What Do We Really Know?

We live in a world of sound bites. Our news, whether it comes across our T.V.s, computers, phones, tablets or our car radios, is delivered in small increments. I’ll admit, if a friend’s Facebook status is over a couple of sentences long, I don’t read it unless the first few words grab my attention.

It’s no wonder we make quick judgments based on very little information. We’ve been trained to glean data from brief statements, excerpts or headlines. In the past two weeks, I’ve realized how often I size someone up based on a short description that someone else has provided. I’ve also realized that I have painted a picture of others that is something akin to that of the sound bite.

It’s natural, I suppose, to share only the dramatic details or what we deem most important. The problem arises when others start to use those statements alone to judge another person. For instance, I invited my friend Jack to an event where he would be meeting some of my other friends. He had heard of my friend Shaun but had never met him. I could tell he had some animosity toward Shaun without even meeting him. When I questioned Jack about this attitude, he admitted he wasn’t interested in meeting Shaun.

“I think he’s manipulative and I don’t trust a guy like that,” Jack said.

“A guy like what?” I asked.

“A guy who would act like he is interested in helping you get things done around the house but given the chance to be alone with you, pulls you into hug him.”

It was then that I realized Jack was judging Shaun on one story I had shared with him. Shaun was a dear friend and when I needed some help around the house, he fixed things. I had told Jack that I appreciated Shaun’s friendship but there was one time when it was a little awkward because he hugged me a little longer and closer than usual. Jack figured he was, in his words: a pig, like most men.

I tried to explain, as we drove to the event, that I had confronted Shaun and while it had been uncomfortable for a while we were okay now. Jack wasn’t buying it. But how could I blame him? That one scenario was all he had to go on.

When we got to the event, Jack met Shaun and they talked for a while. I left them to chat while I mingled with some other friends. When it was time to leave, Jack and Shaun exchanged business cards and it looked as if a new friendship was forming.

“See? He’s not bad, right?” I asked as we drove to my house.

“No, in fact he’s not at all what I thought.”

Jack apologized for giving me a hard time about my friendship with Shaun. I told him  I understood how he could have jumped to the conclusion. In retrospect, I think I’m the one who should apologize. It was the story I chose to tell that caused Jack to think less of Shaun in the beginning.

I wonder how many times I am guilty of telling only the sensational sound bites? Or how, like Jack, I draw conclusions based on such sparse knowledge of a person. I understand how it happens but I want to be the sort of person who gathers more than the excerpt before I form my opinions. And even then, I hope to always remain open to a change of viewpoint.

 

The Sound of Healing

A preamble of sorts: As I talk about the very personal story of my divorce, there are times when I refer to the pain brought on by my ex-husband. Please know that I have several of my own mistakes to own and while I talk about how his actions affected me, I also understand that some of my actions were not honoring to our marriage covenant and caused damage to our relationship.

 

Grief took me by surprise the other night. I had been in bed most of the day, fighting some sort of virus or sinus infection. I only had one thing I HAD to do that evening: attend my boys’ school Christmas concert. I hadn’t given it much thought, other than the slight dread that I would be walking in alone. The boys were with their dad, and although I have many dear friends from their school, it’s usually an event where people sit with their families. Most of the time, I am fine going to events alone.But this event was different.

This was a triggering event.

Several years ago, when we were still married, my then-husband confessed some things that shocked me. Shocked is putting it lightly. Devastated is more like it. That evening, years ago, marked the beginning of a long road of pain and suffering in our marriage. Perhaps the beginning of the end. So every year on the evening of the boys’ Christmas concert the thought crosses my mind that this is the anniversary of the night my world was turned upside down.

The first year after his confession was the hardest. After that, I have tried to focus on the boys and the beautiful celebration of Christmas rather than the memory of that one night.

Until this year.

Maybe it was because I had been sick and my emotions were a little more fragile. Maybe it’s because of the financial stress I have been feeling as my ex-husband and I are finally resolving the financial aspects of our settlement agreement. Or maybe it’s because he has a serious girlfriend who spends more and more time with my boys. Or because he talks of how God is speaking to him now and I wonder why God didn’t scream to get his attention when I was pleading for him to come back to me. Or why he didn’t listen if God was, in fact, screaming.

