Me, My Anxiety, and I

Several months ago I wrote a post in which I promised I would talk about why I'm going to therapy: My anxiety.  It's taken 6 months for several reasons, two of which I feel I need to state here.

1. I don't want to give anyone the idea that I'm a big bundle of nerves all the time and am therefore not capable of doing anything, or that I need to be handled with kid gloves.  I am a bundle of nerves much of the time, but I am capable as shit.  And I promise you, the kid gloves only serve to make the anxiety worse.  Give me your authenticity - what you really think and feel and dream about and fear and hope for and can't abide by - give me something to connect to.  None of that will make me feel anxious.  I promise.

2. I feel gross using the phrase, "my anxiety."  Too often I've seen it used as a way people justify rudeness, flakiness, or just a general sense of discomfort.  I truly believe in removing the stigma - please, God, can we get rid of the mental health stigma?? - but seeing people flippantly say, "Oh, my gawd, I am so stressed I'm literally having a panic attack.  Literally." while standing in line at a coffee shop doesn't do much for the cause and makes me question the validity of using that language in my own life.

So, disclaimers presented, I guess I should  tell you a little about my experience as a fairly anxious person.  Here I go:




It's normal.

Guys.

My life?  It's a normal thing.  I'm a normal human.  (Well, maybe not completely normal, but my abnormality has less to do with anxiety and more to do with a goofy sense of humor and quirky view of the world.)

I go about my day and do my work and see my friends and family and laugh and cry and generally experience one or more anxiety episode a day.  I think of these as my "anxiety responses."  What am I responding to?  Any number of things, really.  I've started paying attention to my triggers, and have compiled a partial list for your entertainment.

A Not-At-All Comprehensive List of Things That Trigger An Anxiety Response in Stephanie
- Not getting enough sleep
- Eating sweets
- Eating some "healthy" foods (I'm lookin' at you, sweet potato)
- Not eating enough throughout the day
- My (very peaceful and gentle) alarm going off in the morning
- Slicing vegetables
- Making eye contact with another driver at an intersection
- Feeling unprepared for an upcoming event
- Feeling unprepared for a hypothetical event
- Having a busy schedule
- Having an open schedule
- Sitting at my desk at work
- Parking my car
- Coffee hour at church
- Walking in a large crowd
- Literally nothing at all

None of these items always causes an anxiety response!  They just do sometimes.  These are some of my general triggers.  Something happens (or doesn't) and the wave of anxiety hits.  I've learned to breathe through this experience, or to maybe take a nap or hit the gym.  It's certainly uncomfortable, but not debilitating.

Sometimes it feels like this.

Or maybe this.

Sometimes, though - sometimes it almost is debilitating.  Sometimes the wave of anxiety gets stuck in my chest.  Every so often I blow something from that list way out of proportion, or maybe more than one combine to make a SUPER RESPONSE that I can't seem to shake.  Or maybe something happens, something bad or good (like signing with an agent!) that trips my brain up enough that my body can't tell the difference between fear and excitement so I end up stuck in the anxiety cycle.  Or maybe - and this is the worst of all - maybe I find myself in a waiting season of life.

I am a doer.  I do.  And when I do, I do well.  I am confident and capable.  Powerful.

One could even say I'm super.

But when I've done all I can and am stuck waiting?  When I'm chained in the train yard when I should be powering along the tracks?  That's when the anxiety kicks in.  This anxiety:

This is the anxiety that shuts me down.  This is when my skin is electric, jolting not only me, but those near by.  This is when I don't want anyone to touch me, because even a pat on the shoulder might tear apart the tenuous grasp I have on myself, and I might actually explode.  This is the anxiety that makes me forget how to breathe.  It is the voice that tells me I will never be good enough.  That no matter what I do, it won't be enough.  It traps me in a loop, endlessly caught between the need to DO and the knowledge that it won't be enough.  I become a malfunctioning oscillating fan, clicking over and over again, unable to move to the next position.

Until I remind myself to breathe.

And breathe again.
Inhale.  Exhale.  Inhale.  Exhale.

And then I text my mom, or I walk through my office and find my dad, and I say to them, "I am feeling anxious about ________."

Suddenly the fist around my heart relaxes, and the knot in my chest loosens just enough.  I am okay again, at least until the next time it hits.

I'm learning, thankfully. I am discovering things that help.  Things like talking about it: telling someone, joking to the people at the gym about a workout being a good place to direct my anxiety, laughing at the fact that, "surprise, surprise, I'm anxious today."  It helps.  And so do a lot of other things.

Look!  I made another list!

A Not-At-All Comprehensive List of Things That Relieve Anxiety In Stephanie
- Talking to my parents
- Being with loved ones
- Public speaking
- Working out
- Eating a nutritious meal
- Taking a nap
- Laughing REALLY hard
- Roller coasters!
- Writing
- Talking to my therapist (duh!)
- Prayer/mediation
- Seeing people talk about things they really love
- Sitting at my grandma's graveside

See? Normal. Ish.

