Lose Yourself

No, this post is not an homage to Eminem (although I do love that feisty white boy). The loss of self has just weighed heavily on my mind lately (more about that later). 

As I continue to interview family members and write my "Mema stories," I have begun to think more and more about the idea of self. And as if that wasn't heavy enough, I began reading Before I Forget, the memoir of celebrity chef, restaurateur, and Alzheimer's patient B. Smith. 

I didn't get through the first chapter before tears blurred my vision. 

OK, I didn't get past the first page. 

OK, I only made it to the second sentence.

"I'm still myself." 

And there you have it. She's still herself. Mema was still herself. Except that she wasn't. 

Surely our memories shape who we are in one way or another. Certain aspects of a personality may be innate, maybe even genetic. But I have to believe that my experiences have shaped me. So the question remains. Are the memories of those experiences essential to remaining or maintaining who I am? 

Smith describes the "pang" you feel in the pit of your stomach when you first hear the news that your mother or father has died. She feels that pang again every time she remembers. Every time. Because in her reality it is entirely possible to forget that your parents are dead. And then something reminds her or someone tells her and she feels the pang. Again. And mourns them. Again. 

I cannot imagine that kind of pain.

Her husband describes their breakfast conversation by saying, "She doesn't know how to get from sentence A to sentence C or D, so after a moment, she lapses into silence." This woman, once a supermodel, celebrity chef, restaurant owner, home goods designer and all around entrepreneur,  lapses into silence.

This disease takes more than memories. It seems to take the essence of a person. It takes their self. It takes them each at different rates, but it takes them. And then family members are left saying things like, "She's not the woman I once knew." Or "That's not my dad. My dad is gone," while their loved one's physical self remains intact. There but not there. Her but someone else.

I have much more to say on this topic. I'll come back to it here, I'm sure. But for now, I'll return to reading B's story and continue writing Mema's story and be sad for the stories forgotten. Sad for those who forgot them. And maybe even sadder for those who had to watch. 

"Perhaps it will seem of little comfort to them, but the fact is, I have never been more optimistic about the prospect of treating this disease. It will take time - too much time. Heartbreaking time. But we will get there. Of that, I have no doubt."

This line is taken from the book's forward, written by a medical doctor. An optimistic doctor. Stand strong, Dr. Tanzi. I love that you have no doubt. 

Now back to Eminem. Maybe he has more to do with this post than the clever title. Go ahead, give him a listen. Listen through a new lens.

Lose Yourself

"You better lose yourself in the music, the moment

You own it, you better never let it go

You only get one shot, do not miss your chance to blow

This opportunity comes once in a lifetime"

He's right. That moment? That memory? You own it. 

Until you have to let it go. 

Until you lose yourself.

Saying Goodbye to Dinah

I was banded November 18, 2010. I weighed 340 pounds that day.

I weighed 380 pounds on the heaviest day I know of. I know of. Why is that phrase significant? Because I didn't own a scale that would weigh me. The only time I knew my weight was when I had to go to a doctor's office, and I avoided doctors at all cost. No one at 380 pounds enjoys going to the doctor (I guess no one enjoys it). Us fat people...we know the lecture. We've heard it over and over and over. Year after year after year. So yes, 380 is the heaviest weight I know of, but it probably wasn't my heaviest.

My lapband changed my life. My lapband probably saved my life.

In January of 2012, I hit my goal weight of 170 pounds. And I even stayed that weight...for about 10 minutes.

As I prepare to end my journey with Dinah (the name I lovingly gave my band), the timing of the conversation I am about to share could not have been intentionally planned to hit a nerve more raw. I know that it is an often accepted perception that weight-loss surgery is a "cheat." I've had the conversation with many people over the last 7 years. And I know even more have had it behind my back. Usually, I am perfectly happy, even excited, to be a part of the discussion. Those who know me know that I absolutely love a good debate. I often disagree with some extremely smart people and we go toe to toe both online and in person, always remaining respectful and above the belt (or at least I hope they feel I do). But not this time. This time, armed with the sad knowledge that I will be losing my band soon, I was less than polite. Less than respectful. And I stand behind the foul language that is to follow. *F bomb warning.

You're joining this in mid-conversation:

Friend: But you have to admit that you took the easy way out.
Me: Of course I admit that. It must have been easier because I tried for years to do it on my own and couldn't. The band made it easier for me for sure.
Friend: So you cheated.
Me: Cheated what? Death? I used a tool that was made available through modern advances. A tool that made a task easier. Do you still cut your grass with a hand-held blade? Or do you use a lawn mower? Did you walk here? Or do you drive a car? Are you opposed to all modern tools? Or just my lapband?
Friend: **blank stare**
Me: Exactly. Then shut the fuck up.

And why was that nerve so raw? Why did those same questions that I have answered I don't know how many dozens of times make me respond so rudely? Because I went into that conversation (which originated as a discussion about Chick-fil-a of all things) burdened with the knowledge that I will soon be losing my band. I will be saying goodbye to Dinah.

You see, I have kept my band empty for the last five years. For the most part, I've had no restriction (other than in the mornings before I drink some fluids). Other than that I can eat normally. Just like anyone without a band.

