Reframing

When I was a kid and my parents realized I needed glasses, they took me to the eye doctor, and I picked out the tackiest, most ostentatious frames a twelve year-old had ever dreamed of.  Those glasses were hella ugly, y’all, like blue and yellow and pink zigzags and dots with lenses the size of tea saucers. And I wore those ugly things for the next several years, completely oblivious to my optical faux pas.

High school called for some new frames, and the ones I ended up with weren’t much better than those hideous glasses of my preteen years.

Finally, at 35 years, I’ve reached glasses Nirvana with a pair of black wayfarers that embody my nerdy, vintage style perfectly. 

The point of this long winded trip down memory lane is to talk about the importance of reframing your outlook throughout your life. Just like I found myself new frames for my glasses for different periods of my life, so have I found new frames and perspectives as I have grown and developed as a human.

I read an amazing blog this morning that reminded me how important this reframing process is in life.  The article challenged its readers to reflect on the insecurities of their youth that they now look at as strengths. This process of reframing was so poignant and powerful to me, particularly since I’ve always struggled with overcoming my insecurities. Growing up, I hated many things about myself. My freckles. My sensitivity. My height. Nowadays, having traveled at least partway down the road to self-love, these are some of my favorite things about myself. My freckles are the constellations of my skin, charting the course of a childhood spent in the woods and in the sun. My sensitivity helps me connect with people and forge strong ties built upon empathy and trust. My height makes me feel powerful and beautiful, if not still a little awkward sometimes.

From this reflection on how my view of the insecurities of my youth have changed, it occurs to me that many, many things in life are truly about how we look at them and what lens or frame we look at them through.

We all have different frames we look through and different lens coloring our world. These frames and lens change as we grow, as we have new experiences, as we meet new people. We are lucky to be complex, evolving creatures who can embrace a variety of experiences and perspectives; we are lucky to be able to change, because change is growth.

This recent election and many of my current challenges in my own journey have made me happy that I am a fluid, open-minded creature, who can embrace many perspectives. Because here’s the thing. None of us are completely right. None of us have all the answers. None of us can be the one true ring. But together, with all of our many lens and frames and experiences and beliefs, we create this kaleidoscope of humanity that is truly something to see, something to embrace, something to learn from.

So next time you’re feeling particularly sure about an ugly pair of glasses, maybe take a moment, practice the pause, and see what other options life has in store. You just might find the wayfarers you always dreamed of.

As a kid, I loved those stupid glasses with the bright frames and huge lens. Looking back, as an adult, I completely hate them. But that’s the beauty of growing up, we can change our minds, we can be better people, and we can learn to fully love ourselves. Freckles and all.

With Feathers

I don't pretend to know grief. Not because it hasn't touched my life; it has. In the last year, it has touched the lives of my family in a deep and profound way from which we are still reeling. In truth, a life not touched by grief doesn't really exist, but still--I don't pretend to know grief.

I don't pretend to know grief, because I have seen through the grief of my sister, through the grief of my nephew and niece, that grief cannot truly be known. 

To each of us, grief is different. For me, when my brother-in-law Ken died a year ago today, grief first manifested itself as anger. The anger has long since subsided, but in that moment, in the time of the longest year of our lives, the grief I knew was red and raging. 

Well-meaning people always try to understand another's grief. They try to define it. They try to compartmentalize it. They try to push it along. I was well-meaning. In my mind, I wanted my sister and her children to be healed immediately. I wanted them to go on about their lives without a ripple, without a pause. 

Watching my sister hurt was unbearable. It intensified my anger in such a way that was alarming, nearly overwhelming. I watched as she cried, as she held everything together for her kids. I watched as she searched for a place to put her grief, as she pointed her pain to rebuilding her life. 

Well-meaning, as I was, I hoped she'd heal. "Hope is the thing with feathers/ That perches in the soul," and the thing about hope is that it can fly away as easily as it lands. My hope that my sister will heal hasn't gone, but the reality of grief has finally dawned.

When feathers appear, angels are near.

A photo posted by Katie Ross (@katieross83) on Jan 23, 2017 at 7:53am PST

I don't know grief. None of us do. Oh, we may be intimately familiar with its ebbs and flows, with its phases and stages. With the bullet points and books and hollow words that attempt to explain it, to explain us to ourselves. But grief has many faces. It wears many masks. It speaks in tongues that our ears cannot hear and cannot know. 

My sister's grief is her own. I don't try to understand it. I don't try to define it. I don't hurry it along. I don't know what words will help, so I stick with an old stand-by that never says enough: I'm sorry.

And I am sorry. I'm sorry that I ever tried to know her grief. I'm sorry that her grief has become her constant companion. One that she faces bravely even on the hardest of days. 

Today is a hard day. I know it will be, but I can't know how hard. Only she and her children are living the reality of their tragedy, the daily weight of it that punishes and takes.

I watch them survive and thrive despite the pain. I watch her raise two of the most loving, intelligent children I have ever had the pleasure of knowing.   

But a life passed doesn't just disappear. It doesn't vanish. It doesn't end. 

Ken lives on. He lives on in so many ways. In Garrett's silly dances and songs, in his stubbornly huge heart that constantly watches over others. In Tessa's sweet giggles and sharp intelligence, in her perfect hugs and bright, smiling eyes. His children were his perfect gift. 

The grief we feel over Ken's passing is unique to each of us. We live through it every day. And yet, life does go on, even when you feel like it shouldn't. 

A year has passed, and it's been both achingly long and breathtakingly short. We miss you, Ken, and wish daily that instead of this unknowable, unbearable grief that, just for another moment, we had you. 

Tessa Rose

I was gone to Starbucks when the news you were coming arrived. My phone, which had scarcely left my side for the last several weeks as I impatiently waited on news of you, was sitting on my desk; the text message announcing that you were on the way sat unseen and unread on my phone, an eagerly awaited message that would have to wait just a little longer.