All of those factors contributed to the anguish I felt as I headed out the door for the concert, but the catalyst that began a series of sobs came after I reached in the mailbox on my way to my car.  I hadn’t gotten the mail in two days, and I was running a bit early so I went back inside to open the Christmas cards I now held in my hand. One was from my ex-husband’s sister and her family. It was sprinkled with photos of her and her husband and two beautiful children. My brother-in-law, niece and nephew. Or is that ex-brother-in-law, ex-niece, and ex-nephew? Divorce shatters more than just the immediate family. Even as close as we were, it is hard to know where the line is. Where loyalty stands. Where your place is in this new dimension. And because it’s been so hard to define these things, we’ve put our relationship on hold. I’m not convinced it’s over, but it has certainly changed.

And it feels like another heart-wrenching loss.

I glanced through the Christmas card and skimmed the letter. Tears started burning my eyes as I stared at the faces of her sweet children. It dawned on me that it’s not the little things I no longer hear about, it’s the big things. The things that even a minor friend might know – like vacation destinations or job changes – were all unknown to me. The loneliness that I anticipated in going to the concert alone was palpable now.

I was an outsider.

Now it was time to leave. I had just a few minutes to drive through a fast-food restaurant drive-through and get to the show. By now the tears were making a steady stream down my face and I needed to talk to someone who knew me. Someone who knew my story. I called my friend Stacy first and asked her to save me a seat so I could take care of myself the best way possible – by seeking out love and support of a dear friend. Then I called my friend, Michele, who has known me since 8th grade. I could barely choke out the words to ask if she had a few minutes to talk. I told her about the triggering event, about how I couldn’t believe it was hitting me so hard, about the card and feeling lonely. Michele listened.

Then she prayed.

When I pulled up to the school, I felt better. I still felt the gnawing ache in my heart but I felt strengthened by prayer and friendship. I walked in to the auditorium and immediately saw my ex-husband. But it was Stacy I scanned the crowd for. I saw her waving from the back corner. I made my way over to her after saying a few hello’s and took my seat.

Even as my wounds were opened and the tears fell, I knew it was all in the name of healing. I knew it by the sounds of my sobs that forced their way out of the deepest parts of me, the parts that have yet to be restored. I knew it by the genuine laughter that also came out of the deepest part of me, as I watched the little girl with the exaggerated hand motions sing loud enough to drown out the rest of her classmates.

The sound of pain mixed with joy: that is the sound of healing.

 

I Have an Art Studio, and I’m Not Even an Artist

I signed a lease on an art studio today. Well, one-third of an art studio. I’ll be sharing it with my friend, Quincy Owens. Thing is: Quincy’s a real artist. As in he sells real art to real patrons  — in our town and other towns with names like New York City. I admired his work long before I ever met the guy, and when I first saw him at an art show it was like brushing by someone famous. A couple of years after that show, I started working at the same school where he teaches art and found a humble, down-to-earth, witty man. Now he’s just Quincy O., my co-worker, friend…and studio-mate.

Quincy in the studio

So what am I – a writer – doing sharing an art studio? For about a year I’ve tossed around the idea of renting some sort of writing space. A space where I would go to focus only on my writing. A place without the distractions I have at home (read: children, laundry, dishes.) I also wanted a place where I could mentor young writers, like the girls who joined my WriteHers’ Club last year at the high school where I work.

It seemed natural that I would try to rent a space at the Harrison Center for the Arts, http://www.harrisoncenter.org/about.php

since it’s part of my neighborhood, and directed by my neighbor and friend, Joanna Taft. It is at HCA that I worked as a Fellow to create the WriteHers’ Club, joined the Board of Directors and spent (and still spend) every First Friday with my boys at these monthly art shows and open studio nights. However when I first tossed around the idea, I didn’t have a clear vision for what I could do when it came to open studio nights, in which all artists are required to participate. Each artist must open their studio to guests and potential art patrons during these quarterly shows.  But what would I have to show? How exciting is it to walk into an art studio and see words on a paper or a screen?

Enter the Writers’ Gathering. I attended this day-long workshop in November, sponsored by the Writers Center of Indiana. Through a few writing exercises,  something clicked. I started seeing my writing in pictures, in elements, in visual art. The next week, Quincy happened to join me in the school cafeteria, and I asked him if he would ever consider a studio-mate, especially one who is a writer. He was genuinely interested and helped me come up with several ideas for 3-D installations that might work for some of the pieces I have been writing. We both agreed that we could work something out and I approached Joanna who ran it by a few more people, which led me to today: the day I signed the lease.

I’m excited about the idea of incorporating visual art with my writing. Having a studio writing space will stretch me in the areas of discipline and creativity. I will have to write more to justify leasing the space, which means I will need to be at the space a couple of times a week to write… even on those days I really don’t feel like it. And it will take courage to produce anything remotely artistic, even with the help of Quincy’s stellar ideas. At the risk of sounding trite, it feels like a new chapter is being written in this thing I call my life. I anticipate both comedy and drama in this one but that’s what makes a good story, right?  I hope you’ll look for me at a First Friday in 2012. I’ll be with Quincy.

The chinchillas - our other studio-mates.

 

In a Word: Clamor

I’m going to do it. I’m going to do one of those things I said I would never do. I’m going to start a post with the definition of a word. Ahhck! I feel so uncreative. So weak. So … so insipid. But here it goes.

The word is clamor. Dictionary.com defines clamor as:

noun
1. a loud uproar, as from a crowd of people: the clamor of the crowd at the gates.
2. a vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction: the clamor of the proponents of the law.
3. popular outcry: The senators could not ignore the clamor against higher taxation.
4. any loud and continued noise: the clamor of traffic; the clamor of birds and animals in the zoo.
verb (used without object)
5. to make a clamor; raise an outcry.

verb (used with object)
6. to drive, force, influence, etc., by clamoring: The newspapers clamored him out of office.
7. to utter noisily: They clamored their demands at the meeting.

Now, having defined the word, I confess:  I clamor. It seems to be my word of the week, or perhaps the month, or – God, help me – my life. Clamor. That’s what I do. And maybe that’s not a bad thing. At least not all the time.

May Wright Sewall, a suffragist from Indianapolis, once read a petition she was about to sign regarding temperance. The petition stated that those who signed that petition would agree not to clamor for more political or civil rights. At that, Sewall declared, “But I do clamor.”

She was not content with the conditions that were put upon women of that time. So she refused to sign the petition, and she continued to clamor. Thankfully so. She became an instrumental force for change in this city.

Unlike Sewall, however, my clamoring is not so civic minded. My clamoring is more personal. More internal. I defined the word because of the emphasis put on the noise, uproar and outcry. That’s exactly what is happening inside of me. As I travel the road of healing from my divorce, I find that there is a constant outcry inside. An uproar that things are not like they should be. Or maybe I’m not yet as I should be.

This week I was hit by another wave of grief. I had a doctor’s appointment in the building where my ex-husband and I used to go for my OB check-ups. As I walked into the building, I was flooded with memories of those times when we were best friends, excited about the future as we added to our family. Now I was entering the building alone for a procedure that had me fairly concerned. The contrast was profound. At first I tried to ignore the pain. But when I was back in my car, alone and quiet, I let the mourning commence again. The tears came in a steady stream and I felt the clamoring begin… the “vehement expression of desire or dissatisfaction.”

Funny that the definition uses the words “desire” and “dissatisfaction.” Clamoring goes both ways. This week, while my boys have been with their father, the clamoring inside has been far more noticeable. At times I’ve tried to rise above it, to suck it up or to learn how to be content. During other moments I have tried to claw out of it by various means that are not healthy or helpful. Mostly what I’ve discerned is that the deep longing is not going away. And that’s okay. It’s okay to want more. It’s a sign that I’m still healing. And it’s an indication that the God who loves me fiercely is not going to let me stay the way I am. In fact, I believe it’s the gift of his spirit that allows me to feel the dissatisfaction AND the desire to be more.

More than the woman I think I am sometimes.

Something for which I will never stop clamoring: coffee.

More than a divorcee.

More than broken.

More than a friend.

More than my smile.

More than middle-aged.

More than a mother.

More than my losses.

More than a writer.

More than my mistakes.

More than even my victories.

More than.

More.

 

 

 

 

I Can Fly! I Can Fly!

My college friends used to let my boyfriends in on a secret. “Lynn’s a cheap date. Take her to an airport to watch planes taking off and landing, and she’ll be yours.” I’m pretty sure that some of those guys thought “being yours” meant something entirely different than my friends had intended. Sure, the excitement can arouse; but what my friends knew, that some men didn’t understand, is that the mystery of flight stirred my soul, it was something in which we could marvel together.

I was the little girl, who seeing an airplane in the sky, would stop everything and stare at the wonder of these machines, large and small, gliding through the air. Perhaps I longed for something to pull me up into blueness and fluffy, white clouds where nothing hurt you and all perspective changed. I often dreamed of where I would go if I were in the jet airliner or how it felt to be seated in an old crop-duster. Even after my parents took me on my first commercial flight and a thousand flights later, I am still enamored. I still look to the sky when the military jets race over our lake house, causing the windows to shake and deck to shudder.

I’m not sure when it happened, but long ago as I looked up at these various planes,  I promised myself I would eventually learn about aviation and get my pilot’s license. That dream lingers in the back of my mind but  after the birth of four children it has faded with the responsibility of caring for these boys. When they are older I hold onto hope that someday being a curious dreamer will be turned into the fullness of reality.

A taste of that dream filled me yesterday, however.  I had the immense pleasure of “strapping on an airplane,” to use insider language. My friend, Dennis, is a former combat pilot for United States Air Force. I am very ignorant of ranks and such regarding the military, so I apologize for not knowing the exact “title” for Dennis, but let’s just say he is a seasoned and skilled pilot. He invited me to fly in a WWII PT-26 from an airport just north of Indianapolis to an airport just south of Indy.

When we walked into the hanger, I could barely take my eyes off of the blue and yellow beauty. As Dennis walked around every part of the plane, he explained exactly what he was doing and gave me a short lesson on the physics of flying this particular plane. He was meticulous about checking each feature of the plane before he even pushed her out of the hanger. I tried to absorb all of the information, but found myself overwhelmed that in a few, short minutes, I would be in the sky in this beautiful antique.

To my surprise, I was not the least bit nervous. A little back story here. I have known of Dennis for years, but we had only officially met the night before. We have about 100 mutual friends and when he sent me a friend request on Facebook, we started sending one another messages about how incredible it was that we had never met when so much of our lives had overlapped. All this to say, I instantly felt comfortable with Dennis and his capabilities inside that plane.

When we climbed in the plane, he gave me a tutorial on the stick and the rudders and the different control panels. He told me I could keep my window open (again, I’m sure it’s not really called a window or a sunroof, but I can’t remember the exact name), which I did. He showed me the safety features and what I would need to do if there was an emergency. Even then, I had no fear. Not even a butterfly. The only feeling that pulsed through me was one of sheer euphoria. So much so, that I was speechless.

As we taxied to the runway and then started to gain speed, Dennis spoke into the headset to explain exactly what he was doing. Every move he made, he shared the whys and hows. I listened as he radioed to the Indianapolis airport to see if we could use their airspace. He wanted to take me straight over Indianapolis instead of outside the loop.  We gained permission and complete peace washed over me. I was transcended to a place I had never known before. A place where words barely exist and the ones I tried to utter stuck in my throat, causing me to simply murmur sounds of awe.

In a few short minutes we flew over the city toward the airport where we were to land. Cloud cover caused us to alter our plans and instead of heading into the southern airport for breakfast, we turned the plane toward the north, where Dennis landed the plane beautifully on a strip of grass between two neighborhoods.

I still couldn’t speak. This was somewhat troubling to me as I wanted to let Dennis know how much I was enjoying this slice of heaven, particularly from a woman who loves words and is never quite short of them. But nothing except an occasional, “Wow.” or “Incredible.”

We took off toward the original airport and Dennis let me have a hand at the controls. “I’m flying, I’m flying,” I screamed. Only not out loud. In my mind, I was squealing in total exuberance. But outwardly – nothing. Maybe that was God’s idea of awakening all of my other senses to the experience. Maybe he had to shut me up so I would stay in the reality that this was really happening. That while I may not have a pilot’s license and really only moved the stick less than a half an inch in either direction, I was there, closer to heaven, doing something that truly is a mystery. Something that although it works, is difficult to explain and understand in all its glory.

Even without words, it will be a day I feel in my soul forever. A day I’ll never forget.

Colorado Adventure

We just returned home from a ten-day journey that took us through eight states. With our Suburban packed with suitcases, sleeping bags, a couple of cots, two guitars and an amp,  some snacks, a few electronics, my four boys, and my two teenage nephews, we headed west to Wilderness Ranch, a Young Life backpacking camp in the San Juan mountain range in Colorado.

This is the same camp where we ate fish eyes last year. http://wp.me/p7fl9-d3

Thankfully, I didn’t have to eat fish eyes to prove anything to my sons. Instead, I tried to show them love by playing frisbee golf with them. Confession: I hate frisbee golf. Hate-as-in-I-would-rather-eat-fish-eyes-HATE. Wilderness Ranch has a crazy frisbee golf course-  up and down mountain sides and through thorn bushes. Around an outhouse and close to a lake. I am disastrously horrible. My fingers get caught underneath the frisbee. I let go too early or too late. I hit windows. I scare young children. While my boys get par or close to par on most “holes,” I stop counting once I have 10 over par. It’s THAT bad.

Somehow, I only had to play a portion of one game because they soon made friends with other families at base camp who actually like playing frisbee golf. I was off the hook. I found other ways to spend time with my boys, like the incredibly competitive game of four-square, canoeing, hiking and day trips to waterfalls and the Rio Grande river to hunt for amethyst, which we happened to discover near an old mining town.

One of the greatest experiences about being at Wilderness Ranch is the community. Last year we made friends with several families from Tulsa, Oklahoma, with whom we reconnected this year for 4th of July games, a pizza picnic and fireworks. Unfortunately, they had been at the Ranch the week before us this year so our time together was limited to the 4th. Yet, in the one day we had with them, our kids played as if they had never been apart. I received bear hugs from the other adults and instead of asking each other the surface questions, they went straight for the things that matter, and asked how I had handled being a single mom this year.

I lamented over our inability to share the same week at the Ranch until I met Ryan, Betsy, and their three beautiful children. From the time Ryan and his young son joined us at the four-square court, I could tell we would hit it off. Ryan immediately engaged with my boys and nephews, as he encouraged his 6-year-old son in the game, teaching him the rules along the way.

Over the course of the next few days, I heard chapters in the story of Betsy and Ryan. I made fast friends with their middle daughter and eventually won over the heart of their youngest as well. I was in heaven as these two little blond-headed girls climbed on my lap or asked me to carry them. Betsy and I stole moments in between pushing our kids on the swings or roasting marshmallows to share our journeys. She told me that when she looks at me she sees joy but there’s also a sorrow in my transparency. She read me well. It was a difficult week of grieving my lost marriage again as I had plenty of solitude and time to journal and pray. Her humble and gentle spirit allowed me the freedom to share some of my heartaches and struggles. I could see the pain reflecting back in her loving eyes.

Yet, there was incredible joy as I watched my boys thrive in a place where they were able to explore freely and feel the love of the staff and other families. Ryan taught Asher how to fly fish. He helped Noah fix one of his guitars. He played four-square over and over. And commandeered a canoe full of boys. It may have seemed like small deposits but the payoffs were huge.

Before we left the ranch last Saturday morning, Betsy, Ryan and their three children walked over to our cabin to say goodbye. Betsy handed me a card and with tears in both of our eyes, we embraced. I felt like I was leaving a lifelong friend. I turned to Ryan and felt my heart breaking as I held him tight. I could barely look at their son and two daughters as I said goodbye to their precious little faces. As we drove down the rocky mountain road, out of the ranch, I had to fight back the sobs I felt coming from the depth of my soul. I wish there were stronger words for what I was feeling but all I can say is – my heart hurt.

Before we got into the car, Betsy and Ryan told me they loved me. It seems ludicrous that after only one week with this family we could be exchanging “I love yous” with such heartfelt affection. But that is what God does at Wilderness Ranch… and in the midst of the wilderness. Not only did he provide what I needed – playful moments with my boys, sweet sleep and safe adventure – He gave me what I longed for – unlimited beauty, encouraging community and life-giving connection. Just as I was tempted to think I was alone and would feel that painful loneliness in the midst of a camp full of families with intact marriages, he used  that very thing – a sweet family from Michigan  – to awaken my soul once more.

I love you more than you know, Betsy, Ryan and kids!

Love in the Time of Tsunamis

I read through Facebook posts lately and I wonder if we’re really as calloused as we appear. We write about our dinners or the weather or March Madness. All the while, people in Japan have lost their livelihoods, their homes, their families, even their lives. In light of such tragedies, our lives can seem so small, and we can feel so helpless. But even if I lived in Japan, or Haiti, or any other area struck by devastating disasters, I’m not sure how I would or could best reach out to people who are hurting far beyond my wildest imagination.

I work part-time in a high school. I don’t rescue survivors from literal rubble but I do get the privilege of digging through life with some incredible teenagers. I don’t feed hungry families but I do get the chance to feed the passion of some budding young writers. Today I was completely humbled by the opportunities presented to me. Here are a few examples of these interactions…

Keith has an anger problem. Something made him mad today. I asked him what was wrong. He stayed silent as he took measured steps into my office. He sat down. He spoke calmly. He told me his anger management classes were helping.  I nodded my head and smiled. He got up and walked slowly out the door and then added that he’s glad he gave up cussing for Lent.

Holly’s mom has cancer. Most days she looks exhausted. Today she was slumped down in a chair in the hallway waiting to talk with one of the Deans of Students. I asked if I could give her a hug. She sat up and said yes. I walked over and gave her a big squeeze. She sat just a little taller as I walked away.

Tyler stopped me before he entered his first period class. “Ms. House, I got into college. I’m the first in my family to go to college,” he said. We high-fived and I told him I was so proud of him. I could tell he was proud of himself, too.

Julia had a lacrosse game today. She got to dress up on game day. As I was about to pass her, she asked if it was true that they’ll no longer be able to dress up for game days. I had no idea. She told me she loves dressing up and she hopes it’s just a rumor. I told her I hope so, too. I meant it.

Sally brought me a cupcake. She’s testing different flavors of her homemade treats. I love cupcakes and I love Sally. She brightens my day not because of her treats but because of who she is.

I’ve known Stephanie since she was three. Her family was new to the area and they didn’t have family in town so they invited my family to her third birthday party. (How many times can I say “family” in one sentence?) I bought her fake make-up. It was sparkly. Just like Stephanie. Every time I see her in the hallways, her smile spreads across her face like rays of sunshine.

At the beginning of the year, Phoebe wouldn’t even turn my direction when I spoke to her, let alone look into my eyes. Since she was struggling in school, she spent a lot of time in the Deans’ office, which is located next to mine. Slowly, I started reaching out to Phoebe. Soon her head began to rise and her mumbles became coherent words. Phoebe is now in a writing club I sponsor. She has a gift. She writes with honesty. She writes poetry with heart and soul. I’m confident Phoebe has the potential to make a positive mark in this world.

Today as I was walking home, I passed Erica and Brooke headed back toward the school to get a ride home. I asked what they were up to. They said they were returning from an event about human trafficking. They told me it was depressing and that they felt so helpless. I could relate. It feels so overwhelming and I am but one person, I said.  As we spoke, a man and a little girl, about 6 years old, walked up to us, holding on to their bicycles. The man asked for 75 cents for his little girl. Erica, Brooke and I told him we had no money, which was true. We watched them walk away, again feeling haunted and helpless for the little girl and the man with bicycles.

Alexis stopped by my office to see if I could meet with her after school. She’s trying to get clean, after a couple years of drug use. She says her parents don’t understand and she really wants help from someone she can trust. We meet to talk. I don’t give much advice but I challenge her and figure the best I can do is what anyone can do – listen and love.

I don’t write about these things to bring attention to myself. Honestly. I write these things because my heart overflows for these kids. I write these things because maybe you feel helpless and overwhelmed by what is happening in the world and you don’t know what to do. I write these things because responding with compassion to those who live in your homes, neighborhoods or workplace is one way we can love in the time of tsunamis, even if it’s in a medium-sized high school, in an urban neighborhood, in Midwest, USA.

*all names were changed in this post.

Where No One Knows Your Name

That’s a depressing title, isn’t it? Sorry if you came here for a laugh or silly entertainment. Some of my posts are heavy, and I assure you this is one of them.

I haven’t spoken about my divorce much. Mostly because the topic cannot be contained in a post. But, there’s something about my divorce that compels me to write. There’s a specific topic I can not ignore. It’s one of the many feelings that comes with the territory. Yet it’s a word we toss around so much it has lost its meaning.

Loneliness.

I had an image – a mind picture – the other day as I walked to work. It gave me such an accurate way to describe loneliness.

I was somersaulting through space. I wasn’t spinning out of control. Nor was I in slow motion. Everything around me was dark, but somehow I could see other people somersaulting past me. I had no voice, but I knew that even if I did have a voice, no one could hear me.

I desperately wanted to to make myself flip closer to someone. Anyone. But I couldn’t control where I was headed.  I was simply flipping through this abyss with nowhere to land.

I remember thinking that this is what it feels like to be lonely. To be in the vicinity of others but unable to touch anyone else.

This is what loneliness is, I thought. A dark abyss where no one can do so much as even bump into me. Not even a slight brush against my hand or my face.

Tears started to slip over my lower lashes. I wanted someone to bump into me. Someone to call out my name. But I was in a place where  no one knew my name. We were all just fellow travelers on a journey, wondering if we would ever see light again. Ever feel the warmth of another human being, or the sweet sound of our names being spoken.

That is what loneliness feels like in this place called Divorce.

In reality, I have friends who know more than just my name. I have 900 friends or so on Facebook. I have met every single one of those people. They may not be close friends. Perhaps they are merely acquaintances but nonetheless we have some sort of connection. In all of those “friends,” I still find myself in that abyss from time to time. Even with the love of my close friends and support of some of these Facebook friends, who encourage me from afar, I still feel the intensity of loneliness.

Today is one of those days. I have spent much of it in tears. One of my dear friends has asked me to join her for coffee. She wants to know if I need to talk. It may have alleviated some of the loneliness, at least momentarily. But the kind of loneliness that comes from death, divorce or some other loss leaves a deep gash in the heart that will not be healed by short conversations over coffee. So, today I let myself somersault through the abyss. When I finally stopped flipping long enough to dry my tears and read a bit about how God’s love for me reaches through these dark places, I sat down to write this. Finally.

I must write. For no other reason than to write about loneliness. And maybe so that someone out there suffering from loneliness in a world filled with people, activities and responsibilities, they can feel that someone has at least tried to bump into them out there in that dark abyss.

 

 

This is what Adult ADD looks like

Maybe you missed it. The little subhead up there near the title of my blog. Under the headline, “Lynn’s Addiction,” it says: “Therapy for an ADD mother of 4.” When I started this blog, I really didn’t have a platform. I didn’t want to write only about parenting. Or only about my marriage. Or only about moving from the suburbs to the city. I started my blog out of pure selfishness. Wait, isn’t that an oxymoron? Can selfishness be pure? (Yes, this is what ADD looks like.)

Anyway, I started the blog for my own pleasure. For therapy, as I say in that subhead. It was a way to challenge myself to write more and to finally try and reach a larger audience. I mean, my mom and dad are a great audience, but they aren’t exactly impartial. So, I started writing about things that happened to me throughout the week, or about the way I felt about a particular situation, or about my perspective on the latest news story.

The point is, I give myself the freedom to write about anything. It works for me. It works for me because of my self-diagnosed ADD. There are several symptoms that mark an adult with ADD. Like many disorders, I have some symptoms but certainly not all of them. For instance, I don’t get easily flustered or irritable. I am not a poor listener; and I do not tend to act recklessly. I do, however, underestimate the time it will take to complete a project, tend to crave excitement and sometimes blurt out things that may be inappropriate.

Let’s take that last one, for example.

I stop by a colleague’s office. We’ll call her June. June has recently sent an e-mail to all employees that the front office manager has gone home sick. Furthermore, she mentions that she had heard said front office manager in the bathroom “puking.” A few minutes after I receive the e-mail, I need to ask June a question.

After I receive my answer I say, “By the way, I could have done without the mention of Ruth’s (not her real name either) vomiting. June laughs and tells me I wasn’t the only one who commented on her descriptive e-mail. Apparently, since June had to listen to the actual “puking,” she felt like the rest of us should be drawn into her reality.

June has a temporary employee working in her office. Anna heard the whole thing, too. In fact, Anna tells me that when she hears someone get sick, it makes her want to throw up. This is where a person without ADD would say,  “Well, I hope you two don’t have to endure any more sounds of vomiting,” and then walk away.

The person with ADD, however, does not walk away. The person with ADD walks right into the middle of June’s office and proceeds to tell June and Anna the story of her cousin. The story goes something like this:

Several years ago, my cousin went to an Indy 500 party with my brothers and me. He drank so much he started to throw up. One of my brothers drove him back to our house while my friends and I stayed a bit longer. When we got home, we checked on my cousin to make sure he was okay. He was sound asleep in the guest bedroom. But being the caring older cousin, I sat on the edge of his bed and started to rub his back. Big mistake. My cousin woke from his slumber, sat up, leaned over the side of the bed and proceeded to vomit again. One of my friends being a sympathetic barfer (like Anna, hence the reason I even thought about this stupid story), turned quickly at the sound of my cousin getting sick and threw up in her hands. I jumped from the bed to grab the wastebasket for my cousin and was on my way to find a towel for my friend when my brother’s fraternity brother walked in to the scene. He took one look around, and proceeded to announce that he had thrown up between a girl’s breasts once.

I stop. I stop because that is the end of the story. And because I am getting that feeling that people with ADD get when they realize their mouths are like a runaway freight train filled with useless cargo.

My face turns red. My knees feel weak. And my mind starts to race as I ask myself:  Why, why, why did I tell that story? It wasn’t even funny. In fact, it was ridiculously juvenile. Not to mention TOTALLY inappropriate for a work setting. I could see it in June’s face. Sure, she chuckled, but it was nothing more than a courtesy laugh. Behind that sweet face, I’m sure she was thinking: “What the hell is this woman talking about and why is this story taking 85 hours to tell?” And Anna. Anna must have wondered what kind of drugs I had taken that morning.Why else would a perfectly normal looking human being (I realize that is up for debate) tell such a story?

Somehow I end up at my desk. I’m not sure how I got there because I can’t remember walking to my office amidst the reruns of of the scene in June’s office that dominate my mind. I can’t stand thinking of the fool I have made of myself with the cousin/friend/brother’s fraternity brother barfing story. Because I am so embarrassed, I do not want to see June or Anna the rest of the day. I avoid going near June’s office and when she comes to my office, I barely turn to address her. Eventually, the shame of my impulsivity starts to fade and the mature, competent woman reemerges.

This is what Adult ADD looks like. The symptoms aren’t always negative. In fact many characteristics of ADD are quite positive: traits such as creativity, flexibility, visionary-minded, energetic, passionate, resourcefulness and adventurous.

Thankfully when the negative symptoms get the best of me, I have people in my life who are gracious and loving. People like June and Anna, who accept me despite the random, silly and sometimes inappropriate things I say. Especially when it involves stories about fraternity boys barfing between a girl’s breasts.

Hunt in the ‘Hood

Like many moms, I worry that my sons spend too much time playing video games. One son in particular loooooves his Xbox 360. If he had free reign, he could easily spend an entire day and night with his hands wrapped around the controller and his thumbs depressing various buttons. Not only do I worry that his mind will turn to mush, I worry about the lack of exercise that occurs with the whole gaming lifestyle.

I wanted to take the boys to a pumpkin patch this weekend so they could run around in the wide, open spaces. But one activity lead to another and by the time we were all home again it was too late. In the midst of all the activities,  Gaming Son spent a better part of the afternoon on the Xbox, flying airplanes, dropping bombs and generally destroying anything within his field of gaming vision. After about an hour of constant shoot ‘em up and blow ‘em up scenarios, I knew I had to kick into creative gear to get all four boys out of the house to do something active.

Enter Scavenger Hunt in the ‘Hood. It wasn’t the most exciting search on the planet, nor was it the most organized; but when the word “prize” was mentioned,  all boys stood at attention. Well, not really, but I did get their somewhat divided attention. Being the little skeptics they can be sometimes, they wanted to know what kind of prize I was talking about. None of them were willing to waste their precious time with piddly prizes. It had to be worth their time and effort if they were going to buy into this whole scavenger hunt idea. I wouldn’t tell them what the prize would be, partly because I wasn’t quite sure even when the game started, and partly because telling them would have taken the fun and spontaneity out of the game.

We began the game with the first clue inside the house.

First clue: Where you might ask “who’s the fairest of them all….” Once they FINALLY looked by the only mirror they hadn’t checked, they found a piece of paper sticking out of the bottom with the next clue.

“You’ll find me in a pile, fresh from the trees.” Of all the leaf piles around our yard, they went straight to the one in which I had hidden the next clue – which made me think someone was a cheater pants and saw me hide it there.

Next clue: “I’m sitting close to Lucy. And I don’t mean the human one.” (That was a clue that the next piece of paper was near the neighbor dog named Lucy, not to be confused with our neighbor GIRL named Lucy.) So they ran to the neighbor’s house and found the clue on the fence post.

 

Not there... look again

 

 

Hurry before Lucy, the German Shepherd not the human, gets you.

 

Then it was off to the local theater, followed by a neighbor’s garden, a realtor’s “for sale” sign, a neighbor’s flag pole and then the high school where I work. Somewhere in all of this clue finding, I was able to come up with the last clue AND the coveted prize.  The end of the scavenger hunt took them to the high school where I work.  Little did they know that I hid the last clue while they were looking elsewhere outside the building. I gave them a few clues to get them to the correct location of the clue, and once they found it under a plaque, they were told the prize was only a block away. They were to go to the place where they could pick out their sweet surprise which could be consumed during the  showing of IronMan 2 on Pay Per View that night. Off they ran to Walgreens to buy their movie candy and popcorn.

Call it manipulation, if you must, but it worked. I got Gaming Boy off his rear end and had him running all over the neighborhood in search of the next clue. To use one of the cheesiest phrases I know: it turned my frown upside down. I smiled as I watched my boys work together to find clues and to see them enjoy life in the context of a game so simple and so… thrown together. HEre are a few of the moments I captured on camera. I love to look at these because it reminds me of the truly sweet moments we spend as a family. And it helps ground me when I want to fly away, like I did the very next day.

Stay tuned for the candy-hangover stories coming soon.

 

I'm just admiring my place of employment while the scavengers... I mean hunters...are long gone.

 

 

This is where i found them... already inside claiming their prizes.