Over that time, my doctor has urged me several times to remove the band. His reason being that if I am not relying on it for restriction and using it as a weight-loss tool, then it is an unnecessary foreign object and can, if left long term, cause esophageal problems.

My reasons for keeping it?

1. My insurance won't cover the removal, so no. Just no. If it's not causing a problem, it's staying in there.
2. It's kind of fat girl safety net. I know I can always have it tightened if I get out of control. And Whamo! Presto! Restriction! Back on track!

But now...my band has slipped. Dang. It means I can't eat solid food (for about a week now) until it goes back in place. Here is what the band looks like when all is well: 

I'll spare you a second pic, and just say that this IS NOT what mine looks like right now. And food won't pass through. Some liquids will. Yay! Another super thin protein shake! But no food. I continue to eat food. And then throw up said food. But hey...I'm hard headed. And I like food. What can I say?

So the bottom line is that when I go back to the doctor's office next week, I know that he is going to suggest, once again, removal of my band. And this time I am going to hang my head and sadly give in.

And then...

What if I go nuts? What if the old me shows her face? What if I wake up next week and I'm 380 pounds again?

What if...

So many uncertainties.

What if she was right, and I only succeeded because I cheated?

But what if I don't? What if I continue letting Tessa torture me and I meet my goals and then set new goals? What if I continue meal prepping and planning as if I never needed it?

What if I just continue continuing?

I'll miss you Dinah. You helped me change my life. You made me stronger and smarter and healthier, and I'll miss you. But I won't need you. I'll speak of you fondly forever, but I'll never need you again.

Marley and Me

Has anyone ever written about a dog the way John Grogan did? The pure, unadulterated love of a human for his dog and a dog for his human. I would argue that Garth Stein came close, but just close. No one can touch Marley when it comes to tugging at a dog lover's heartstrings. 

“A dog has no use for fancy cars or big homes or designer clothes. Status symbol means nothing to him. A waterlogged stick will do just fine. A dog judges others not by their color or creed or class but by who they are inside. A dog doesn't care if you are rich or poor, educated or illiterate, clever or dull. Give him your heart and he will give you his. It was really quite simple, and yet we humans, so much wiser and more sophisticated, have always had trouble figuring out what really counts and what does not. As I wrote that farewell column to Marley, I realized it was all right there in front of us, if only we opened our eyes. Sometimes it took a dog with bad breath, worse manners, and pure intentions to help us see.” 

~John Grogan

The monologue at the end of the movie is slightly different, in my opinion just as poignant:

A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes, or designer clothes. A water log stick will do just fine. A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart and he'll give you his. How many people can you say that about? How many people can make you feel rare and pure and special? How many people can make you feel extraordinary?

Marley and Me is a book that I can reread over and over and fall in love every time. 

Every time. 

I can watch the movie over and over and fall in love every time. 

And laugh every time.

And cry every time. 

And wonder every time, "Why can't people love one another so unconditionally?"

There is no greater love...

Memorial Day 2017

How did you celebrate? And is celebrate even the appropriate word? It is a holiday, after all. Doesn't that imply celebration? I would think it would be more appropriate to ask how someone observed the day, but that isn't a phrase you hear often. I don't think celebration is meant disrespectfully (at all), but in light of the day's essence, it seems a strange word.

I have read numerous heartfelt Facebook posts, blog entries, and a few beautiful essays today in honor of the fallen brave. And while I know that this day is in memory of those who made the ultimate sacrifice (and Veteran's Day is the day devoted to ALL service men and women), this morning I made a point to thank two of the servicemen in my life, both still living. And both still deserving of gratitude. Today. Tomorrow. The next day. And Tuesdays, mid October.

I was reminded to thank them because this morning I saw this.

I can't remember who posted it (it was a FB friend), and actually it was a different picture (that I can't find) but with the same quote. And here is the effect it had: 

It made me think about bravery. Ultimate sacrifice and bravery. Appropriate for today in honoring the lost, but it made me think of the living as well. 

Anyone who enlists in the military does so knowing there is a chance they could be sent into combat (an assumption on my part...but I think a logical one). And in doing so, in signing on the dotted line in spite of that knowledge, service men and women show an immense bravery that today I wonder if I could ever muster. It is for that reason that today I felt called to thank the living as well. Because they faced (and still face) that same possible fate, and they accepted the possibility heads high. So I do understand the essence of today, but if you are a veteran or active military reading this, know that today I also thank you (and am reminded that I am in awe of you). 

I would like to think that I could give my life for those I love. Of course I want to believe that. But could I? Could I dig deep inside and stare down mortality and willingly sacrifice myself for others? Again. All I can say is, "I hope so."

For me, today also calls to mind Victoria Soto. She put herself between her students and the Sandy Hook gunman and gave her life for theirs. Bravery. Ultimate bravery. In that split second, she found it in herself. 

I think of the Catholics arrested during the Nazi regime and wonder would I have the courage to stay true to my faith when faced with persecution, true, terrifying persecution. 

I think of the Chernobyl Suicide Squad (who I read about in Mrs. Lindquist's sixth grade ELA class). Here is what I remember about them, what stuck with me after all of these years: They (three of them) dove into a flooded basement to turn a valve that inevitably stopped a second explosion and an even more devastating meltdown. And they did this knowing there was no chance of survival. 