When I returned to the office, iced coffee and bacon gouda breakfast sandwich in hand, I absently checked my phone and saw the message I’d been waiting to see for weeks. “Your new niece is on her way!”

The thirty or so minutes after that are largely a blur to me. There was a lot of squealing, a lot of dancing around, a lot of running from office to office to share the exciting news. I called my Mama (your BB) first, as she’s the one that sent the text, and then I called Jennifer, your Mama, to see how everything was.

You were definitely on the way, she said, and before she drove herself to the hospital, she was going to stop at a fast food restaurant to grab some fries, because naturally, she was hungry. Labor’s hard work. This is your Mama. She’s the strongest woman I know. When she went into labor with Garrett, your big brother, she insisted on doing a load of laundry before she left the house. She’s like Super Woman on steroids, and if you’re anything like her at all, you’ll be amazing.

After much celebration at work, your Uncle Jeremy arrived to whisk me away to meet you. We went home, fed the cats (your cousins), grabbed the camera, and away we went. For a good twenty minutes of the hour-long car ride, I squealed intermittently. You can ask Uncle Jeremy. I was pretty excited and pretty annoying. It was about 5:00 by the time we were on the road, and Atlanta traffic can be a nightmare. But not that day. That day everything was perfect.

We made it to the hospital in plenty of time. You were in no real hurry. Your Mama was patient and calm, and for awhile, we just hung out with her and your Daddy in the hospital room. They would only let in two of us at a time, so we took turns. Me, BB, and your Papa. I would say the three of us were equally excited to meet you; we’ll always be your biggest fans.

The waiting room was crowded at first. Families came and went. Babies were happily announced, hugs were shared, even a few tears were shed, and still, we waited.

By 10:00pm, the waiting room was just me, BB, Papa, and Uncle Jeremy. We were ready for you to arrive, and an electric current of anticipation was buzzing in the room, but there was also a strange sense of calm. When your big brother arrived, I don’t think any of us were calm, but with you, things were different. After meeting you, I realized calm was just part of who you were.

We finally did get to meet you at about 1:00am. You were, and still are, beautiful. Your Mama was beautiful, too. When we came in the hospital room to see you and her, she looked amazing. We kept asking how everything went, and she would just shrug. Easy peasy. I know very few women who shrug after labor. I told you your Mama’s pretty amazing.

I’ve held you and kissed you and cuddled you close. Soon, you’ll be a week old, but I loved you before you were even born.

Tessa Rose, I wish you a life of giggles and bare feet, of ponytails and sunshine. I can’t wait to know you even better, to play with you and kiss your boo-boos and be the best aunt in the world. You’re already the best niece.  

  

 

Number 7

The Famous Slide

“Braves win! Braves win! Braves win!” I can still remember Skip Carey yelling those sweet words. I had been sprawled out on our living room floor, eyes glued to the television, tomahawk chopping the night away. I was nine-years old and had a pretty serious passion for baseball. As Skip yelled, I danced across the room, screaming and shouting for my Atlanta Braves.

Sid Bream sliding into home base on that fateful night in 1992 is one of those moments that just sticks with you.  Great baseball can deliver those moments, and there’s a new baseball team in my life now that I expect will deliver some awesome ones.

My nearly four-year old nephew Garrett started playing t-ball this year. He plays for a less famous Braves team and is the number 7. Naturally, I’m pretty excited that he wears Mickey Mantle’s number, and I’m absolutely convinced that he’s going to be the next Chipper Jones or perhaps Greg Maddox, ‘cause y’alll this boy can throw!

He had his first game over the weekend. Number 7, with a slightly too big uniform and face perpetually smudged with dirt or chocolate, covered first and third and hit a couple of line drives. He ran the bases like a pro and slid into home with a finesse that would make even Sid Bream jealous. Sliding into home and running the bases are his favorite moves, but his real talent lies in his hitting and throwing.

Naturally, I’m partial, but I’ve never seen a three-year old with a better arm than Garrett. I see baseball scholarships and major league pennants in his future. Of course, I won’t push; he’s got his entire future ahead of him, so if he decides to give up baseball and play the guitar instead, he’ll have his Aunt Katie’s undying support. But I do see a little natural talent in the way he tosses that ball.

Sunday afternoon was spent with a family game of baseball in the backyard. Mama and Daddy (Nana B and Papa to Garrett) set up a makeshift baseball diamond, complete with a chair as first base and terracotta planters as second and third. A busted up stick from an oak tree served as home plate.

Papa pitched, and Garrett was first up to bat. He connected on the first pitch, and the crowd went wild. He made it all the way to third, and the tone of the game was set.

We soon learned that baseball according to Garrett’s rules was a little different. The little smarty pants took full advantage of the chair base, sitting down every time he made it to first, and he gave a whole new meaning to the word switch hitter. If ever he swung and missed a pitch, he’d turn around and face the catcher, my husband Jeremy, and say “Now, you throw!” And the catcher would become the pitcher.

Despite some initial confusion over the chair base and switch hitting, it was easily the best baseball game I’ve ever played in or watched. I see big things in Number 7’s future. 

Piano

                                          Source: nadjaseale.com via Sarah on Pinterest

The piano sits silent in MawMaw’s dining room. It collects dust and knick knacks and is all but forgotten by everyone who visits. 

As a long-legged, scabbed-knee little girl, I was fascinated by that piano, spent countless hours sitting on its bench, exploring its secrets. I would caress the slightly yellowed keys, press up and down on the squeaky pedals with feet that just barely reached. Sometimes, MawMaw would join me on the bench, and together we’d play chopsticks until the whole household would groan in collective annoyance. 

MawMaw can play by ear. She has no need for music; she can just magically find the notes on the yellowed keys, some inherent skill for rhythm and tune that still escapes me to this day. Her skill fascinated me as a child. To be able to sit down at that lovely instrument and just play was something I yearned for, and MawMaw yearned for one of her grandchildren to follow in her footsteps and love the piano as she did. 

