to face me, reaching up to smooth the kinky spirals I’d cut, straightened, and hid under weaves (which I in turn denied were weaves) because I was  so determined to keep my hair from being the conversation starter with strangers that always ended with me explaining that yes, indeed, i was Mexican and not mixed. “I was just trying to make my hair beautiful, like yours.”

She thinks my hair is beautiful…

My breath caught in my throat and I kissed her hard. “Mama loves you, baby. Mama loves you more than you’ll ever know.”

She stood there smiling while I hurried to smooth my hair back into the world’s fastest pony-tail and we dashed out the door. I hadn’t bothered to check  the mirror.

I didn’t have to. I had already seen my reflection in my daughter’s eyes.

Jennifer Shelton’s Click

I am so excited to have Jennifer Shelton here with a writer’s click.  Jennifer is one of my favorite Owning Pink bloggers and everything she writes moves me in some way.  One thing I have observed in Jennifer as I’ve come to know her through blog posts and other exchanges is that she is a woman truly embracing her gifts in this life.  You can check out her website FemCentral as well as read her inspiring words on Owning Pink.  (She is also a really excellent astrologer if you are ever interested in getting a chart done!)

I am a writer. It’s hard for me to type that. I’m not sure I even fully believe it. But, people keep telling me that I’m a writer, and I figure that if I repeat it enough times, it will eventually sink in.

I’ve wanted to be a Writer since I was a small child. In second grade, my teacher sent me to the principal’s office to show off a poem I’d written in class. In fourth grade, I read a story about a woman who had pledged, as a young child, to be a writer when she grew up. She turned forty, and was unexplainably sad. She then remembered her pledge and started writing. I decided, at the age of 9, to
make the pledge myself!

In fifth grade, my teacher was so impressed with the assigned short story that I’d written with my spelling words, that she told me I would be a great author some day. In middle school, I placed second in my state for an essay I wrote about being an American. I was sure my writing career was going to be successful.

And, I kept hearing a chant in my head– write, write, write, write…

In high school, I don’t remember writing much of anything but entries in my journal. In college, I wrote and wrote and wrote but I was writing papers for my political science and philosophy classes. (It was the 80s and I majored in Political Science and Russian.) I would occasionally buy a Writer’s Digest magazine and attempt to write a short story or start on a novel but I always became extremely frustrated and gave up. Also, it seemed that everyone I knew thought they would someday be a published author. I started to dismiss my dream as being unlikely to succeed. Plus, I didn’t take a single creative writing class during my college career, so I assumed that was a sign that I liked the idea of writing more than writing itself.

But, I kept hearing a chant in my head – write, write, write, write…

I couldn’t find a full-time job when I graduated from college in ‘92, so I went to graduate school to study Slavic Literatures. For the next 7 years, I wrote academic papers on the major (and minor) Russian, Serbian and Croatian authors. I thought I would become a professor and academic writing would be my profession. If I couldn’t write great works of fiction, I could at least write about great works of fiction. The problem was that I hated academic writing! I finished all the coursework for my Ph.D., took some of my exams, but when it came time for the dissertation, I got a full-time job.

And, I kept hearing a chant in my head – write, write, write, write…

Over the last 10 years, I’ve taken one continuing ed short course on creative writing at Duke. I’ve spent one weekend on a retreat with Natalie Goldberg, author of Writing Down the Bones. I’ve entered (and lost) two short story contests. I’ve sketched out and completed the research for one novel. But, I always spend 3-4 months intensely working on creative writing, and take 1-2 years off. I get frustrated when I sit to write a creative piece and nothing comes. I try free-writing. I get angry. I yell at the voice in my head chanting “write, write, write, write” and tell it to shut up! It never does.

This past January I started my own website, FemCentral. I feature a theme a week and each day, provide a resource for the theme. One week was about the female body, and I asked OwningPink.com for permission to reprint one of their posts on the vagina. They agreed, and to my surprise, a few months
later, they asked me to write for them! So, I started writing blogs about my life and wondering why I couldn’t take that same discipline and do some “real” writing – short stories and novels.

As I got more and more involved online, I entered the social networking scene. Looking at friends on LinkedIn, I noticed that one person listed her profession as “writer, nonfiction.” The “click” on reading that was probably audible for miles. It had never occurred to me that a Writer could write non-fiction.
For some reason, Writer, to me, meant writing creative fiction.

Now, I still didn’t consider myself a writer until someone left this comment on an OwningPink.com post of mine, “I’m so happy when I discover new writers.” If she had said that to me in public, I would have looked behind me to see who she was talking to! I’m a writer? All I do is talk about life lessons I’ve learned the past forty years. (Yes, like the woman in the story I read as a child, I am now forty!)