It was estimated they saved millions. Bravery. Ultimate bravery.

Fairly recently, when gathering related articles for a teacher to share with a group of high school freshmen, I came across a book that details many different versions of the suicide sqad's story. Apparently, the truth isn't quite what I remember from sixth grade, but the memory remains as powerful. They apparently didn't die within weeks from the radiation (as I remember), but in keeping with today's theme, I wonder if they went into that basement thinking they could. And probably would. And went anyway. 

Bravery. Ultimate bravery.

I'm sure there are countless examples of these stories of bravery and sacrifice that I could call to mind (or Google) today. And I know that today is meant to honor specifically the bravery and sacrifice of our military.

I do thank them. And I am glad we have a day devoted to honor them. And today, I spent time wondering...

Could I ever muster what they gave so willingly? Could I find the depth of bravery that they each did when they laid their lives on the line for someone else? I hope I never have to know. But could I? 

Dear Mr. Swayze,

"Nobody puts Baby in a corner."

That's your line. It's iconic. I hope you were proud to leave it as a legacy.

Johnny Castle taught an entire generation of ladies (and maybe gentlemen too) that dirty dancing can be beautiful dancing. He taught us to not judge the book, or the dancer, by the cover, and indeed he taught us to never settle for being put in a corner.

I'm sure you inspired countless injuries (and YouTube videos) as people of all ages have tried to perfect that lift year after year after year. And no one, no one respectably long in the tooth, hears that song without remembering you (not Johnny Castle...you) fondly.

Time of my Life

Dalton taught us that it's important to be nice..."until it's time to not be nice."

Vida taught us that "some men need to be hit back," and even Bodhi taught us the importance of 100% adrenaline.  I may have listened to Bodhi just a little more than I should have. "Little hand says it's time to rock 'n roll!"

One of my favorite quotes, though, came from you, not one of your characters. "How do you nurture a positive attitude when all the statistics say you're a dead man? You go to work." You went on to explain that the work is whatever you love. You keep at it. You play with your kids. You dance with your wife. You shoot a movie if there's one to be shot. You go to the work of life, but no matter what, you don't give up. You don't give in. You never sit down and be done.

And you didn't.

I don't know a character you played I didn't love. You made me love them all. If you have a crap role out there, I hope I never discover it.

You are the reason ditto is on my list of top ten favorite words, and I hope and pray that Sam was right. "It's amazing, Molly. The love inside. You take it with you."

Prince, Rocky Balboa, and Willie Nelson

I had very personal moments inspired by each of these three men today. All for very different reasons. Yes, I know Rocky Balboa isn't a real man, but he still makes the list. As much as I love me some Sylvester Stallone, I would never sit through a Rambo marathon. Never. It is Rocky Balboa who mesmerizes me.

I'm a pretty big fan of all three: Prince (God rest his talented soul), Rocky Balboa (the ultimate comeback kid), and Willie Nelson (come on...how can you not love Willie?). 

Today, I've had reflective moments where the words of each of these men stuck with me. And maybe even changed me. Because I think that's what reflection does. It changes us, one tiny piece at a time. 

On my way to work I was almost brought to tears listening to the first verse of Let's Go Crazy. Well, if I'm going to admit getting all emotional listening to a Prince song, at least it wasn't Pussy Control. 

Go ahead. Click on the link below and listen to the introduction. Alright, listen to the whole song. You know you want to. 

Let's Go Crazy 

Do you get it? Do you see why listening to this artist talk his way into a song I've heard hundreds, if not thousands, of times got me all up in my feels? No? Me either. But it did. I was contemplating life and my purpose and my beliefs about the afterlife. Yes! Seriously! All because Prince said life means forever, "and that's a mighty long time." 

*Side note: If you let the YouTube video continue into the next, you'll get to enjoy Purple Rain as well (man, I love that song...and that movie). 

And then after work, tired from an extra long day, I turned to an old friend, my go-to when I need mindless television I love: Rocky Balboa. I love them all. I can easily make a Rocky marathon out of any Saturday or Sunday, but my favorite (no question) is Rocky Balboa, the sixth in the movie saga. 

I've seen this movie at least dozens of times (at least!). I can quote large portions of it, but tonight two lines hit me (both during a conversation with his son...during which I think the son is a putz). What wisdom did my favorite fighter impart?

"You think you oughtta stop trying things because you've had a few too many birthdays? I do not." 

and

"I stopped thinking like other people think a long time ago. You gotta think like you think." 

And again...life...purpose...big thoughts.

Enter Willie...

Tonight, I begin chapter 19 of Willie's autobiography It's a Long Story, but when I reached over and picked the book up, my thumb slipped just inside the cover, causing the book to open to the introduction (which I read last week). Nothing on the page was highlighted (I'm a chronic highlighter), but for whatever reason my eyes were drawn immediately to this line: 

"My prayer is that the memories, whether joyful or painful, refresh my spirit, and yours, by assuring us that the stream never runs dry." 

Isn't that why we write? 

Life. Purpose. Big thoughts. 

I highlighted the sentence, by the way. And then I wrote the introduction to Let's Go Crazy on a Post-It and stuck it on that page. Some day, I'm going to flip through this book looking for highlights (because that's a thing I randomly do), and I'm going to wonder why that note is there. I bet it will inspire musings of life...purpose...big thoughts. Or not. You never know. 

Good night, Prince. Good night, Rocky. Good night, Willie. 

Tonight I drift off a better person because of you three. And for that, I thank you.  

When Words Won't Come

We all know that writing is hard. In fact, I wrote an entire entry here about that fact once. It was hard. Hehe...see what I did there?

Today is one of those days. The words just don't want to be found. Hell, the topic doesn't even want to be found. But a friend and I promised to blog every week. And well...if she can do it, so can I.

So today...I borrow words. It was always one of my favorite classroom stations. "Found" poetry the smart people who came up with it call it. Over the years, I've had students borrow words in a number of ways from a number of sources for a number of different products. Today, I do the borrowing.

The poem below (and I'm using the term poem loosely here) consists entirely of the titles of books that can be found laying around my house at this very moment.

________________________________________

Bird by Bird
by Kristi Piper (and many other authors to whom I am grateful)

I is an other
Same kind of different as me
When women were birds
Uniquely human
Aging with grace

Passing it on
Reflections
My own words
For one more day
Journey to the heart

Made to crave
A song flung up to Heaven
Pieces 2 peace
Facing your giants
Brain on fire

Gather together in my name
Crossing the threshold of hope
Deeply loved
A hundred and one days
Grace for the moment

It's a long story
A long way gone

Bittersweet
__________________________________________

Well, there you have it. A complete blog entry (five hours ahead of my deadline), and a beautifully crafted poem (packed with meaning and nuance) that any poetry professor worth his or her salt would give at least a solid D-.

Obsessed With Being Obsessed

I am obsessed with being obsessed. It's true. I was diagnosed by an 11 year old on the television show Hoarders. He was describing his mother's addictive personality (not a phrase he knew), and I heard him say, "She would never be able to just take up jogging. She would have to train for a marathon."

Boom.

Wow.

Drop the mic., kid.

You nailed it.

I went to grad school...and didn't stop until I had a doctorate. I decided to lose weight...and had lap band surgery. I took up jogging...and trained for a marathon.

I get bored if I don't have an obsession.

I recently found a new obsession, one I am particularly excited about. There is no degree or finish line attached, but if I make it to wherever it might lead me, I think it might end up being the journey of which I will be the most proud.

I want to transform my body. Like really transform it. Like as in bodybuilding. But not in a real bodybuilding way (because I am a giant pansy). But body transformation.

I have dabbled with trends in the world of fitness since shortly after my lap band surgery in November of 2010. I've gone to bootcamps. I've taken a few kickboxing classes here and there. I've eaten Paleo (even went to a Paleo conference once) and completed a Whole30 (and attempted four more). I've jogged. And quit jogging. And jogged again. My point is...I've dabbled. Other than training for the Houston Marathon, I've never really stuck with anything consistently.

I met with a trainer recently to pitch the idea to her, the idea of transforming my body. I knew the exact trainer I needed (there was no doubt in my mind), and she was totally on board. And she asked me, "But how do I get you to show up?" I had attempted to work with her before and had flaked after an embarrassingly few sessions.

My answer? You don't. I do. I think I'm ready. Because I need something to be obsessed with.

It's that simple. I am currently obsessed with exploring how far I can push my body and watching what it does in response.

How's it going? Well, I'm still a giant pansy. But I'm showing up. And I'm loving it. And just the other day I thought I saw a muscle. And then I realized it was probably a streak on the mirror.

Some obsessions come to fruition slower than others.

A Little UFC Wisdom

I have a confession to make. I am a highlighter. A hopeless lover of highlighting. I have a highlighter on the table by my bed. A highlighter in my purse (OK, there are two). Multiple highlighters in my work bag. And an overly stuffed pencil pouch full of them in my office supply box. 

I love to highlight sentences and phrases that stand out to me when I read. If a line makes me think or makes me appreciate its wording or its wisdom, I highlight it. I very rarely (if ever) make notes. I don't jot down why I highlighted the statement. I simply highlight it and continue reading. 

Occasionally, I pick up an old book and thumb through it, reading only the highlighted passages. I like to see what stood out to me when I read the book and reflect on what I might have been thinking. I used to have a hard time letting go of books, so I was surrounded by a large supply of highlighted food-for-thought. Now that I no longer have a home office/library, I am limited on book space, but I make room and keep what I can. And yes...I still highlight. 

I often wonder (now that I have had to come to terms with letting books go...to what I hope are good homes) what the new reader thinks when they come across my highlighting. Does he or she wonder about the significance of the line? Does he or she get annoyed that I defaced a beloved book (much as I do when I see the mark of a past dogear)?

I am currently reading and rereading Maya Angelou's memoirs. I love her use of words (can't highlight her enough), and I wanted to experience her work in the order in which she wrote them. Aerosol highlight ink might be more efficient for marking her work. I understand that at some point highlighting becomes meaningless if it is overdone, but when I flip back through her work, some pages look more like coloring books than text. She was an artist in her use of words. 

I hope that when I write (currently working on a "book" about my Mema) someone will find my words highlight worthy. I know that it is possible to highlight e-books, but I don't find myself using that tool. And I've certainly never gone back through an electronic text to reread what I highlighted. I guess it's just not the same. But despite the leap to a new world where maybe you leave your highlighter behind (notice I said you...I'm still clinging to mine), there is still a feel of being highlighter worthy. 

Isn't that what a writer wants? To say something that is highlighter worthy.

Now...This highlighter rant was meant to be only my first paragraph to lead into my true topic. I intended to write about a line I heard from a UFC commentator. A line that made me stop and think, "If that were written down, I would highlight it." 

I considered going back and revising my title once my writing took on a direction of its own choosing, but instead, I will make this simple connection and leave the title...maybe as a teaser for next week's post and maybe as a reminder to myself to write about that line. 

Drinking from the Fountain

I just returned from four glorious days spent in Taos, New Mexico. It was a spring break getaway. I never take spring break getaways. It's just not my style. I'm not a goer. I'm not a doer.

But this...this hit the spot. It was a vacation to be remembered.

I traveled with two colleagues I've known since only July and one complete stranger, and we stayed in the home of a colleague's sister (also a complete stranger). All four, I now consider dear friends. 

We laughed until we cried (and in my case peed). 

We enjoyed a spa day that was second to none.

We ate more amazing food than five women should consume in a month. 

We skied. Well, they skied. I fell, got up, snow plowed a little, fell, got up, and snow plowed a little more (all mixed with more laughter and a few brief moments when I thought the lack of oxygen just might do me in). 

We looked around in amazement at the beauty and grandeur that is New Mexico. They had all been there before (some many times), but they were still just as mesmerized as I was. Our maker outdid himself when he painted New Mexico. He blessed those mountains and taught them to hum. 

We celebrated life and laughter and did the week justice. It was a spring break worthy of the name. 

When I travel, I enjoy seeking out books by local authors, so this week I picked up an anthology titled Drinking from the Fountain. I bought it as a gift for our wonderful hostess, but I also read some of the pieces during my stay. They were beautiful. And the concept of drinking from a fountain seemed a fitting analogy for the week. We drank from a fountain. A fountain of friendship. A fountain of beauty. A fountain of light and laughter.

Here is what I know as a result of my getaway:

1. Zagging is a very important part of skiing. If you can only zig, it will be a long trip down the mountain.
2. Friendships can form fast. Faster than one might think.
3. The Rosary is where I turn in a crisis in need of hope. The Rosary is always about hope.

I could go on and on and on, but I won't. I'll just leave it at I learned a lot. A lot. 

Oh and...

    4. The altitoots are real. Very real.

When Choice Isn't Choice At All

Let's talk about school vouchers, taxpayer savings grants, education savings accounts, school choice. A rose by any other name would still stink just as bad. Surely that's what Shakespeare really meant.

Play with the verbiage all you want. Here on earth, we call it segregation. And it's wrong.

You can wrap it up in enough clever wording to make George Orwell proud, but it's still wrong.

Why would anything touted as "school choice" be wrong, you ask? How can choice be a bad thing?

Well, allow me to break it down for you...

It's wrong because the only choice being offered is to the chosen. A voucher system isn't about offering better educational choices to ALL children. It's about offering choices to chosen children.

So you don't have a parent or grandparent home during the day to provide transportation? Sorry, you don't get in. Private schools don't have to provide bus transportation.

You're emotionally disturbed? You don't get in.

You have a learning disability? Sorry, we'd be happy to put you on a waiting list. Oh wait...your parents can make a hefty donation to the new-building fund? On second thought, you get in.

Hmmmm...I see you were sent to the office several times last year. You're not getting in. No educational choice for you.

My foster son who carries with him three diagnoses, binders of CPS paperwork, and 16 office referrals this school year alone? He's damn sure not getting in. They'll stamp his application HELL NO and giggle when they tell people we dared to apply.

So what is his choice? He doesn't get one. He stays in public school. Which is fine with me because I believe in public school. And I happen to love his public school. And his wonderful public school teachers. They are making magic happen with the limited resources made available to them, and we're about to rip the carpet right out from under them with "choice".

That same public school will potentially lose thousands (possibly hundreds of thousands) of dollars in public tax money that will now be sent to private schools to fund the educations of the chosen. You know what else will go? The chosen parent population, a large percentage of whom are those who are able to make donations for special programs and volunteer their time to help orchestrate those programs. Remember...there's a reason they were among the chosen.

Who remains with him in that public school? That public school with even fewer resources now?
All of those kiddos who weren't chosen. They stay. Let's just refer to them as "those" kids. That's what they called them back in the good old days, right?

Remember that word I mentioned before? Segregation
*Secretary DeVos, I know it's a big word, but I'm sure someone in your office can explain it to you.

Don't get me wrong. I firmly believe in the right of parents to send their children to private school. I firmly believe in the right of private schools to govern their own admissions rules. What I do not believe in is using public tax money to pay the bill and pretending it's good for ALL children.

No public tax money should be given to a school that can pick and choose and turn children away.

Call it whatever you want. It's wrong.

Ashes to Ashes

Today is Ash Wednesday. I love Ash Wednesday. I love the cleansing principle of Lent and the feeling of a fresh start that follows it.

According to Google (not who I usually turn to for religious guidance, but I was curious), the "purpose of Lent is the preparation of the believer through prayer, doing penance, repentance of sins, almsgiving, atonement, and self-denial." Not bad, Google. That's better than I would have done if asked the purpose of Lent.

I'm still undecided on what I'm giving up this year. But I know what I'm adding. I intend to pray the Rosary daily. I love the Rosary. I love the beads. I love the prayers. But I don't do it as often as I should. So a Lenten Rosary marathon it is.

And I will be reading the book Rediscover Catholicism by Matthew Kelly. A friend recommended it years ago. I didn't read it. I saw it on a cousin's coffee table about a year later, and I ordered it. I even read the prologue and first chapter. I don't remember why I didn't finish it. But I didn't. I remember liking it, but I didn't stick with it. I do that a lot.

Today I restarted it, and once again, the prologue blew me away. I remember reading it out loud to my mother and father the first time around. We were in the car. I do not remember where we were headed, but I remember reading this prologue multiple times. And then just sitting. Reflecting. Today, I did that again.

It is the story of a young boy who saves the world from a deadly flu that has killed thousands and is spreading across the globe. He saves the world with his blood, which contains the antibody. His parents had to make the decision to give his blood to save the world. His blood. Their only son's blood. All of it. And they did it.

Kelly's version is much more eloquent. I promise. But it's too long to post his words here. The last paragraph, however, you get:

*It's told in 2nd person (which I usually do not enjoy but which makes all of the difference here).

"The following week, they hold a ceremony to honor your son for his phenomenal contribution to humanity...but some people sleep through it, others don't even bother to come because they have better things to do. and some people come with a pretentious smile and pretend to care, while others sit around and say, 'This is boring!' Wouldn't you want to stand up and say, 'Excuse me! I'm not sure if you are aware of it or not, but the amazing life you have, my son died so that you could have that life. My son died so that you could live. He died for you. Does it mean nothing to you?'

Perhaps that is what God wants to say."

Kelly could have dropped the mic there. But he didn't. He followed that with a whole book. A book that I just know is going to make this Lent more purposeful for me.

That's all I have for now. I still don't know what I'm giving up, but I'm looking forward to a Lenten season of reading and Rosaries. Maybe that's how the rest of my year will be spent. Wouldn't that be something?

Writing is Hard

"Let's start a blog challenge," we said.

"First one to skip a week buys lunch," we said.

"It'll be fun...
Wait...
I don't think we said that.

No. We definitely didn't say that. We knew it wouldn't be fun. We knew it would be hard. Because writing is hard. And because even though we both love it, we both avoid it. Because it's hard. And maybe even torturous.

So here I sit writing a blog entry at 10:15 on Sunday night because we set Sunday at midnight as the cutoff for the week. Writing may be hard, but apparently buying lunch is worse.

Topics I considered through the course of the week (but never actually wrote about):

• Writing (and why it is so hard)
• My next letter to Heaven
• Lent (and my plan of attack)
• Foster parenting
• Cheetos (someday I'm going to write an ode) 
• A Mema story 

There you have it. It's a good list, and none of them got written. Maybe next week. There's always next week.

For now...

Barbara Wells, this counts. Nighty night.

Letters to Heaven, continued

I'm not sure how to start this letter.

Dear Mrs. Andrews,

That's clearly too formal. I would have never called you that.

Dear Cleo,

No. I didn't even know your first name until I Googled it a few minutes ago. By the way, why did you switch your initials for your penname? Was that your decision or a publisher's? 

Dear V.C. Andrews,

That's all I've ever called you, but it seems strange in a salutation.

Dear author who I never met but who changed my life forever,

There. That will do.

You are the reason I am a reader. You are the reason dyslexia didn't win the battle. You are the reason that I persevered (and continue to do so) when I have to reread and slow down and reread again and move a tracker and sometimes a finger. You are the reason that even at its most frustrating I STILL love to read.

Well, I guess my mom deserves some of the credit. If she hadn't told me I wasn't allowed to read that filth, you wouldn't be the reason. And I may not have turned out a reader. So I guess it was teamwork on both your parts.

Now, don't be offended by her harsh words. As I got older she said some pretty harsh things about Stephen King too, but by then she had given up on trying to dictate the subject matter of my reading obsession. She told me once that I was going to turn into a psychopath if I didn't read something else, but I'm pretty sure she was just kidding. Pretty sure.

The day I left my book out on the coffee table and she read an excerpt from Flowers in the Attic, she threw it away. She didn't ask me where I got it or tell me to take it back. She just threw it away. And that was the end of that. At least she thought it was. OH NO! I didn't know which page she had read (I had just started the book), but I was damned sure going to find out. 

I dug that book out of the trash and read like I had never read before. I was fascinated by any story that could work my mother into such a frenzy, and I was quickly captivated by Cathy. I couldn't get enough. I read all five books as fast as I could get my hands on them. It was my first exposure to Gothic writing, and something inside me twisted and turned in response to such darkness. 

I read your other books as well, but it was Cathy Dollanganger who pulled me over to the dark side and taught me to lose myself in a book. For that, I will always be grateful. 

I still enjoy reading the dark and twisty. I've devoured my fair share of Stephen King, Dean Koontz, Richard Matheson, and Jack Ketchum just to name a few of my favorites. Anne Rice introduced me to vampires, but I never took that love beyond her work. But you...you were my first. You were the first to use words to give me chills as I read by flashlight tucked under the covers safe in my bedroom. You gave me my love for a genre that even my mother has come to accept as perfectly harmless (now that I'm a grown woman...and probably not a psychopath). 

Thank you for dedicating your life to putting words together for others to enjoy. As a wannabe writer, I know that isn't easy. Thank you for giving us just enough of the forbidden and the taboo to make an 11 year-old girl dig through the trash and come out a reader. 

And thank you for Cory. And Carrie. And Cathy. And Chris. 

Sincerely,

Kristi, a grateful fan and lifelong reader

So Much More Than Beads

Hail Mary, full of grace...

When I'm scared, I pray the Rosary.
When I'm worried, I pray the Rosary.
When others ask me to pray for them, I pray the Rosary.

The Lord is with thee...

Holding the beads is comforting. Reciting the prayers is comforting. Today I sat in the backseat of a car. Silent. Praying the Rosary. Then sat in a hospital waiting room. Listening. Praying the Rosary.  Talking. Praying the Rosary. Hugging. Praying the Rosary.

Blessed art thou amongst women...

When I administered tests to my students, I roamed the room silently praying Rosaries, manipulating the beads in one hand (I've become quite the master of the one-handed Rosary hold).

And blessed is the fruit of your womb, Jesus.

All those years, I thought I did this unnoticed. Until one year the ESL teacher asked me to come to her room to read an essay. This was not unusual, but this time it was different. The essay she wanted me to read was a copy of a college entrance essay. A copy she had made for me.

Holy Mary, mother of God...

The student wrote about the time he was taking a TAKS retest and his teacher walked around the room praying for him. He said that to him it meant I hadn't given up on him. And I hadn't. I don't remember his name, but I can picture his face. He wasn't my student, but he came to my classroom after school three days a week for tutorials.

Pray for us sinners...

Reading that essay, I remembered that he had caught me praying during that test. He stopped me as I walked by his desk and asked, "Miss, are you praying the Rosary?" I told him I was. He asked me how many I'd said. Two. His response? "You must be slow. My mom says them really fast."

Now and at the hour of our death.

He was right to feel that praying that Rosary meant I hadn't given up on him. I hadn't. The man I prayed it for today? I hadn't given up on him either. That's what the Rosary is about. Hope. That's why I pray it. Because when I'm scared, I want to hope. When I'm worried, I want to hope. When I'm sad, I want to hope. Mary helps me find my hope. Those beads help me find my hope.

Amen

A Year of At Leasts

I love New Year's resolutions. For many years now, I have made three resolutions every year. Most years I'm successful with one. It's a stellar year if I knock two out of the park.

In 2015 I made a gift-giving resolution and had the most fun keeping a resolution I've ever had. I still love giving random gifts. In 2012 I quit smoking. I still smoke on Halloween, but I'm calling that one a success.

In 2015 I resolved to do an unassisted pull-up by the end of the year. In 2016 I resolved to do an unassisted pull-up by the end of the year. I still can't do an unassisted pull-up.

This year, instead of a resolution I issued myself a challenge. Google defines resolution as a firm decision to do or not do something. Quit smoking...firm. Challenge is defined as a call to take part in a contest or competition. I suppose this competition is with myself. To be a better me.

I have dubbed 2017 "The Year of At Leasts." The challenge is simple.

Every day do AT LEAST one of the following:

1. Run at least one mile.
2. Pray at least one rosary.
3. Read at least one chapter.
4. Write at least one something. 

I've already failed on the every day part (good thing it's a challenge and not a resolution). But despite the fact that the previous sentence contains the word failed, I've done more of all four activities than I think I would have otherwise. Success.

January's Losses:

• I missed three days. I guess that's not horrible, but it would have been cool to have had a streak. Is just one month too much to ask?  Come on, Piper!
• Challenge within the challenge: Unbroken February streak
• I only wrote once. Just once. This one makes me sad.  

January's Wins: 

• I doubled up and completed two "at leasts" in one day 12 times.
• I completed three "at leasts" in one day once.  
• Challenge within the challenge: Two trifectas in February
• I ran 67.17 miles in January. I consider those 67 wins.
• I finished three books in January. To some of my reader friends, that won't seem like many. Trust me; it is a win. I love to read. I am a self-proclaimed memoir junkie, but it is a very slow process for me (that involves lots of frustration and rereading). 

The wins out-number the losses 2 to 1. That officially puts January in the win column. Yes, that's the rule. 

So far, February's streak is going strong. And I already have one trifecta! 

Other fun challenges for 2017:

• Barbara Wells and I have a blog challenge going. Write one entry every week (there's an implied at least). The first person to miss a week has to buy lunch.
• Gina Strebeck, Caprice Meador, and I have teamed up to run 2,017 miles in 2017. 
• I want to read/re-read Maya Angelou's memoirs in order. 
• And of course... Do an unassisted pull-up, damn it!

Better Than That

Let me begin this political rant with a warning: I am, in general, not politically minded. I don't consider myself an overly-informed citizen, and I can't hold my own in the political discussions of my smart, smart, smarty-pants friends. I am passionate about public education and women's rights, and I can't tell you much about most politicians' platforms outside of those two realms.

Having said that, I have participated in several political debates on social media over the last year. I'm guessing most people probably have. For the most part, they have been thought-provoking and respectful. Several even ended with, "That was fun. Thanks." I do love a good debate.

But in the last few days specifically, I have read blogs and Facebook posts that made me cringe, a few that made me cry, and one that made me feel like I had been punched in the gut.

Why, after a year of political rhetoric, has the nature of the game changed? Why is everyone so upset? Because thousands of women got together and marched. They marched peacefully and from what I saw respectfully for what I can only guess are hundreds of different reasons.

And apparently, that makes people really, really mad. And nasty. And I just don't get it.

You don't have to agree with their reasons or even know what their reasons are to refrain from insulting them. How hard of a concept is that?

I am sad to say I did not march. I am happy to say it is because I chose to stay for my son's basketball game. But really, that is no excuse. I could have driven up to Austin that morning, but I didn't. I wish I had. I wish I had been there to enjoy the beauty of the moment so that maybe the critics wouldn't be getting to me like they are. Maybe I would still be on a sisterhood high.

Last year, I participated in the Walk To End Alzheimer's. Here are some criticisms I have heard over and over in regard to the recent women's marches. They also apply to the Alzheimer's walk:

1. People were inconvenienced because the roads had to be closed. - Yup, they shut down an entire three-mile loop in the middle of Houston for our Alzheimer's walk.
2. Police officers had to be on duty away from their families. - You guessed it. They were there at every turn.
3. What are you complaining about? None of your rights have been taken. - I don't have Alzheimer's either. I didn't walk for me. I walked for the future.
4. They made a mess and left trash everywhere. So disrespectful! - Even I'll give a big ol' shame on you for this one. I hate littering. But wait...I did throw my water cups down along the route of the walk. And there was a clean-up crew who came out afterwards to clean everything up. 

And yet...no one criticized that walk (that I know of). No one called me stupid for participating. I didn't read anything the next day that made me hurt for the ugliness it showed in the person who wrote it. 

A cousin (I have many, so good luck figuring out which one) asked me yesterday why I cared and why I wished I had marched. I don't think she (yes, she) meant it disrespectfully. She genuinely wanted to know what my issue was. She assumed it was an anti-Trump march because of his pussy-grabbing tendencies, and it very well may have been for many. For me, it was more about women's health rights. specifically the defunding of Planned Parenthood that we all see looming around the corner. It's an issue near and dear to my heart, and for that I marched in spirit.

I don't know what percent of Planned Parenthood's services are abortions. I believe I read something once that said it is 3%, but I don't even remember where I read that. The bottom line is I DON'T CARE. I don't care what percent of their services are abortions. I don't care because regardless of my beliefs about abortion, those services are perfectly legal medical procedures that are being provided to women who have made that choice for a multitude of reasons I never want to have to understand.

What I do care about is the remaining percentage of services that they provide. I care that they make birth control available to all women at a time when not all insurance companies find it necessary. Viagra? Sure, no problem. But birth control? That's controversial. I care about the millions of women who receive mammograms and pelvic exams free of charge regardless of if they have insurance or not. I care about the percentage of those millions who then have to hear the gut wrenching phrase "stage one" and are too devastated in that moment to realize how amazing it is that they are not hearing "stage four."

And I care about prenatal care. Did you even know that Planned Parenthood provides prenatal care? Most people don't. They do.

I care because when I was a broke, pregnant college student, that is exactly what they provided for me. Medicaid does you no good when you can't find a doctor who will accept it and therefore will accept you. I care because Planned Parenthood accepts everyone.

To this day, I am thankful for the prenatal vitamins, the nutritional counseling, the check-ups, and the guidance they provided. 21 years later I remain thankful that Planned Parenthood has always been more than abortions.

I don't know if Ryan's health or circumstances would be any different if I hadn't received proper prenatal care. I'll never have to know. And if marching down the street with thousands of other women or calling legislators or signing petitions and being called a crazy feminist means one other young girl will never have to know that either, then it seems like time well spent.

Speaking out about women's rights isn't about being a victim. I don't feel like a second-class citizen. I'm a middle class white woman with a good job and a comfortable home. I live a damn good life. And I owe it to the women who marched before me to show my gratitude by marching us forward.

So I thank you, Judy Bolin and your band of badass women. I thank you, women from across the country who marched with love and solidarity. I thank you for showing grace and composure in the days that followed when you were belittled and insulted. You held your heads and your signs high, and I want you to know it mattered. There is a little girl out there somewhere who doesn't know you did it for her, but someday she'll think back and thank you.

And as for that Facebook post that made me cry, and question my faith, and in the end, deactivate my account, I'm through being mad at her. I'm through letting her ugly words have that kind of control over me.

I'm better than that.
I'm stronger than that.
Some amazing women paved the way for me to know that.