“She has the long, graceful fingers of a piano player,” I remember her telling Mama and Daddy, a hopeful tone in her voice. Looking down at my stubby, fat fingers now, I wonder how they might have ever appeared long and graceful, but in Mawmaw’s eyes, they were.

Because of her and my keen interest her piano, Mama and Daddy decided to pay for piano lessons for me. Luckily, my Aunt Dera taught lessons. Two nights a week, I went to my aunt and uncle’s house in Tallapoosa to receive the lessons and put my piano-playing fingers to work.

Their glossy black piano was much different from the oak upright that MawMaw played. Its keys were whiter than white and gleamed as my fingers danced across them. Dera patiently sat beside me on the bench and introduced to me the unfamiliar language of music.

Notes and scales and music books cluttered the desk stand above the keyboard, as well as my mind. Happily, and it took plenty of long, frustrating hours of practice, I finally learned a couple of songs. I could pound out a decent “Jingle Bells” and “Jesus Loves Me,” but my specialty by far was the celebratory notes of “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.”

When I sat down at MawMaw's piano last weekend after gorging myself on her yummy roast and potatoes, my fingers found the notes of "Hark! The Herald Angels Sing." It took a couple of tries and a few missed keys, but the song came back to me, hesitantly at first and then stronger. The piano seemed to remember me.

Unbidden, tears filled my eyes as I reacquainted myself with this old friend from childhood, its keys and pedals as familiar to me as any doll or toy that I ever played with. The knob was still missing from the key cover where I had twisted and turned it a million times in play. The keys were still yellowed and older than when I last touched them, but as beautiful as any instrument I had ever seen.

After my impromptu reunion, MawMaw sat down with us and reminisced of times when PawPaw had asked her to play for him. She would oblige and play for a long while; when she’d return to him in the living room, he’d be propped up in his recliner, sound asleep. We laughed, as she told us how she’d ask him if he was listening, and he would smile and say he heard every note, that he was just resting his eyes.

I can almost hear him say it, eyes closed, big grin on his face. The piano was a gift to her from him, an outward sign of their shared love. I guess that's probably why I love it so, because when I look at it, I see PawPaw's heart, and when I play it, I hear his heart. 

It's true that the piano may sit silent in MawMaw’s dining room now, but in this girl's heart, the memories attached to it will play on forever. 

Change - Dedicated to the Hedin Family

Change, it’s the only thing we’ve been able to rely on lately. The last few months have been a whirlwind of change and renewal in the Ross household, and while I’m happy about all of the changes and satisfied with the direction our lives have taken lately, I’ll have to admit it’s all been pretty exhausting.

It started over the Summer. Jeremy enrolled online at Jacksonville State University. Since we married in 2007, he’s been working on-and-off to obtain his degree. The summer of 2012 marked the most serious and permanent jump towards this effort, and it also marked the entrance of college loans into our lives. 

I didn’t anticipate the stress these loans would add to our lives. I had been fortunate enough to have the HOPE scholarship while in college, so I hadn’t accrued mountains of student loan debt. Also, Jeremy and I had lived under pretty strict self-inflicted financial rules for the duration of our married life and were hard-core avoiders of debt that wasn’t a mortgage.

In an instant, all that changed.

Also changing was my professional life. My supervisor and mentor moved on to another job. Other factors at work started shifting; my footing became less and less sure. And it became more and more clear that it was time to move on. I spent several months in a state of unrest. I was unsatisfied with the direction of things; I felt restless and impatient.

I changed during this time. I became Katie Version 2.0. I was myself, but I was stronger. I was more confident. I was less willing to settle. I was less willing to let people walk all over me. At the time, I didn’t even recognize the shift in myself. I only felt the struggle, the frustration. I overlooked the benefits of hardship. Such is human nature.

Blessed relief came in the form of a new job in December and that’s when I noticed the difference in myself. The weight that was lifted with my new job felt nearly like a personality transplant. The stress that had driven my life for so long seemed to evaporate. The happiness that was always just below the surface bubbled up, and I was the Katie that I wanted to be again.

As my new job evolves, as I find my footing and forge my new path, my happiness seems to only grow. As scary as it was to make the first leap from comfort zone to unchartered waters, I’m so relieved that I made that dive, that I’m beginning to make a real splash in my new career.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of another change. Jeremy will be embarking on a new part-time endeavor. As usual, I feel the butterflies and uncertainties that each new challenge brings. Doubt and hesitation make my heart skip a few beats as I think about the days and weeks to come.

With work and school and new-found hobbies and all of the wonderful things we want to try and do, how will we find time for it all? How will we handle all of these changes? How will we embrace new choices and goals and dreams?

I don’t know. I do know that we have survived change before. I do know that life is change and that I better get used to it. I do know that the only thing we can rely on in the coming months and years is that the world is spinning, and we’re going to need to run to keep up.

I do know that when it’s all said and done we’ll be able to see clearly the changes in ourselves and how through hardships and strife, through love and hate, through dark days and sunny, we only become better.

Hi friends,

My blogging friend Nina and her husband Tom are facing some dark days now. Nina is the author of ArtsyNina. She is the kind, witty mother of Jack and June and the wife of Tom. On January 5th, Tom was in a horrible snowmobile accident that left him seriously injured. He sustained numerous injuries to both legs and arms, to his head, his spine, etc., and his road to recovery is going to be long and difficult. 

Unfortunately, the financial burden of this recovery is difficult as well. Because Tom just started a new job recently, he doesn't qualify for FMLA, and Tom and Nina are facing medical bills that will just keep piling up as his recovery goes on. 