A couple of weeks ago, I met with a woman named Sherrie Dillard. She is the author of two books on intuition, including Discover Your Psychic Type. I’m always interested in developing my intuition, and while reading her book, discovered she lives 20 miles from me! She teaches classes on intuition locally
and does psychic readings. I’ve never been to a psychic but I felt drawn to go and see her. It took me a year to get up the nerve to go but, I did. And, when she tuned into my “guides”, one of the first things out of her mouth was “are you a writer?” Ha! I said that I’d like to be.  She said, “You are a writer. You’re
a good writer. You are supposed to write and write and write, about anything and everything. The more you write, the more successful you will be.” Well, I’ll be damned. I wasn’t dreaming this up all these years after all! Still, I had needed some kind of supernatural validation, an “edict from on high,” to take
myself seriously.

Yes, I am writer. I’ve been writing all this time. I just had to let go of my preconceptions of what being a Writer meant. The chant, “write, write, write, write” is still there but now, instead of being an urgent command, I hear it as a cheer!

Leslee has been a great supporter of me since I joined the OwningPink.com community and has encouraged me to write. I thank her for the invitation to write for her blog!

Grateful Kim’s Click 2

Kim is one of the friends I made through Twitter and Owning Pink.  I love her.  She is inspiring, uplifting, and just plain wonderful.  Since she last wrote for my blog she has gone Zumba crazy!  I’d love it if I lived in her town and could take her classes because I’m quite sure they are fantastic.  Please enjoy the following click from Grateful Kim!!!  (The picture here is from the opportunity she explains in the post.)

 

Several months ago I clipped out a 3″x2″ piece of paper out of a magazine and put it on my bathroom mirror. It reads: “Starting small can lead to some really big things.” I suppose at the time I clipped it out I was struggling for change, so the words appealed to me. I needed something bigger, something better. As usual, however, I had no idea what it was. The feeling is always a yearning, a desire for more, a knowing that I am capable of something extraordinary, coupled with a voice that says I’m too old, too inexperienced and much too incapable. Any chance you have that same voice in your head?

I see that little piece of paper everyday. It has been splashed on, crumpled and probably even has sprays of toothpaste on it, but it faithfully greets and reminds me of what to do. That tiny little piece of paper serves as my reminder that I don’t have to have all the answers and all the tasks of life completed by end of business day….today! Just take a step….a baby step…then wake up tomorrow and take another one. And pretty soon, all those steps will have lead to something that thrills me.

Today is one of those days that thrill me.

Without going into a whole lot of background (you can read my Zumba experience right here), I will tell you that I fell in love with Zumba Fitness less than a year ago. I became certified to teach Zumba back in February 2010 and took additional training/certification to improve my teaching just this past August. Simply put…I love Zumba. I love the dance, the music, the sharing, the classes and the connections I have made with people. Finally I feel at home in something, and can use my gifts and talents to enhance my life and the lives of others just by doing something I love.

I received an email a little over a month ago with an opportunity to audition for a new set of Zumba DVDs, that I assume will be sold as a home fitness package. That little voice? Yeah…he TOTALLY told me I was too old and not good enough. But my friends, acquaintances and family told me otherwise, which gave me all the encouragement I needed to go for it. Amazingly enough, my audition went well and I was selected. The words in this blog cannot fully express my joy and excitement and how I feel.

As a bonus to being selected, I have been invited to take a Zumba class with the creator of Zumba, Mr. Beto Perez. It’s tonight. It’s in Hollywood. It’s unbelievable to me that this is happening. As I write this blog it’s 4:45 in the morning because my adrenaline is flowing and sleep is just getting in the way of experiencing all the joy. Tonight can’t come soon enough, but one thing is for sure, I’m going to need a nap at some point today to refuel my energy. I’m excited, but I’m not a machine. LOL!

So much is happening. I’m taking a class with Beto-friggin-Perez. I’m in the midst of planning a Zumbathon for Breast Cancer that, so far, seems to be touching a lot of people. In one week and three days from today I’ll be in rehearsals and filming for a Zumba video. This is some crazy stuff people! I’m a 45-year old suburban wife, mother and realtor for goodness sakes! And sometimes when success comes (MY version of success, just for the record) I get this strong desire to pull back the reins and yell “Stop! No, no, no…it’s too much. I can’t handle it. I’ll never pull it off.”