Friends, I am doing well - so freaking well - and I hope you can see that.  I hope you are doing well, too.  If you're not, well, drop me a line.  And maybe we can breathe together.

Artists, We Are Needed

Artists, we are needed.

I know. It's too hard to find it, to tap into that creative space and pull from it.  We are too vulnerable; with everything going on in the world and in our nation, it just hurts too much.  I know.  I feel it, too.  But we are needed.

It hit me today as I sat at my desk, humming the refrain of 'Hallelujah,' over and over again.  Cohen, I thought, was a poet.  He would have been able to make sense of this.  Because that's what poets do.  As Gwendolyn Brooks said, and my sister lives, "Poetry is life distilled."

I will (with all due respect) take this one step further: Art is life distilled.  It is finding the essential and extracting it.  You've felt it, right?  Something - word, song, photo, paint, animation - something hits you with a ferocity that leaves you shaking.  It makes you realize, as though for the first time, that true beauty is a jagged edge.  It tears you open and drives you to your knees, leaving you gasping and quivering, and somehow in need of more.  You are changed.  Tender, open.  Broken.

So we are driven to our craft, to our art.  We find it deep within us and we pull it out.  It may be loud, it may be soft.  It could be for the world to see, or the solace you find in your quiet garden.  But you create.  You recognize the need.

Artists, we are needed.

We need to show up and let the light shine through our brokenness.  Because that is our super power, our secret weapon: we do not cover up the hurt.  We use it.  We harness it.  We face it and direct it.  We are broken open time and time again, and it lets us see the world with a vision others refuse to face.

We breathe in hurt and breathe out love.

In.

Out.

In.

Out.

Artists, we are needed.

We are needed to take a step forward, even though the air is heavy and the bog hinders our progress.  One step, and then another, and then another - until the earth firms beneath our feet just enough for us to rest, for only a moment, before moving again.

I have been suspended this week, held in the air, frozen, unable to move as I looked all around me.  Looking through the words I have seen hurt.  Hurt all over.  I see it and I feel it.  It presses on my shoulders, my chest, my back.  Down, down, down.

I turned to look for the light, and saw in surprise that it shone through me, through my broken parts.  So I took a deep breath, and then another, and then I lifted my head.

I cannot promise it will all be okay.  I don't that it will; I am not a Seer.  I can look at the past and see what we've survived, and I can glean hope from that.  But empty assurances are not helpful, especially to those who feel fear and hurt and despair directly in their lives.  So I won't offer them.

Instead, I promise this: I will watch, and see what is going on around me.  I will listen and hear what those who are afraid and hurting have to say.  I will make certain my path is safe for any who come across it.  I will be the vessel for the Speaker: Come to me, He says, and I will give you rest.   The sun will rise and set, and I will let it shine through me.  The earth will turn on its axis, and I will mirror the dance.  The wind will arrive, sometimes drifting, sometimes whipping, and I will let it blow through me, sweeping away the darkness.

Artists, we are needed.

But what if - you ask - what if I don't create art?

I have a secret for you.  Come close, and listen.

Artists, I believe, are nothing more or less than those of us who still remember we are all human.  We live our art in an infinite number of ways: gardening, cooking, writing, painting, designing, dancing, animating, singing, composing, speaking, running, lifting...the list goes on and on.  The only thing that makes us artists is the recognition that we share a nature.  We see that the lines of connection have been covered, they have been twisted and stretched and even torn, but they have not broken.  We are still all connected; we belong to each other.

We see this and we live this.

Artists.  We are needed.

On Fear

When I was young I made the Powers-That-Be turn on the lights inside the Haunted Mansion.

I know.  Cool, right?

Except it was my terror that made them do it.  Memory is faulty, and I was very, very, very young, so I don't remember much about it.  Here is what I can recall:

Sitting on someone's shoulders (my mind says my Grandpa's?  But that seems crazy....So maybe an uncle?) as we walked from the elevator to the Doom Buggies, clutching at his forehead in horror as I sobbed, "Turn on the lights!  Make them turn on the lights!" over and over and over again until suddenly the lights flickered on.  I remember my Grandpa saying, "Looks like you're in luck."  And I remember the relief.  That's it. I don't know if we all left the Haunted Mansion or if it was just a parent and me.

Just terror, searching for something to ground me to reality (in this case the feel of skin beneath my fingertips), and then relief.

A few years later I made them stop Star Tours mid-ride.  It was the same sort of thing, although this time just my mom and I left the ride, and I definitely recall that walk back to meet up with the rest of the family.

We've all been there, guys.  Don't deny it  (Love you, Mama!) 