So that Tom can focus on his priority, which should be his recovery, a GiveForward site has been created in his honor to assist with the medical bills. If you are able to donate even a few dollars toward the Hedin family, I can assure you they will be appreciated. This young family is just like our own families; they just happened to stumble upon a bad turn of events. Even if you are not able to give, please help to share Tom and Nina's story. 

Thanks for reading!

There is Always Some Light

I am not a parent. I am not one of the millions of people who will send my child back to school in a changed world on Monday morning. I will not experience that moment of doubt or hesitation as I send my child off to a place that should be as safe as their own home, holding on to them a little longer than usual as I wrestle with emotions that no parent should ever have to feel. I will not have to have that difficult conversation with a child of seven or of seventeen, struggling desperately to answer an earnest question of “why,” when I don’t even know the answer to that question myself.

I am not a teacher. I am not one of the millions of people who choose to care for and guide future generations, who do so with a loving and patient hand.  I won’t look into the faces of twenty or thirty kids who are as dear to me as my own, choking down that sickening feeling of “what if.” I won’t have to attend a training session on what to do if a worst case scenario, heaven forbid, ever pays visit to my own school.

I am not a lot of things, but what I am, what we all are, is human. And collectively, on Friday, December 14, we, as teachers, as parents, as aunts, uncles, grandparents, friends, and as humans, mourned a great loss. A loss of twenty precious angels, aged six to seven, innocently going about their day at school. A loss of six incredibly brave adults, adults who sought to protect those angels, adults who left behind their own angels and loving families. An intangible loss of security, of confidence, of feeling safe where one should feel safest. Something, that some of us, will never get back.

As we mourned on Friday and throughout the weekend, some of us naturally turned towards anger. We shook our fists and raised our voices. We screamed questions of “why?” and “how can we prevent this from happening again?” We offered up our own solutions, citing better gun control laws, easier access to mental health resources and education, bringing religion into schools, teaching better values at home.

We pointed towards all of the usual suspects, desperately seeking resolution, desperately reaching out for some kind of tool to prevent this horror from ever touching us again.

But even in our anger, even in our frustration, confusion, and sadness, we reached out. In the days that followed that unspeakable horror, the world seemed to swallow up Newtown, Connecticut and its mourning citizens in a collective embrace of helping hands, of shoulders to cry on, of shared tears. There were teddy bear and greeting card drives, words written to ease minds and to incite change, dollars collected to provide support to a broken community.

Even in darkness, there is always some light. In this case, it glows from a million hearts from around the world, who collectively grieve for the parents, the teachers, the children, the friends, and the families of those touched by Friday’s event.

I am not a parent. I am not a teacher. But I am and, forever will be, touched by the events of Friday, December 14, 2012 and by the aftermath of love and kindness that restored faith and comforted, not just victims, not just families, but the whole of humanity. Let us not remember the evil that spurred this immeasurable loss. Let us remember the love that caused the world to reach out, the heroes who will undoubtedly continue to emerge, and the spirits of those sweet angels who are now in the arms of a loving God.

All the way down here in Georgia, my light shines for you, Newtown.

                                                                      Source: 3.bp.blogspot.com via Courtney on Pinterest

Waffle House Love

Our first date was at a Waffle House. After he drove 2,829 miles to reach me, I figured that buying him some waffles and hash browns--scattered, smothered, and covered--was the least I could do.

As far as first dates go, ours was pretty unique. We’d known each other for less than four months and only through phone conversations and emails. This was the first time we’d met face to face, and despite what should have been an awkward situation, everything about that moment felt just right.

The smell of bacon and stale coffee punctuated our conversation, and the only thing that interrupted our focus on each other was the occasional visit from our waitress. I think we were both in shock that we were together, in shock that we’d gone through with what any rational person would have called crazy.

We met online. We hadn’t been looking for each other, but you always seem to find the things you need even when you’re not looking. He lived in California; me in Georgia. But little things like distance weren’t going to keep us apart.

Our unique courtship was fast, too fast by some standards, but for us, it was perfect.  For four months, we spent nearly every waking moment talking to each other, learning each other’s quirks, falling in love even before we had the chance to lay eyes on one another.

Concerned friends desperately tried to talk me out of love, citing any number of very good and rational reasons why our relationship wouldn’t work. They worried that he was playing a game with me, that he was using me, that he was some random murderer bent on killing me. I listened patiently to their concerns; if the shoe had been on the other foot, I would have been the one voicing those concerns…but this was different. This was real, and I knew that in my heart.

I’m probably the least impulsive person you’ll ever meet. I always overanalyze and overthink every situation in my life. I always look before I leap. Every time, except this time. This time I let my heart do the thinking. I trusted that we were meant to be. Because we were. What other explanation could possibly be found for a typically cautious, withdrawn woman to throw away rational thought and do something so out-of-character and insane?

There is none, except that it was meant to be….much like that first date at the Waffle House was meant to be.

It wasn’t fancy, but it was us. I remember just how the sunlight filtered in on our table, how the engagement ring that he’d slipped on my finger the moment we met glinted in that brilliant light. I remember tilting my hand this way and that just to watch it sparkle. I remember thinking that this was the man I would spend the rest of my life with. I remember the happiness consuming me.

Happiness still consumes me nearly six years later. Jeremy and I are married now. We celebrate our fifth anniversary in October. We’re not perfect, by any means. We fight. We get on each other’s nerves. But we’re deliriously happy, and we love our life together with all of its quirks, the four cats that surround us, and those lovely dates at Waffle House. 

Me and My Shadow

Daddy and Me

His boots would be sitting by the door; a day's work of sawdust and clay settled on them like the dusting of a first snow. They always fascinated me, those boots. I would silently watch him put them on sometimes, deft, weathered hands moving in a muscle memory dance that would always conquer that complex system of laces and hooks.

But he wouldn't have them on tonight. They would be sitting by the door, a reminder of obligation and worry that held no place in this nightly ritual.