This time, I’m not stopping. I’m going to dance my way into the unknown, go for the experiences and share the joy with anyone willing to listen. Because what I now understand, is when you love something and give it 100% of your energy, there’s no way you can fail. The journey itself is one hell of a ride!

What are your dreams? Can you take one small step toward them today? Because you know what? “Starting small can lead to some really big things.”

Leah’s Click

Leah Shapiro a Kick-Ass Life Coach & Head Rabble Rouser at http://www.DefytheBox.com. Leah helps creative, non-conforming souls uncover the pre-packaged beliefs that prevent them from living their version of a Kick-Ass Life.  When she is not focused on working with clients, building her Empire or hosting My Kick-Ass Dream Life Radio you can usually find her making pottery, playing with her two cats or whipping up something delicious in the kitchen. A self admitted hedonist, Leah is frequently off engaging in pleasurable pursuits and is known to be a mighty temptress.

You can read Leah’s blog here: http://www.DefytheBox.com/blog

The Rock

Back in the day, I was part of a really cool woman’s mystery school and leadership program called the Priestess Path Apprenticeship. This program was truly amazing and opened the way for deep personal
growth.

 

This group of 24 women gathered together once a month and spent time in circle exploring many mystical practices and initiations aimed at making us confront our fear and inner-demons in order to know
ourselves better. It was very powerful work.

 

One of the things we did was called the Quest. Each of us was lead on a
journey down a dark path through an unknown forest. There were many
stops along the way designed to challenge you and make you think. At one
stop you were asked how heavy your past emotional baggage weighed on
you. Then you were given a big rock to carry with you along the path to
represent your baggage.

 

Let me tell you that carrying that rock sucked! It was awkward and took
so much energy. It weighed me down. At each new stop along the trail it
became more and more irritating. The longer I carried it, the heavier it
became and the more I focused on it. I was not able to enjoy the cool
stuff I was coming across along the path because I was so focused on
carrying the rock and how much it sucked. The rock became the focus of
everything.

 

Finally, I got fed up and decide to throw the rock off into the woods.
Boy what a relief. I felt free. The Quest was fun again. I wondered why
I did not ditch the rock sooner.

 

Interesting enough, I was the only one who chose to ditch their rock.
Everyone else kept lugging the thing along until they came to a stop
where someone else relived them of it. It never occurred to them that
they might have a choice in the matter.

 

I wonder how many of you are carrying around a Rock of your own without
giving thought to the idea that you have a choice in the matter.

 

There is always a choice.

 

Choose to let it go and focus on what feels good to you right now.

 

Choose to enjoy the adventure.

 

Ditch the Rock!

Al’s Click

Al is one of my real life friends.  We met when our oldest children were in preschool.  We found that we had at least two things in common, writing and leaving behind teaching careers.  I asked Al to join me on a project I had going through my head at the time: a book about why teachers leave the profession.  He thought of an excellent title and we both wrote about our own experiences and sent out emails to everyone we knew to share theirs.  Only a few stories rolled in and we shelved the project.  I still think its a great idea and would love to see it through one day when we have the resources for it.  When I decided to bring back “click stories” I remembered the great piece Al had written about one of the many “click moments” that led to him leaving that career behind.  I asked him if I could share it on the blog and he agreed.  Without further ado, here it is.

The Thunderous Boom

I heard a shocking thunderous boom.  I turned and saw a grapefruit size rock on the floor of the portable classroom.   I think a female student who had just walked out of the class had thrown it.  Fortunately nobody was hurt, it shook me up, but the incident did not seem to faze any of the other students.  I did not know the student’s name.  The call button to the school office did not work, and there was no phone in the portable.  If this is what teaching is like in an affluent area, what is it like in a poor area?

It was 1997.  I was a new teacher.   I got hired in the middle of a school year to take over a regular ed freshman Earth Science Class.  The principal refused to hire me on as a full time teacher right away.  I don’t remember the reasoning that she used with me; however, later I realized that she did not want me to get a year service credit, so she put me on as an interim sub until the day after the deadline for service credit for that school year ended.  As an interim sub, I was given all of the responsibilities of a full time teacher but with the pay of a sub and no benefits.

As a new teacher I had a lot of things to do.  Although I had just completed a Florida certified BS program in teaching and a full semester student teaching internship, I had to complete 60 hours of ESOL training, a new teacher orientation program, and a child abuse program to earn my full time teaching certificate.  While I was working on these extras, I had to write lesson plans and teach a full schedule as an interim sub.  I was swamped.  I came in an hour and a half early every day, left an hour and a half late every day, worked through my 20 minutes of lunch time, and caught my breath and setup for my later classes during my planning period.  I even spent up to a couple of hours working at home each day.  The days both physically and mentally drained me.

I was in my second week as an interim sub, when a secretary paged me and told me that I needed to sub an additional class during my planning period.  I used my precious 20 minute lunch break to run up to the office to correct this obvious mistake.  The secretary informed me that it was not a mistake; the principal had given the order.  So I went to talk to the principal.  She was a nice lady, she dressed nice, and she always wore her nicest fake politician smile.  I reminded her of my full load, and she was nice.  I reminded her that I needed my planning period to prep for my full load, and then she was not so nice.  I felt like I was in the middle of a real horror show.  She went from being the picture of sweetness to a horrible head-spinning monster.  Now it was her turn to remind me.  She reminded me that I was not a teacher.  She reminded me that I was a substitute.  She reminded me that I was lucky to have a job at her school.  She reminded me that she was the boss and that I would cover an extra class whenever she demanded.

Of course I told the principal, “Take this job and shove it!”, and I walked out.  Well that’s what I should have done anyways.  I didn’t do that though; rather, I went to sub the additional class.  I got to the portable classroom out in the boondocks of the school in time for the class to begin.  The tardy bell rang and it was time for class to begin.  The kids didn’t seem to acknowledge the bell.  They went right about their business.   There were kids going in and out of the classroom, others were sitting on top of desks, and everybody was talking or yelling.  I used my best teacher voice to gain control of the class.  I got everybody sitting.  At that point I was ready to take attendance; however, there were no class roles.  It was impossible to tell who belonged in the class.  I passed around a sign in sheet which was taken as a joke by the students.  There were no lesson plans left, so I invented an activity for the students to do and told them that their teacher had left it and would count the grade.  The students didn’t care.  One young lady was doing her makeup.  She became irate when I told her to put it away.  She told me off, cussed me out, and stormed out of the room.  The next thing I knew there was a shocking thunderous boom.

Jase’s Click

Jase is one of the very first friends I made through the blog world and Twitter.  I connected with him and his then fiance Traci.  We read and commented regularly on each other’s blogs.  Jase and Traci were both very supportive when Amy passed away.  Sadly enough I got to return the favor and offer what I could (an ear to listen) when Jase lost Traci last December.  I am so honored and grateful to have Jase here sharing the story of his loss, grief, and the healing he has found through love.  He has included both of his blog addresses here so you can find those if you’d like to read more from him.

A click, a loss and the aftermath …

Early in 2009 I was given a second chance by my then girlfriend.

The quick backstory is I’d cheated on her, but it wasn’t just the matter of me cheating. The truth is I’d been a cheater for years. I cheated on my first wife. I cheated on the people I was cheating with. And after finding Traci and falling in love with her, I cheated on her. I was a serial cheater and looked everywhere for an explanation … or so I thought.

In late 2008 we separated, I moved out and not long after that I realized I was throwing away a pretty incredible relationship. And, admitting that to her, I fought hard to win her back, but she told me no. Repeatedly.

She told me I needed to change.

And over time, through honesty, hard work and determination, I did, and she was willing to take me back.

My click came during a gut-wrenching phone call made to my parents. Specifically I called to ask for advice from my father before I moved back home to Traci. I was in tears, frantic, scared.

During the course of our conversation he told me that the choices I make are mine, and that he and mom would support any decision I made. He told me he could tell me what to do, but wouldn’t, because the burden of that choice, good or bad, would be his, and not mine. He also told me that I needed to live up to and honor whatever choice I made.

I don’t remember his exact words, but they were something like this.

“You need to stop messing around. You’re not a kid anymore, there’s no status in what you’re doing. If you don’t stop it, you’re going to grow up to be a bitter, lonely old man.”

He went on.

“Your mother and I have had our share of problems. We’ve fought like crazy. But I honored her each night by walking in that door. I may not have wanted to walk in it, but I did it every night. You need to do that.”

My dad’s an emotional guy as it is, but as he said this he was choked up and I knew he was crying.

His words cut to my core. They weren’t spoken in anger or as an admonishment. They were spoken in a somber, gentle tone, almost like a request … like one last lifeline he had to throw out to his son.

Through meditation I’d already begun to change, but hearing my father’s words, the emotion in his voice, the anguish both he and my mother expressed over the phone, it finally clicked.

I cheated because I was immature and selfish. I’d looked everywhere for an explanation for my behavior except for the one place that mattered … myself. My choices were completely within my control and I needed to stop looking outside of myself for an explanation and own up to it and take responsibility for my actions.

I vowed, from that moment on, to clean up, to honor Traci and honor our relationship. And I did. From that moment on, the beginning of April 2009, I was faithful in word, thought and deed.

Our relationship bloomed again. We reconnected. We made wedding plans for January 2010. There were challenges, but we fought through them together. We had an amazing eight months.

Yes, I say had.

On December 10, 2009, moments before she was to meet me for our commute home together, there was an accident. I frantically texted her, called her, hoping to hear her voice and find that she was ok.

She never answered.

In a moment, a heartbeat, I’d lost everything I’d fought so hard to get back.

I’d never again kiss the woman I’d kissed goodbye that morning. I’d never feel her head on my shoulder. I’d never feel her hand in mine.

I didn’t even get the chance to say goodbye.

The plans we’d made, the hopes we’d shared, the dreams we’d dreamed together … were gone.

I could write thousands of words and I’m not sure I could convey the depth of my loss. My wish is that none of you would ever have to endure it.

In the weeks that followed I realized I had a choice (As an aside, I’m not trying to minimize what I went through … in the interest of space and the time, I’m condensing things quite a bit. If you’d like to read more about my journey you can visit my blog – hopeintheaftermath.wordpress.com).

I could wallow in my grief, cloak myself in my loss and be a victim. Or I could do my best to pick up the pieces and move on.

Or, as I told someone at the time, “I could either own this, or it could own me.”

Which goes back to my click.

It came down to me being responsible for how I dealt with the loss. I could throw away all the progress I’d made, all the positive changes I’d made, and return to old ways and self-destructive habits.

Or, I could take the lessons I learned on my own, and the lessons that Traci taught me, and I could choose to take the hard way out, to fight to see the positive when everything was bleak. I could choose to be as strong as I could at any given moment, understanding my limitations, and be the dad and man I needed to be.

I could choose, simply put, to live. Another click.

And as I looked at it, I saw no better way to honor Traci’s memory, and what she taught me, and the relationship we had, than to live the life I’d fought so hard to rebuild.

So I made that choice … and some days were better than others. Some days my grief was debilitating. Some days I managed to laugh and smile. Some days I just did what I could to get through the day.

But I didn’t give up.

Winter gave way to Spring and in early May, while on Facebook, I came across the name of an old high school sweetheart. I’d not seen her, heard from her or really even thought of her since we were kids – 22 years ago.

But I sent Ketra a friend request and a message, just wondering how she’d been, what she was doing.

As it turned out, her life was in roughly the same place as mine, though for different reasons. So we began to talk … innocently at first. But the more we talked, the more we both knew something bigger than we’d expected was happening.

We ended up sharing our complete stories, the good, the bad, the ugly … as I put it, warts and all. There was no holding back. There were no walls. Just two people – who for so long hid behind walls and other means of protecting themselves – being vulnerable.

She invited me out to see her in San Diego. I accepted and we planned a June visit. As May gave into June we realized we’d fallen for each other, again, and the visit would be more than just two old friends hanging out.

We talked a lot about where we’d been and what we’d gone through. I told her a lot of the things I’ve written here, the bad, and the good. She did the same for me.

And that weekend, in the desert, with the winds blowing through the palms as we sat and talked for hours, we began to talk about forever. In the dark I took her hand and I asked her to marry me.

And she said yes.

She showed me faith and trust, and my father’s words still rung in my ear … “…I honored her each night by walking in that door…”

As I write this, Ketra is days away from moving back home to me, and to walking into the door that is the gateway to our home.

And I come back to my click moment.

Sometimes I wonder, fearfully, where I would be were it not for my click?

Had I not changed, would I have been able to survive the loss that I experienced?

Had I not honored Traci for the last eight months we were together, would the guilt, literally, have killed me?

Had I not grown up, and finally become a man, would Ketra have responded to me? Would she have opened up to me? Would she have let me in?

Would we be together, on the verge of forever?

Obviously these are rhetorical questions … but I think I know the answers to all of them regardless.

And thankfully, I know the key to making sure the relationship we have is the relationship we want.

It’s the key called honor that fits in the door to “our home” … and it’s one I’ll gladly turn and walk through each night, from now until our days are done.

Thank you dad … for helping me find my click. I love you.

Note: I’ve mothballed the blog I mentioned earlier. Not that my “journey through loss” is ever going to be over, but my life is about more than just that journey now. If you’d like to read more about my life, my family and whatever else comes to mind, visit our new family blog, theedgeoftheearth.wordpress.com