I'm not bragging at the power I apparently hold over Disney ride operators.  (Not much, I mean.)  No, my point is this:  My fear is big, and loud, and demands to be heard.

Now, I have mixed feelings about fear.  I mean, if you look over the history of our species, fear has been a good thing.  Fear keeps you from stepping too close to the edge of a high cliff.  Fear redirects your steps when you hear a roar from out in the darkness, assuredly saving you from ending up in the belly of some great beast.

Or, if you're a small girl with a vivid imagination...

And impeccable fashion sense, clearly.

...Who has against her better judgement entered a Haunted Mansion, been herded into a secret elevator and then told - essentially - the only way out is to follow the choice of a hanging skeleton...

...Been plunged into a darkness filled by screaming people...

...And then suddenly finds herself in a dark hallway with pictures that only prove the house is, indeed, haunted...

It's waaaaay scarier with the lights out, folks.

Well...Fear steps up to the plate.  Fear reminds you there are GHOSTS INSIDE.

Fear is there to warn you when something may hurt you.

There are many who will tell you that fear is a liar.  I disagree.  I just think fear is really good at its job.  Seriously, Employee of the Month, time after time after time.  And let's be very real here - fear is good at its job because there is no way to be a human being and not be hurt.

One of my favorite quotes from Welcome to Night Vale

Fear has had a lot of practice.  Fear has been hardwired into our DNA as surely as joy, sorrow, delight, or anger have.  Fear may go even deeper, existing on the same level as thirst, hunger, the need to breathe.  Personally, I believe those who say they have no fear are either lying or foolish - or both.


Fear is not the voice to be shut up and ignored!  Fear is that friend who has your best interests at heart but just never quite hits the mark.  You know the one.  Maybe the Christmas gift is never right, but is given with a good spirit.

Maybe words are awkwardly phrased and the hug too tight/loose/long/whatever - but you can tell the intention is there.

Fear isn't out to get us, it's out to help us.  So instead of ignoring its voice, we instead need to turn and face it and say, "I hear you, fear, and you're not in charge here."

Boom.

That's it.  It is as simple and as difficult as that.

So whether I'm walking the sinister hallway toward the Doom Buggies and am feeling that familiar lick of terror along my spine (every time, guys), or I'm finally telling people that yeah, my agent has put the pitch out to a few editors and some have asked to read the complete manuscript - fear doesn't get to keep me from doing something I know is good.

Remember that time I said guilt could hand me the roadmap but didn't get to come along for the ride?  (No?  Let's change that.  Check it out here.)   It's kind of like that, except that fear has a seat in the car.  The backseat...and fear is an avid backseat driver.

Ideally fear will be passed out, though...just sleeping the drive away.

I just don't have to follow its direction.

Another winner from WTNV

My Quilt Square

I visited my grandma today.

It was a spur of the moment decision; I happened to be in the neighborhood and had a few extra minutes, so I stopped by.  Because it was a last minute thing I didn't follow my normal routine of visiting her.  Usually I stop by Starbucks and pick up some coffee - decaf, because it's always so late in the day.  But today, sadly sans coffee, I followed the now familiar turns and lowered the volume of my radio out of respect for anyone else who happened to be around.  I parked in my usual spot and walked the short distance, wondering, as always, why I even bothered to lock my car. After all, it's not as though my little, red Bug would be out of my sight.

And then, with a quick glance to Grandma's neighbors, I lowered myself to the ground.  "Sorry I don't have any coffee for you," I said, and I touched a hand to her headstone.

This is usually the point when I say (out loud, because I think she would get a kick out of it), "Pour one out for my homegirl," and tip the coffee cup upside down.  We share that coffee as I talk about what's going on in my life.  I alternate between taking sips and pouring some beside her name, and I always feel a gentle swell of pleasure in the knowledge that my love of coffee is something that came from her and Grandpa.  It is not groundbreaking or earth shattering.  It will never save a life or change the world, but it is a part of the legacy I have inherited from her.

I've been thinking about that word a lot lately.  Legacy.  I'll spare you the sordid details, but "legacy" has been something of a hot topic in some recent drama.  Truthfully, "drama" doesn't at all capture the reality of the pain caused, but that's not currently my story to tell.

Legacy, though, that is mine, though I share it with many.  Legacy is like a blanket - a quilt - which lays over many, offering warmth and comfort, and unique in each individual space.  I've been inspecting my quilt square, trying to see clearly which pieces of each of my grandparents have made it into my little portion.

Mama Bear from The Berenstain Bears and Mama's New Job.  LOVE those quilts!

So today I sat at my grandma's graveside and I thought.

I thought about the moment my grandpa mentioned Grandma's great love of Christmas, when my brother leaned over to me and whispered, "That's where we get it."