He would have on a pair of boat shoes, shoes that I'd slipped my own small feet into a thousand times, and if his boots represented work and obligation, those boat shoes represented freedom and happiness.

After scooping up some kibble and tossing it into a bucket, we'd make our nightly trek through the backyard, up to the hill where Barney the basset hound would be waiting patiently for his meal. Our journey there would not be ordinary, and it would always be ours.

I'd follow beside him, my smaller steps matching his larger ones in a perfect rhythm, a Daddy-and-Daughter dance always with the same soundtrack.

He'd sing, "Me and my shadow, strolling down the avenue, do de do, do de do."

Every night. Just the same. The sun would be setting, and our shadows would stretch before us, tall and silly, as silly as he and I, singing and strolling and sharing that time together when boat shoes and a basset hound could chase our worries away.

I'm still my Daddy's shadow, always following in his much larger footsteps and remembering that no matter how old I get that will always be true.

Happy Father's Day, Daddy!

Gone with the Rain

"Please, please, please don't go out there." 

Jeremy was doing a fine job of ignoring my pleas or maybe he couldn't hear them. In fact, it was raining so hard that he literally may not have been able to hear them.

That must be it. 

So, naturally I turned up the volume. "You're crazy for going out there! You're either going to get struck by lightning or blown away by a huge gust of wind. This is not a smart move."

He was busy putting on his shoes at this point, but he did take a moment to glance up at me, give me "that look" (you know, the one that says, 'you're being ridiculous'), and tried to appease me with a hasty, "Oh, I'll be fine."

I was not to be appeased. He got up from the couch, picked up his jacket, and headed for the door. And of course, I did what any level-headed, reasonable woman would do; I grabbed hold of his arm and clung like a burr. 

He sighed. "Katie, I'll be fine."

But I had a feeling that he wouldn't. Just one of those gut feelings. 

It was just a summer downpour. I knew that. I knew that probably the worst that could happen was that he would get drenched and track puddles of water all over the house. 

Or that he could get struck by lightning. Or blown away. 

Reluctantly, I loosened my hold on his arm, and just like that, he was gone. Out into the thunderstorm. Risking life and limb. All in the name of...

...a tomato plant. 

Our little garden was taking a beating from the summer storm. One of the tomato plants had collapsed with a particularly strong gust of wind. And Jeremy, my foolish hero, was charging into the breach to save it. 

As I waited for him to either return or drown in the rain, I paced back and forth, rang my hands, twisted my hair. Minutes seemed to pass, then hours. My entire life was moving in slow motion. 

He was back in less than five minutes, looking smug and completely soaked. We both went to look out the back window at his handy work, and it took everything I had to keep from laughing when we saw the tomato had already collapsed again. 

Poor, smug, drenched Jeremy. 

He had defied death, and his efforts had been in vain. He couldn't just listen to his wife and wait for the storm to pass. Nope, he had to save it then, in the middle of a monsoon, just to watch it fall over again. 

After fighting the urge to tell him "I told you so" a couple of dozen times, we settled back onto the couch to watch television and enjoy the rain from inside. Ten minutes hadn't even passed since our short-lived afternoon drama, when Jeremy said, "Huh."

Still focused on the TV, I absentmindedly asked him what was up, to which he replied:

"My ring is gone."

Which was the cue for scene two of our increasingly dramatic performance to begin. 

Yep, Jeremy's wedding ring was missing. It had come off when he was failing to save that poor, little tomato plant. It was now probably floating down the river that had replaced my backyard, never to be seen nor heard from again. 

Now, in addition to being a bit of a drama queen, I also happen to be very superstitious, especially when it comes to symbols, especially when it comes to symbols that were supposed to represent the unending circle of our love, especially when it comes to symbols that cost a whole lot of money. 

Logically, I knew a ring could easily be replaced, with a layaway plan and a good chunk of our savings, but I couldn't help but keep picturing that ring as the ring I slipped on his finger on our wedding day, the ring that meant so much to both of us. 

After some cursory panic, some tossing of couch pillows and bed sheets to make sure the ring wasn’t inside the house, Jeremy rushed back into the storm to look for it.

He made two trips.

Nothing. And so, I did what any level-headed, reasonable woman who knows her husband stinks at looking for anything would do, I threw on a rain jacket and bravely tracked down that missing ring…after the rain slacked.

And sure enough, after five seconds of real searching, I located it amongst some blades of grass, waiting patiently to be found.

Next time, I feel sure that Jeremy will wait for the storm to pass before rushing out to save a tomato plant. Next time, I feel sure that he’ll listen to his wife.

Maybe. 

Patchwork of Love

Today, when driving in to work, I heard a phrase on the radio that I completely fell in love with. Two women were talking about their parents and how the relationship between their parents had shaped their lives. One of the women described seeing her mother and father exchange loving, tender glances. She stated that such moments helped build and shape a patchwork of love that would endure into her adult life.

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought. When I heard the words, I immediately imagined a huge, intricate quilt with vivid and unique patches, woven together with a myriad of different threads. I imagined that my own quilt could stretch far across the sky, wrapping the Earth itself in a warm, comforting embrace.

There would be patches of the strangers who darted in and out of my life and yet left an indelible mark of kindness.

Patches of animals and pets, their fuzzy souls making everything more fulfilled and complete, their friendship filling a gaping hole of loneliness through so many heartbreaks.

Patches of friends, those I can touch and those I can only speak to through words on a screen, but all of those who reached out and whom I reached out to for a lasting connection of laughs and tears, shared happiness and fears.

Patches of memories. Of Pawpaw. Of vacations to Florida. Of Easter egg hunts and Christmas mornings. 

Patches of the family I so adore, the blessing of a lifetime, the genesis of my own patchwork of love, the memories shared, the bond of blood, the certainty that if I ever need them they’re always just right there.

Patches of the man I love, the partner and friend. Patches of his hugs and kisses and the comfort of his smell and the sweetness of his heart. Patches woven together across great distances with a strong thread that cannot be broken or cut or torn apart.

I am blessed with patches of many shapes, sizes, and colors, but as beautiful as my own quilt is, I find myself even more marveled and mesmerized by the patchwork of love of others, by the differences I see in each. Because truly, the most incredible thing about a patchwork of love is that not everyone's will be built the same or look the same. 

Some will be sewn together later in life, past the dark days of an undeserved childhood, past the void left empty by those who should love you the most. Some love has to be built from the ground up with a family that may not be from blood but is instead from the heart. The threads of this patchwork are like steel.

Some, the lucky ones, are born with a patchwork already started for them. From the moment they are conceived, so is the soft quilt that will envelope them through childhood and on.

Some will endure rips, tears, burns. Some may even begin to unravel at certain times, but they will be sewn back together. They will from this darkness be stronger than ever.

Some patchworks...most I would say...will revolve around family. Families of all shapes and sizes and colors. Families brought together by the only thing that really matters: Love. These are the patchworks that will be so alike and so different. These are the patchworks that we all must embrace because of that common thread, that universal thread that bonds us all, regardless of race, ethnicity, religion, or gender. 

Patchwork of love. Such a beautiful thought, and the even more beautiful thought is that each person carries with them a patchwork of love and that each one is stunningly unique and yet always tying us together with that common thread of love. 


What does your patchwork of love look like? 

Source: inaweofapplique.blogspot.com via Kristin on Pinterest

I Was There

I was there...

...as a little girl, tucked tight with you in Mawmaw and Pawpaw's guest room, kicking you awake constantly with my flailing legs and arms. You probably hated having to share a bed with me, your annoying little sister, but I loved those nights; excitement would rush through me, the thought of a slumber party with my big sister would nearly overwhelm me. We'd lie awake and whisper to each other, sister secrets shared in the dark and away from adult ears.

I was there...

...helping you decorate for prom. Ducking behind you when your cute friends would come around. I lived in awe of your high school world, crushing on boys way older than me and worshiping you as the princess that you were. I was always just on the outskirts of your world, separate but a part of it because you allowed me to be a part of it. And those times when you didn't allow me to be a part of it? Well, I'd just tell on you like the brat that I was...and still am.

I was there....

...as we grew older, the nine years separating us became fewer and fewer, though the physical distance between us expanded. Friendship blossomed, and we were there for each other in new ways. Georgia Tech games, trips to Disney, phone conversations that would last for hours. Tough times came and went, and we had each other through it all; sisters and best friends. No one understood us like we understood each other, through both joy and pain.

I was there...

...when your water broke and a new adventure began. Labor didn't stop you from doing loads of laundry and offering to drive yourself to the hospital. You've always been strong like that...even when you think you're not, you are. The strongest person I know. And then you gave us Garrett, sweet, unique, handsome little Garrett, a new bond between us, another branch of love.

I was there...

...to watch you become a mother. Years of practicing with me, offering love and guidance, made you a pro. You handled the transition like a champ, though stresses would come and go. You began raising a polite, caring, and very nearly perfect little boy. Jeremy and I would talk about your skill and patience with him, the way you seemed to be born to be his mother.

I was there...

....and I am there. Through it all. Thick and thin. We're sisters. Alike in so many ways and just enough different to make it all more interesting and fun. I know I can call you anytime. I know I can count on you for pep talks and sharing tears. Miles may still separate us, but no distance could dampen our friendship and support of each other. Thanks for being the best big sister. Thanks for putting up with me when I was an annoying tag-a-long and tattletale. Thanks for seeing me through heartbreak and sadness. Thanks for sharing the many happy moments that build our lives.

And happy birthday!

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Kaleidoscope

Source: stitchedincolor.com via Michelle on Pinterest

As I played with Barbies in the floor of my purple childhood bedroom, I knew the names of my children. I knew, and my Barbies knew, and so together, we acted out complicated and dramatic scenes of family and futures that wouldn’t even come close to what my real future would turn out to be.

By the time I was eight-years-old, I had resolved that one day I would have babies. I named these babies Benjamin and Lucy and felt assured that nothing would change my desire for babies or their set-in-stone names.

As time passed, the desire did change. I became more interested in things like horses and travel and writing. I became less interested in my Barbies and any future babies that I might have. My future, once painted in reds and yellows and blues, transformed into vibrant greens and purples, becoming a rich kaleidoscope that no longer resembled anything I had previously imagined for myself.

College rolled around, and my kaleidoscope future at turns both settled and shifted, constantly changing to reflect my current moods and obsessions. When I met Jeremy, I was no longer an eight-year-old with dreams of future children named Benjamin and Lucy; I was a grown woman, and I didn’t know if I even wanted kids.

Jeremy was certain. Positive. He knew more than anything that he wanted a wife, and he wanted a family. Used to, when you asked what he wanted to do with his life, his answer was simple: he wanted to be a dad.

I was uncertain. Questioning. Mind reeling with possibilities and outcomes. When asked what I wanted to do with my life, my answer was complicated, multi-part, and almost never included children.

I worried that this would ultimately be a point of contention. I had seen other couples break up over similar decisions. If this, a most fundamental point of compatibility, was up for debate, then would we ever make it?

Despite my misgivings, Jeremy and I discussed possibilities. Kids, college, career paths. At one point, we even named our possible future children. Beautiful names that still give me goosebumps when I think of how perfect they are. I’ve always been a namer of things. Pets, random wildlife that wander into our sights, stuffed animals, cars. A thing has a name, and it has life, a purpose, a meaning.

Those dream children of ours have a life, a purpose, a meaning, even if they never come to be.

Together, Jeremy and I dreamed and planned, revealing a combined realization for the future that paled in comparison to past versions of the same future. As we built our own family of cats and each other, Jeremy’s desire for children waned. My own desires became less clear. To this day, they are still unclear.