I thought about jumping excitedly onto the couch when Granddaddy was GOING TO TELL HIS MICKEY MOUSE STORIES!!!!  And then laughing years later when kids I babysat asked me to please tell a Mickey Mouse story? 

I thought about Mimi and her sense of humor - the moment during our Easter service when she just could. not. handle. the way someone was chanting.  She and I covered our mouths with our hands and laughed and laughed and laughed as silently as possible.  Even now I get a flash of that memory when I notice something ridiculous.

I thought about Grandpa's great love of family, the way you can tell he is soaking up the chaos around him when we're all together, and I remembered moments at family events when I just looked around, in awe of and grateful for all these crazy people around me.

Webster's dictionary describes "legacy" in the following way:

I am going to ignore the first definition, because my family has taught me that while money is nice and helpful and certainly not evil, it is by no means the most important thing in life.  So let's move on to the second definition:

Something transmitted by or received from an ancestor or predecessor or from the past.

This.  Yes.

This resonates with me.  Because when I think of my legacy, I don't think of property or money - unless we're joking about how our inheritance was used to buy Beanie Babies.  

Wait!  This is actually my legacy! ;)

No.  Money, properties, or things are not a part of the quilt laid over me.  My legacy is a strong sense of justice, loyalty, and family.  It is a goofy and silly sense of humor, and a sardonic delight in the ridiculous.  It is standing in front of people and feeling comfortable speaking to them.  It is yelling at other drivers.  It is whistling - a lot.  It is a tendency to assume that I know exactly what's best, even when I have no idea what's actually going on.  It is caring about my appearance.  It is wanting to know who is in church this morning - not to judge...just to know.   It is taking everything so hard.  It is being incredibly self-critical.  It is my storytelling.  It is the sound of my exhale when dismissing something.  It is the shape of my mouth and the slope of my nose.  It is the sound of my laugh.

My quilt square is not perfect, but it keeps me warm.  

And I love it dearly.

Photo credit: Aunt Judy Braun

Fear and Worth: An Update

I know this update is overdue.  Really.  And I'm sorry its taken so long to post.  The thing is, it's taken a long time to sift through the chaos that is my brain as of late.

Seriously.  Chaos.  

I've been processing a lot of new stuff, and - in case there was ever any doubt - it all circles back to my writing.

The other day I was making some guacamole at work and was imagining out what I would say if I were speaking to a group about writing.  (Incidentally, this is not just vain daydreaming, folks: Doxacon.   August 2017. Washington, D.C.  Be there.)  I kept coming back to the idea of talents, specifically the biblical parable of The Talents.

For those who are unfamiliar, there is, in the Bible, a story Jesus tells about servants who were given talents (a type of money).  Those who invested and used the talents were rewarded, while the poor sap who was so afraid of losing it he buried it in the ground was definitely not rewarded.  He was cast out into a place of weeping and gnashing of teeth.  Just a quick side note here.  At the time this parable was told, weeping and gnashing of teeth were expressions of grief.  As with anything biblical, there's a plethora of ways to interpret this story, but the most straightforward seems to be this:

We are given talents.  If we use the talents we are further blessed.  If we hide our talents we become grief stricken.  

I am a writer.  Writing is one of my talents.  It always has been.  In elementary school I crafted stories out of those, "write a sentence for each spelling word" assignments.  In high school I could certainly write essays well, but the creative writing was where I excelled.  And I have always, somehow, known that someday my words would be in print.  Back when Border's bookstores were still around I used to go and find exactly where my book would sit on the shelf.  It was my sacred ritual.  I couldn't leave the store without at least visiting my books' future home.  Even now, in the jumbo makeup store that has since taken its place, my eyes flick to that spot on the wall as I enter.  

My identity as "a writer" has always been there, whether I have actively used and invested (in) my talent or have hidden it away, buried deep beneath the surface.

Remember this picture?

Taken right after a rare manicure, apparently.

I posted it a few months ago.  I gave it a silly caption about being nervous to send my work off and said that even though it didn't necessarily count as a submission, it was the first move of a game called, "How Many Times Do I Get To Submit This?"

Well, I have an answer.

One.

One submission.

In a twist I was not even remotely expecting, my first submission resulted in representation.  I went to a conference to meet my tribe and to gain some guidance from a real, live agent as to how I should go about taking my next step.

Now, barely three months later, I am googling terms like, "comp titles," and asking my agent - my agent!! - questions that must seem obvious and remedial.  I am telling my friends and family that, oh yeah, we'll start pitching at the end of this month, and will see where things go from there.

What.
Is.
LIFE???

I am so excited - SO EXCITED!!! - I can hardly think straight.  It's difficult to stay in this current moment.  And I am terrified.  Which is why I haven't posted anything about this until now.

#truth

I am afraid.

I am afraid that I'll talk about this most recent update - signing with an agent - and then, poof! it'll disappear.  Deals fall through all the time.  I am afraid this will be one of those.

I am afraid that I have forgotten how to write a book.  The book I've written is the first of a series.  I have to write the rest of it.  And what if somehow I can't?  What if I've forgotten what it takes to put one word after another after another after another...?  What if I only had one book in me?

I am afraid to put myself out there.  In writing one must be real, must be true.  Even in fiction.  Especially in fiction.  I am afraid to show people my insides and have them find me wanting.

Which leads me to my main fear, the one that drives the others:  I am afraid I am not worthy.  I am afraid that there's been some crazy mistake.  I wonder, Who am I to be so presumptuous as to assume that my work is good enough?  

BUT CLEARLY IT IS.

I'm shocked that someone believes in this story enough to help it get published.

BUT CLEARLY THEY DO.

I'm just Steph, standing here, holding this freaky, little story - and it is a freaky, little story.  But I am also a writer.  And it is time for me to uncover my talent, and to take that risk of using and investing it.  Who knows how long this ride will be?  I certainly don't.  But I promise now that I will ride it out.  I will keep sifting and processing and facing those fears.  And though I and my words are works in progress, we'll get there someday.

Taking a page from Stuart Smalley's book now.

Current goal.

Let's Talk About Guilt, Baby

I've been intending to post for...oh, about 2 weeks. I've had great experiences to draw on, too. Good things are happening with my writing. I just spent a long weekend at a conference in New Orleans. I'm currently in Nashville visiting my sister and her family.

Doin' the Nashville hipster photo pose

So, so much.

I actually wrote a little something about NOLA, but couldn't shake the feeling that it was off.  Not bad, but not the right post at the right time.

But really, how cool is NOLA?  I will write about it soon.  Promise.

And then - well, then something relatively minor happened and I became afraid that I had hurt someone I love dearly. Suddenly I felt guilty. Oh, so guilty.

You know the feeling: pressure in your chest, churning in your stomach, the inability to focus on anything else for long...that horrible assurance that you are truly the worst friend/daughter/sister/HUMAN in the history of the world.

You know. Guilt.

It's a crappy feeling.

However, I've learned Guilt is like any other uncomfortable feeling: it's kind of hinged in the middle.

Guilt lets us know when we've taken a misstep. It's our alert for when we act in ways that are incongruous with who we are. It lets us know when we are being selfish, careless, self-centered -- when we are in danger of wandering far and away from our Truth.

To understate it, Guilt can serve us well.

But Guilt has a much more sinister side. It often overstays its welcome.  It can keep us down. It can whisper dark lies in our ear, keeping us away from Good. It can call over its big brother, Shame, and convince us that we are not worthy.

To understate it, Guilt can serve us poorly.

There are some who would claim I feel guilt because of my religion, my faith. They state that I have been conditioned to feel this way anytime I step outside the accepted rules of the establishment. Keep 'em down, keep 'em in line.

I don't agree. In fact, to those who say my misguided guilt is put upon me by my church, I kindly and gently call BS.

Sure, sometimes people suck, and due to suckiness will try to impose harmful rules on us. But that's a people problem, not a God problem.

You see, my God straight up said that I don't need to be kept downtrodden by Guilt.
"It is finished."

That's what He said.
"It is finished."

Hanging on the cross, enduring the worst humanity could offer, being mocked and scorned for His sacrifice.

"It is finished."

There is no need to keep opening up the door to the past. No need to pick off the scab. No need to stay in the gutter of our mistakes. We are not too dirty, too broken, too ANYTHING to move on. We deserve forgiveness. We deserve love.

It is finished.

Thank you, Jon Acuff.  And Pinterest, for the photo.

So I know that when Guilt comes to visit, bringing along any of his family members - Shame, Fear, Despair - I can say hello, hear the lesson, and then let him know he is not welcome.

Guilt can drop off the road map, but he does not get to come on the journey back to myself.

Photo from crazytraveler.com

And that is totally okay.

Just A Story Written For LOG...

A few months ago I was asked to write a story for a LOG activity.  This is what I came up with.  Figured I would share it.

The Young Boy grumbled to himself as he stomped toward the well.  This was not a man's work, gathering water.  He hunched his shoulders against both his anger and the heat of the afternoon.  His mother had sent him to the well, too caught up in caring for the Boy's crying infant sister to gather the water herself.  She had yelled at him of the importance of water.  Would he rather them all die of thirst than swallow his pride and carry one jug?  And after all, he was still just a Boy, while she was his mother.  He must listen to her.

The Boy could not deny the importance of water for survival.  It was true that every creature, every living thing needed the water.  Living in the small, Samaritan town, the Boy was well aware of this need, even at such a young age.  The weather was harsh and unforgiving, and if a person was careless or lazy he would regret it greatly.  But at eight years old the Boy chose not to consider this.  He kicked a stone out of his path, cringing when he felt the pain in his toes.

As he approached the well he stopped abruptly – Photini was walking in the direction of the well, carrying a large jug.  Everyone in town knew of Photini.  The Boy's mother would be horrified if she thought he spoke even the shortest greeting to this woman.  He was stuck, unsure of what to do, when he noticed a Man sitting at the well.  The Man greeted Photini kindly, then asked if she would give Him water.  The Boy wondered briefly if this Man knew the kind of woman he spoke to, but then realized with shock that He was a Jew!  What on Earth was he doing speaking to a Samaritan woman, especially one like Photini?

The Boy inched closer to the well, curious to hear what the Man was saying.  “If you knew Who was asking you for water, you would ask Me for water, and I should give you living water.”  Living water? The Boy thought, amazed.  He had never yet heard of living water.  He stepped closer, eager to hear more.

Photini and the Man were speaking about her life – the Boy wondered if he should cover his ears – when she suddenly ran from the well, leaving her jug behind.  As she ran past, he heard Photini calling out about the Messiah.  The Boy looked back toward the Man, who seemed to be watching a group of men walk up the hill toward the well. 

“Come see me, my Boy,” He said.  The Boy jumped; he had thought he went unnoticed.  The Man turned toward him, and beckoned him to come.  The Boy nervously walked forward.  “What is living water?” he asked the Man.  The Man smiled gently, and reached out to touch the Boy's shoulder. 

“It is the water that I give.  Whoever drinks of this water will never be thirsty again.  The water that I give will become a fountain of everlasting water, springing up into eternal life.”  The Boy simply shook his head, not understanding what the Man meant, but knowing somehow that this was important, that this Man was no ordinary man.

“I'm sorry.  I don't understand.  How could anyone not need water again?”

The Man chuckled, and reached into a pack that was resting at His feet.  He pulled out a small, clay cup and a leather strap, and began wrapping the strap around the cup even as He spoke.  “Tell me, my Boy, why you feel water is so important?”

The Boy thought this was a silly question, but he answered anyway.  “It gives life.  No one can live without drinking water.  We would die without it.” 

“This is true,” the Man answered.  “You mother, your father, your baby sister – all of you need water to live.”  He looked up and smiled at the Boy, who was staring open-mouthed at Him.  “But would you like to know a secret?”  He leaned toward the Boy, who nodded and came closer to Him.  “Your soul,” the Man touched a finger to the Boy's chest.  “Your soul needs something else to live.  Your soul needs Me, and my Father Who is in Heaven.  And I will give your soul living water.  And it is through Me that you will find eternal life – life that far surpasses your life here on this earth.  Would you like to hear something else?”  The Boy nodded again.  He had felt power in the simple touch to his chest.  He felt as though his whole body was shining.  The Man looked at him as though He knew what the Boy was feeling.  “Whoever believes in me, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water,” He said.  “I give you My living water, and you pass that along to others, who can pass it to others, and so on.”  He handed the Boy the cup, which now had the leather wrapped around it in such a way that the Boy could wear the cup around his neck.  He did so now, feeling that the cup was somehow sacred.  He knew he would never lose it, even if only because it would make him think of this Man.

The Boy turned to face the group of men who had just reached the well.  They called out to the Man cheerfully – they obviously knew Him well – and the Man acknowledged them with a wave.  He turned to the Boy and placed His hand on the Boy's head.  “Go, my child, and let the rivers of My living water flow from you.  And remember, if anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink.  Anyone, my child.”  The Boy nodded and ran toward home.  He was almost to his house when he realized he had forgotten to gather the water.  He looked down at the pitcher he held in his hands and almost dropped it in amazement when he realized it was full.  He walked into his home, feeling lighter and stronger than he had ever felt in his life.  He took the small cup from around his neck and poured some water into it.  With that in hand, he went to his mother and said, “Mother.  Come sit, and drink, and listen as I tell you about the Living Water.” 

This Elevator Is Making Me Dizzy - OR - Adventures in Hotel Travel

This is it.  This is the day. 

This is the day of the WARRIOR DASH!!!!  Let us rejoice and be glad it's finally here.  Let us also keep our thoughts from the idea of what lies ahead and remember that we signed up for this so we will do it, gosh darnit.  Because our stomachs have recently been filled with banana, bagel, and coffee, and the butterflies that take flight when we think about the Dash don't exactly sit well with all that food.

But hey, it was a continental breakfast....I had to take advantage of it!  Even if that did mean eating more sub-par food than I actually wanted to.  It's one of my weaknesses.  I have a soft spot for a good continental breakfast, and by "a good continental breakfast" I really mean, "any continental breakfast."

Is it the packaged muffins?  Maybe it's the 2 types of cereal they offer - bran flakes or corn flakes - that have probably been in those containers with the plastic scoops for at least a week.  Or maybe it's the packets of hot cocoa.  I love hot cocoa.  And coffee that tastes like it was brewed in a gas station.  I love that stuff.  (Really...ask my friends.  I really love gas station coffee.)

And how could I pass up the opportunity to sit awkwardly with other hotel guests while we all watch ZzzzzNN - I mean CNN - against our inclination?  I suggested changing to the Disney Channel, but no one jumped on that idea, which is strange since half the people eating looked to be under the age of twelve.  I couldn't have been the only person there wishing we could catch a rerun of Wizards of Waverly Place.  But, unfortunately, the little soccer team either didn't hear me, or they just didn't care, and shortly after making my suggestion my mom and I went back upstairs. 

My mom is here!  Did I tell you that??

She felt sad for me that I had to come on this trip on my own (my co-warrior, Lara, got sick, and I do hope she is feeling better!), so my mama decided pretty last minute to come with me.  It's been a long time since I've had hours of one-on-one time with my mom, and it was pretty great!  The drive up definitely passed more quickly than if I had been on my own, and it was really great to have someone to laugh with.

Which is a good thing.  Because from the warning from the clerk about the bed ("Now, you do realize there is just one bed, right?") which was the first clue that the "queen size" bed was not actually a queen, to the crazy blinking wrench on the thermostat ("Mom, I think that means the AC can't turn off!!"), to watching a fully grown woman walk around the hotel in boxers and a t-shirt ("Isn't it strange how in a hotel people do all the things they would NEVER do at home?  Like walk around a public place in their underwear?"), to the conversation with one of the soccer moms in the elevator ("Yeah, our girls are headed to a costumed soccer tournament.  They're the Zombie Grass-Fairies."), there's been no lack of laughable things. 

Side note:  I want to be on that soccer team.  They sound extremely cool.

And here's to hoping that I can laugh my way through the WARRIOR DASH!!!!  Because now, just thinking about it, those butterflies are taking flight again.  So Mom and I are going to hit the town for a bit, do some sight-seeing.  (It shouldn't take too long here...my view from the hotel window is the back of the hotel's facade.  And the freeway.  And some weeds next to the freeway.)  I promise I'll blog about the Dash.  If nothing else, you'll get to hear an awkward story of the day I decided to be a warrior.

Till then, think good thoughts and send some prayers up for me.  They will be most appreciated.

Warrior Dash Training - Day 1

Ouch.  That's how I feel right now.  I've only just started training today and it's already hard.  Very.  Hard. 

What's driving me to do this?  I can't really give you an answer, except that sometimes I get pushed in a random direction.  I've learned the best thing to do in these situations is to mentally shrug my shoulders and just go with it.  Only in this case "just go with it" doesn't seem to mean "float along and enjoy the ride."  No, in this case "just go with it" seems to mean "wake up early and kick your own butt, disregarding the fact that as of yet you have no idea how you're getting there, or who is going with you, or any of that stuff."

But I suppose I should back up a bit and explain myself.

A few weeks ago I read a book called The Buried Life.  It's a PostSecret sort of book, except that instead of sharing secrets it reveals hopes.  People were asked one question: What do you want to do before you die?  Some of the answers made me laugh.  Some made me shake my head.  Reading the stories behind how some were achieved made me cry.  See, a few years ago four guys felt, well, Blah.  They were all in different types and stages of Blah, but they were there.  And one day they asked what they would do if they weren't stuck in Blah.  They started throwing out ideas, and then they wrote them down, and between the four of them they came up with a list of one hundred items.  And here's where it gets really good:  They actually set out to do them.  They had one condition, though - for every item they crossed off their own list they would help someone else cross an item off their list.  (It is a really great story.  I would definitely recommend reading the book, or at least going to their website, www.theburiedlife.com.)  When I closed the book I felt inspired.  I don't want to be stuck in Blah. 

As soon as I got home that night I pulled out a notebook and started writing my own list.  Some of my items are silly (#36 - wear a tutu skirt, #14 - Eat a turkey leg), some are serious (#1 - Fall in love, #2 - Get out of debt, #12 - Write a novel).  Some seem outrageously far-fetched (#18 - Go on the Jimmy Fallon Show, #20 - Be the voice of a Disney character), some are a little embarrassing (#30 - Go skinny dipping, #4 - Take a food challenge - and WIN).  And some are very private, a voice to my deepest desires and insecurities, items that only I will see crossed off in the notebook.  I currently have 39 items on my list - with the expectation that more will be added.  None of them are crossed off yet, but I am actively working on it. 

Which brings us back to my "ouch."  Well, almost.  I was recently hired as a youth director and as I was searching for ways to get the students involved AND have fun I came across a link that said, "Become a St. Jude's Warrior!"  I clicked, and was taken to the website for the Warrior Dash.

Excuse me.  I mean, The WARRIOR DASH!!!!

That's what it looks like in my head, at least.  I looked through the site and learned that the WARRIOR DASH!!!! is about 3.2 miles of running with 12 obstacles to get through.  Obstacles such as crawling under barbed wire, climbing over walls, jumping over fire.  Yes.  Jumping over fire.  (Strangely, this has become my favorite of the bunch.)

I (very) quickly realized there would be no way I could take a bunch of high schoolers to do this.  (I briefly imagined myself telling parents, "And then we will swim through dirty water.  And then jump over fire."  Yeah, right.)  But my next thought honestly shocked me.  "Steph.  You can do this."

"Nope." I answered myself.

"Yeah.  Totally."

"I'm sorry...Did you miss the part where they JUMP OVER FIRE??"

"You've done it before -"

"Truesies."

"-And it would be for a good cause."

Sigh... "True."

"Consider it."

"Fine.  I'll consider it."

When I got home that night I added to my list: #39 - Complete the Warrior Dash.

(It occurs to me now that #40 on my list should be "Stop these weird, little conversations you have with yourself," but they add so much fascination to my life that I just can't bring myself to do that.)

And #39 has a little something tacked onto it, at least in my mind.  Raise money for St. Jude's.  I have an amount I would like to strive for, but I'm still figuring out whether or not it's realistic.  Because the WARRIOR DASH!!!! that I am going to complete is October 27.  3.5 months. 

And so the training began today.  I'm embarrassed to admit that all things considered it wasn't that tough, but still I'm left thinking one thing: Ouch.

Although, let's be honest.  My "ouch" is a far cry from what would be considered "ouch" to those kids at St. Jude's. 

So I guess I kind of do know what's driving me to do this.  The Buried Life.  And these guys:

Tangled in the New Groove of Imagination and Family

I have been thinking a lot about Disney lately. 

I suppose that comes as no shock, considering that I absolutely adore Disney.  I saw Beauty and the Beast recently- one of my all time favorite Disney movies - and completely forgot there were other people in the theatre.  I laughed, loudly.  I cried.  I even hummed along with the music and clapped after songs.  It's true!  And as I watched, and thought about the lessons Disney has taught me, I decided to write the next installment of lessons I have learned from Disney.  So here it is:


- Love is family.  And family is love.  And that is a big deal.
"Ohana means family; family means nobody gets left behind or forgotten." - Lilo and Stitch
"There is nowhere you can go where love can't follow." - 101 Dalmations
"This bond between us can't be broken.  I will be here, don't you cry.  You'll be in my heart.  Yes, you'll be in my heart from this day on, now and forever." - Tarzan

It's amazing how amazing and life-altering the love of a child can be.

- True friendship means that sometimes you have to tell someone something they may not want to hear; you have to hold up a mirror for them to see the truth they may not want to hear.  But you never, ever give up on them.
"And above all, you must control your temper!!" - Beauty and the Beast.  The entire household supports the Beast, even though it seems that he must not have been a very good master at all.  They tell him where he has gone wrong, but never fail to encourage and support and trust in him, that he will be able to figure it out. 
The Emperor's New Groove.  Watch it.
"Once and for all we'll be dared to defend one another.  Once and for all every kid is a friend, every friend a brother!" - Newsies


- It's okay to be tongue-in-cheek and laugh at yourself, as long as you remember that what you do is spectacular, and that it makes you special.  And as long as you appreciate yourself.
Yeah, Enchanted was Disney's way of doing this, and it was still an amazing movie. 

And of COURSE it's okay to sing and dance in the middle of Central Park. 

- Whatever you do, do it with all you've got.  It doesn't matter if other people put you down, or scoff, because all that really matters is that you are true to God and yourself.
"I have watched constantly that in our work the highest moral and spiritual standards are upheld, whether my productions deal with fable or with stories of living action." —Walt Disney


It's okay to lead a life of fiction :)
"Fantasy and reality often overlap." —Walt Disney
"What seems real to the mind can be as important as any material fact. We live by the spirit and the imagination as well as by our senses. Cartoon animation can give fantasy the same reality as those things we can touch and see and hear." —Walt Disney

Just look at what leading a life of fiction did!

- Love is self-sacrificial.  Love means you put down your life for someone else. 
"You were my new dream." ... "And you were mine."  Tangled made me cry - sob - because while Rapunzel was willing to give up her freedom in order to save Flynn, he used his last bit of strength to cut her hair off.  They each gave up their life for the other.  When I saw it I knew - knew - that this was an accurate depiction of what love should be.  Strip away the magic hair and the extreme situation and the beautiful Disney ribbon that made everything okay and you have truth: Love means being a martyr for the other person.  It means putting your life down.  Wow. 

Love is beautiful.