Most of the time, I lean towards the “I don’t want children” camp. Admitting this is hard. I wonder if something is wrong with me, if something inside is broken. I’ve even had friends all but say that something is broken, that something must be missing from me if I don’t want to have kids, that I’m not whole.

And I wonder if that’s true, and honestly, it hurts to wonder that.

Everyone has different wishes and hopes. Everyone has a different kaleidoscope future. Would mine be less vibrant, less bright, less fulfilled if it didn’t include children? Or could I find my own sources for fulfillment and contentment through my husband, through my family, through my beautiful nephew, through my words?

Source: flickr.com via Ruth on Pinterest

Kids are a blessing, no doubt, but they are not the only blessing life has to hand out.

Ultimately, Jeremy and I have to decide what we want. We have to revisit the baby question and think long and hard on what our changing kaleidoscope future has in store. Lucky for us, if we do end up having kids, we already have some stellar names picked out…and if we don’t, well, we’re pretty dang good at naming cats, too. 

Author's Note:  I won't lie. This one was hard to share. Knowing I have supportive readers and friends gave me the courage to hit publish. 


And I'm sharing with the supportive community of yeah write as well. Please take the time to click the button below and discover some truly beautiful blogs. And if you have the opportunity, return on Thursday to vote for five of your favorite posts. 

Where You're Going

My husband’s college acceptance letter came in the mail last Thursday. When I got home from work, he was standing at the door waiting on me, our three cats winding in and out of his legs, a huge grin on his face. The grin was infectious. For a moment, we just stood in the kitchen, grinning at each other like idiots. After exchanging our hellos, I asked him what in the world was up, and he just smiled and handed me the unopened letter. The words Jacksonville State University were printed as the return address, and I knew immediately that this was a good letter.

He confided to me later that he was a little nervous at first. In his experience, college acceptance packages came in thick envelopes crammed with information about the school: orientation, registration, and financial aid. The thin envelopes were always bad news. But not this time.

We opened the letter together, and the first thing our eyes landed on was the slogan “Where You’re Going” printed on a bumper sticker. I’ll never forget that moment. We both hollered our hoorays, grabbing onto each other in a clumsy, hopping hug. This was the beginning of our future, a first day of the rest of our lives. Thankfully, there are many days like that in life, days that ring out with success and promise and hope.

We still haven’t come down from our college acceptance high. Jeremy has big plans after completing his four-year degree, and while there have been roadblocks and detours along the way, he’s never given up on making it happen.

I’m a firm believer of making dreams come true. For the longest time, when I first graduated college, I had given up on my own dream of becoming a writer. It seemed so out of reach, as I sat at home and searched ad after ad for a freelance writing or editing gig. Most of the ads were far from home, and as a family girl with a good sense of my roots, I wasn’t quite willing to travel far away for a job. The jobs that were within in reach required experience that I just didn’t have. It seemed like to break out in the writing world I only needed a chance, but chances, it turned out, were hard to come by.

Just when I had all but given up on my dream, several years after my college graduation, an opportunity presented itself. The opportunity came in the form of a weekly local column, and to this day, it remains the best gift I have ever received. This column led to another first day of the rest of my life. When I saw my name in print for that first “official” time, I knew that at least part of my dream had finally come true. And from the column, so many more dreams were realized; so many more dreams took flight.

I now have my own blog. Not a huge accomplishment but one that I cherish. Chicken Noodle Gravy provides a chance to connect with my readers and an opportunity to write every day. Since I began this web journal over a year ago, I have seen my own writing improve and grow.

I’ve been published in the fabulous regional magazine West Georgia Living. I’ve actually had the opportunity to work on real freelance assignments, to research and build a story from next to nothing. The entire experience has been amazing.

Dreams are easy to give up on. The older we get, the easier it becomes. But giving up on a dream means we could miss out on so much. I might have missed out on meeting so many new people, on reconnecting with friends from my past, on finally earning a dollar for my words, and so much more. Jeremy might have missed out on that college acceptance letter, that key to our future which will undoubtedly open the door to many dreams to come. 

Source: positivelypresent.typepad.com via Katie on Pinterest

Where are you going? What dreams do you never give up on in your life? 


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Two Smiling Yellow Daffodils

He ducked his head as he came through the door, weathered and wrinkled cheeks flush with embarrassment. Neither my co-worker nor I said a word as he slipped past the front desk and down the hallway. He carried a used plastic water bottle with two wilted daffodils tucked inside, their bright faces drooping in thirst.

While we stood looking at each other and listening for his movements, we heard him at the water fountain in the mouth of the hallway, imagined him stooping low down to fill the empty bottle from its mouth. We busied ourselves when he finished his task and passed right back by us and out the door, carrying his sweet gift to some extraordinarily lucky recipient.

The door closed behind him, and we expelled our breath with simultaneous sighs and exaggerated “awws.”

“How sweet,” my friend said, grinning.

And it was.

When I returned to my office, I admired the bouquet of roses and lilies and carnations sitting on my own desk. I admired the pretty red ribbon with tiny white hearts tied around its base. I admired the lovely pink vase showing off the bursting-to-full arrangement. And then I thought about that little old man with the black boggin hiding a few wisps of gray hair, head bowed humbly, and yellow daffodils smiling out from a crushed water bottle in his hand… and I was ashamed.

I take things for granted, y’all. We all do. Every single day. I take my wonderful, loving husband for granted. I take the fact that we make enough money for him to buy me a beautiful bouquet of flowers for granted. I’m not a terribly materialistic person, but I’m constantly lamenting the fact that our incomes aren’t better, that our jobs don’t pay more. I do this even though we have a roof over our heads, clothes on our backs, and food in our bellies.

I love the simple things. I hug them to my heart always and count my many blessings daily. But I still take things for granted. I still want more.

That old gentleman with his black boggin and thirsty daffodils wasn’t taking anything for granted; he wasn’t, at that moment, wanting anything more than some water for the flowers that he would give his Valentine.

For a long time after he left, I thought about him and his flowers. I imagined him presenting them to his love. I imagined her face lighting up and her heart filling as if she’d been given the fullest bouquet ever. And I imagined how we could all learn a lesson from those humble daffodils, spreading cheer and love in the simplest and most profound way possible.

Source: graceandivy.wordpress.com via Anna on Pinterest

Hopping this morning with:

My Valentine to Blogs

via

Dear Blogs,

I began my affair with you over a year ago now; hard to believe so much, and yet so little, time has passed since that fateful day.

I was a cynical and suspicious fledgling writer. You were foreign to me, a vague concept in a transforming world taken over by social media. I had toyed around with you before, teasing with the idea of starting a relationship with you, but something always stopped me. The fact that I didn’t quite understand you? Perhaps. A lack of courage? Most definitely.

Blogging meant putting myself out there in a way I never had before. It meant sharing feelings I had never shared. It meant revealing a dream, to myself and to others, that I didn’t quite believe in.

I was a chicken. In typical Katie-form, I wondered what everyone would think, agonized on how others might see me. I worried that I wasn’t a good enough writer. I doubted that I had anything to say that people would want to read. But I didn’t let any of that stop me. I saw value in writing a blog. I saw that it might help me improve my writing, that it might help me gain a little confidence.

You’ve given me that confidence; you’ve helped me to improve. Because of you, I now write almost daily, and looking back on posts even from as little as a year ago, I see how I’ve grown. Selfishly, I would jump into this relationship a thousand times again and never regret a moment for how you’ve changed me, for the insight you’ve given me on myself.

But you’ve been so much more than even that. Through you, I’ve made dozens of friends, friends whom I cherish and have made true connections with. I stupidly forget this gift you’ve given me sometimes, the gift of friendship and insight and connection. I tend to overlook these little things that make you so great.

Little things like reading an extraordinary and touching story, bravely shared through friendship and love.

Little things like laughs shared for a great causes and a unique wit, both of which will leave you wishing you could get together with those fellow bloggers and go out for drinks, in a totally non-stalker way.

Little things like communities and friendships built on common interests and transcending barriers like age and location to provide support and encouragement in so many ways.

Little things that let us all know we aren’t alone, in our thoughts and ideas, in our fears and insecurities. For every experience or feeling I have, you’ve shown me there’s someone else out there with a similar experience and almost the exact same feeling.

Little things like witnessing unbelievable passion and love through the eyes of a mother, who said without fear just what I’ve wanted to say all along.

Little things like learning about someone else’s culture or viewpoint, learning that something we may have judged before or misunderstood isn’t so different from us after all.

Little things like witnessing the brilliance of a writer as she grows and fearlessly dives in, reaching out for a dream that is reaching right back for her.

These little things all make up my experiences as a blogger, as a lover of blogs. They are why you make me smile, work harder, and devote much of my free-time to my passion. I couldn’t possibly list the many people and words who have touched me through you, but I did want to devote at least a few of my own words to the difference you’ve made in me and in my life, my perspective, and my  writing.

Thank you, blogs, for being so much more than I ever thought you were.

With love,

Katie

What are some of the things that make you love blogs and blogging?

Author's Note: If you have the time, I encourage you to take the time to click on the links above. They are just a few of the many people and posts that have touched me as a writer and a blogger. I hope they can touch you in the same way. Oh, and this is by no means a complete list of the people and blogs who have influenced me and left me speechless. I wish I could name them all!

This was written for The Lightning and the Lightning Bug prompt: Valentine. 

Crazy as a Betsy Bug

“Just how crazy is a betsy bug?” The question was asked with just hint of sarcasm. Barely detectable, but I knew him well enough to know it was there.

He was making fun. Something we did to each other often. The playfulness was part of our relationship then, and it still is now; one of the things that makes us work.

I mulled over his question for a moment, pretending to be distracted by the chicken frying on the stove. Truth was, I didn’t even know what the heck a betsy bug was. Later, when away from his scrutinizing eye, I would google the information and learn that a betsy bug was actually a real insect more commonly known as a bess beetle. Upon more in depth googling, I was unable to learn where the phrase originated. I just knew I’d heard it since I was a child.

That Jane's* crazy as a betsy bug; bless her heart. 

I turned to Jeremy, wiping flour-covered hands on the front of my jeans, and said, “A betsy bug is crazy. What more do you need to know?”

He wasn’t convinced. “What makes it crazy? Why is a betsy bug any crazier than any other sort of bug? A roach, for example? Or a grasshopper?”

He smirked, and I turned back to my chicken. “I honestly can’t tell you, Jeremy. It’s an old expression, a turn of phrase. You use them all the time.”

“Not any as weird as that.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s weird. I’m Southern; I say weird things and talk real slow. Shoot me. It’s better than people not being able to tell where I’m from! Need I remind you of the time you called my Mom’s bank and her coworker thought you were from India? Her exact words were, ‘Brenda, there’s some foreign man on the phone for you!’”

It was true. Jeremy’s accent was pretty unidentifiable, and frankly, even I had a hard time understanding him sometimes. Mainly, because he mumbled.

I liked to tell him that I wasn’t fluent in “mumble.”

He liked to roll his eyes at me.

We were always trying to figure each other out. From opposite sides of the country, sometimes seeming to speak two different languages, raised in two separate cultures, and yet, for some reason, we worked.

Even now, when we're lost in translation, words and minds apart, we still work.

Author's Note: *Names have been changed to protect the innocent, bless their hearts. This little slice of mine and Jeremy's life was brought to you by the Write on Edge RemembeRED prompt: "Colloquialisms and Dialect." For great writing, be sure to click on the link below: