Bring It

Fifty-six days until I turn forty. Can I get a woot woot?

I am not dreading this turn of events. I mean, it is inevitable, after all, right? The never ending ticking tocking sliding of the clock, thrusting us forward on our own little patch of earth. In fact, I say, bring it. Forty is the new black.

I have a friend who plans to get her first, maybe her only, tattoo when she turns forty. She's planning forty days of adventure leading up to it, trying something new every day until her fortieth. Love this idea. It banishes the black balloons and fake tombstones. It says "talk to the hand" to the adult diaper givers. It denies the denture cream. It says, "Yeah? So?"

Last year, when the eye doctor ever so gently reminded me that I was holding on to my thirties by a thread (yes, he so did), I got a little snippety. C'mon, dude. Like I don't know how old I am. And then, over the holidays, my husband said something that completely shocked me. I KNOW how old my parents are, and I am fully aware of what the forward march of time does to us as we march forward with it. But he said, "They're almost 70," referring to my parents. My mouth gaped. I about fell out of my chair.

Thinking about a number in the mid sixties is entirely different from "almost 70" because 70 is, like, a really big number. It takes a lot of years to get to 70 (about 70 if you want to put a fine point on it). If my parents are almost 70, well, hell. That means I'm, like, an adult! (Because even talking about them, it's totally about me.) If I'm an adult, well then I guess I better get some stuff sorted out.

And I am. Forget new year's resolutions. I've got daily resolutions, just like my friend who's having an adventure a day to celebrate.

I will no longer attempt to fit into other people's ideas of who I am.
I will stop whispering jokes to my husband and let him say them out loud.
I just might get me that tattoo I've always wanted.
I'm running a half marathon, so there!
I will plan a trip that is just me and my besties. On a beach.
I will stand confident and proud of what is past and square my shoulders to what's coming.

So, forty, bring it. I'm an adult, after all. I can take what you throw at me.*

*This is in no way intended as a dare, forty. Please, still feel free to be kind and to not throw too much at me. Okay? Thanks.

I'm No Expert, But That Won't Stop Me

If you have been here before, you know I've been a running fool lately. You can read all about the whys and wheretofores if you don't know that running has become something of a favorite hobby for me. Suffice it to say, if you're here and not at all interested in this running nonsense, I run. A lot. And I like to run. A lot.

"Who cares?" you ask, maybe glibly while rolling your eyes, scrolling down quickly to get to the good stuff, assuming, again rather glibly, that there is, in fact, good stuff. And I shall raise my eyebrows at you and tell you just exactly who cares.

You do.

And I know this because some of you have been asking me questions about my training.

You flatter me. I like this also. A lot. I've been emailing a bunch of you lovelies with my thoughts, and some of it seemed to make a rather cohesive whole on running, physical and mental training, and, if I may be so bold, some lessons I've learned along the way.

Now, let this be my legally binding (eye rolling) disclaimer that I am in NO WAY an expert. You saw that in the title. If you even try to suggest the old bait and switch, I will refer you heretofore, forthwith, ergo and nonesuch to the top of this little page, wherein ye shall find, for your reading pleasure, the title of my merry script, in which I declare my utter lack of expertise.

Okay, then, now that we have the legal mumbo jumbo out of the way... *slaps hands together in relief*

Here's what I want to say to everyone who has said or written that my running has been inspiring.

That's great! I love that you are inspired. But. It's not a big butt, because, you know, I've been running. But don't just be inspired in thought. Be inspired in action. I'm not saying go run a marathon tomorrow, you silly. That's crazy talk. I'm saying do something you didn't know you could do and see what happens.

I did not set out to run the Tulsa Run that would be a 15k, I don't mind telling ya. I did not set out to get super sexy calves (but I will show them to you, just ask). When I started, I've said before, running three miles was the most taxing thing in my day. I hated it. I hated that I was the one who had to go with the dog because I'm the one with flexible schedule. I hated it that sometimes it was too hot. Sometimes it was raining. Sometimes too many cosmos on date night...well you get the idea. It took forever it seems. If you cannot hear me whining, just thank your lucky stars, because I so am whining.

And again, I am in no way some kind of freakishly fast, super trim "athlete." When I registered on Dailymile to get cyber credit for every.single. stinkin'. mile, I didn't want to pick a category. They were so binding and scary and none of them applied to me. "Choose one: runner, athlete, cyclist, swimmer" and some other crazy things like tree climber, mountain maker...I don't even know. I sat and stared at that screen, cursor blinking like an annoying little sister, trying to decide. Finally, I clicked "athlete." For months, I ran in fear; I just knew Dailymile staff would track me down for the lying liar that I am. Athlete? Yeah, if eating, knitting and sewing are sports then heck to the yeah.

The point is, I love that some people find my running inspirational. I won't lie: I signed up for Dailymile just so I could brag about my incredibly amateur results. I'm a sucker for kind words so I went reaching for some. You people are putty in my hands. But here's what I'm trying to say, in a longwinded, friendly, conversational tone. If I can do it, you can do it. Promise. And in the coming days and weeks, I'm going to tell you exactly how I know that. Notice I did not say, HOW TO DO THAT.

And because I'm too excited, I'll whet your appetite for my un-expertise. I know. You might want to sit down. Some topics I want to cover: your reason to run (or take that class, or climb a mountain, or join a new church, or leave a bad relationship), mental training, self talk that works, and getting over the bad days.

Is there something you want to hear about that's NOT technical? Let me know. Let me stress just one more time, this is not a fitness plan, a guru lesson, or a technique forum. It's just one woman's thoughts on how to do something you never thought you could do.

Who's with me?

Friends in Good Places

Say what you will about social networking, social media, or wasting time online. Me? I freaking love it. I cannot get enough of it. Through Twitter and Facebook, I have reconnected with dear but long-lost friends. I have grown my business. I have become an avid runner with online encouragement. I have "met" some fine folks all around the world, and even in my own town. I love it. Is love too strong a word?

My brother says he doesn't have time for Facebook. I laugh in the face of his busy-ness. My sister never comments on my blog, so I in turn make mocking statements on her Facebook wall. It's what any good sibling would do. My parents will not go near that social network stuff. Of course, I have to give my mom an ipod syncing tutorial every time I see her. That poor woman only gets to sync her new music twice a year.


Recently, I needed some love from some good peeps. I wrote an email to five of my closest, bestest, most favorite women, explaining in gory detail all the ups and downs and important asides, asking for an extra measure of their goodness. They all replied, and each in her own way. One wrote me, a week later, a super long email with loads of questions, thoughts, potential problems with my reasoning. Very detailed and thorough. Just like her. Another wrote a quick concise email about how this was common among her friends and that she loved me. One wrote that I had included a ton of info and that she'd reply in detail soon. That was a few months ago. She will. Eventually. It's okay.

So I have these awesome women who care for me, but what I didn't expect was to get support from two Facebook friends I didn't have strong relationships with. They both reached out to me when they noticed some cues. And to be honest? I was really hoping for that.

I knew Beth in college. We went to different schools but ran in overlapping circles. We had one mutual friend who really tied us together. I think we were both in her wedding. A surface friendship. I never really knew her. Beth noticed that I'd been absent from Facebook and wrote me an email, tentative and very sweet. She wondered if I was okay. Would if it too forward to ask what was going on? She wondered how she could pray for me, and if I needed to talk. Beth has been the most faithful friend, including my five most faithful friends, to lend me emotional support. She prompts me, responds to me, and challenges me. Beth and I now text, and have a date for coffee next time I'm in her town. At Christmas. I'm too excited.

I have never met Aubrey. We had a few mutual friends who were busting our chops about being strong women (if you have to say you are a strong woman, are you a strong woman?) After speaking through other's Facebook walls for months, we finally friended each other, because we are both intelligent, thoughtful, gorgeous reading women. Her favorite book list is almost identical to mine. She is a runner. She works hard as a mom pursuing a professional life she is proud of and passionate about. Aubrey and I connected on one of those cosmic levels that makes you feel like you're not alone in the world. Aubrey listened to my ranting and replied with logic, reason and care. Because Aubrey doesn't really "know" me, she could have turned on her heels and walked away. She doesn't need my drama. Her life's got enough of its own.

I have come to realize that I like online socializing for the same reason I like "in real life" socializing. I am intrigued by people and I am energized by learning about others. We used to tease my sister about interviewing every one she met. Pot? This is the kettle calling. Making connections with people lights my fire. Finding cool new friends who really care? Bonus.

Ripping Seams

Of Weddings and Dresses

I have a friend who is planning her second wedding (and marriage). This is all very exciting and fun and we are all atwitter with plans and ideas. She asked me, to my great honor, to make a dress for her daughter, who is in second grade. Now, if you know me, this type of project sits firmly in my wheelhouse (which is a phrase people are throwing about like pennies these days but we can talk about that some other time). In fact, it might BE my wheelhouse.

Since the friend lives far away, we designed the dress through text and IM. I sent images of fabric, dress patterns, sashes... and she replied yay or nay. We recognize this kind of seat-of-the-pants decision making may not pay dividends; the color may be all wrong (it's not), the size may be ghastly (it won't be. I know how to measure). But it's kinda too late, because that picture up there is the dress.

It's not completely finished. I need to handstitch the lining to the zipper, which I'll probably rip out and resew, possibly using a T-square so I can get the edges perfect. The hem can't be done until I'm in the presence of the wearer of the gown and she'll most likely, as kids are wont to do, grow in the intervening weeks. But, you can see it's rather a lovely gown, perfectly respectable for any 8 year old attending a wedding.

I took every single instruction to heart when constructing this dress. I took no shortcuts. I ironed the fabric before I cut. Made every pattern mark I could see, double checked the dart placement, even ironed every seam. If the pattern asked me to trim to 3/8" then by golly that's what I did. I wanted the dress to be spectacular. I ripped out the seams attaching the bodice to the skirt three separate times, each time growing more frustrated that the gathers were hanging wonkily. I cursed myself. I cursed the dress. But darnit, in the end, that skirt hangs like liquid silk flowing from a...oh, it's just perfect, okay? Take my word for it.

In Which I Attempt the Ill Advised

On Sunday, I decided to make myself a sweet little knit tunic top before church. I'm not sure exactly what spirit possessed me on that fateful day, but I guess I was feeling adventurous. Or dumb. I threw the fabric out on the floor, didn't iron the pattern, let alone bother pinning it in place. I didn't check measurements, didn't even fold the fabric as suggested because I wanted that dress and I wanted it now. I figured, three seams, unfinished edges and I'm out the door. What could be easier?

Ha. Using a hastily cut mess of fabric and unmatched thread, I sewed that sucker together in under an hour. It's fine, passable. But it's ENORMOUS. I like roomy clothes but my husband asked with fear and trembling: "Is it a moo moo?" There I go taking things too far again. I would not wear it like that to bed. Essentially, I had to take it apart, cut it down and sew it back together again. Not only that but the thrill is gone. I knew I was taking short cuts, and I knew I would pay for it. I didn't care as long as I got that dress.

But now, when I look at it, I ask myself a remarkable question. Why is this friend and her little girl worth so much trouble when I'm not willing to give myself the same effort?

Oof. Are we worth the effort we give to others? I'd like to reply resoundingly, "YES!" But this anecdote reveals that what I want to believe and how I behave are utterly opposed. Sure, I wanted to make a beautiful gift for my friend, and I was confident in my sewing skills. It still leaves me wondering. Should others get more from us than we get from ourselves? Do we bend over backwards to please others to our own detriment? I'm not suggesting I'm a used up rag with no value. I'm just kicking around some ideas about worth, time and effort.

What do you think?

Regrets and Reconciliation

Once upon a time, I had two friends. Well, once upon a time, I had more than two friends, still do, in fact, have slightly more than 2 friends, but that's neither here nor there, as this little story concerns just these two aforementioned friends I had, once upon a time, and my grandmother, which is weird, considering the three have never met.

So I had these two friends. And they were funny and silly and I enjoyed their company. And they were my friends. And then we had a very dramatic, sad, ugly falling out.

I'll spare you the drama of our sad and ugly falling out. Suffice it to say, as is usually the case in these matters, all three of us can hoist some of the blame onto our humanly puny shoulders, burdened as we are already with pride, anger and selfishness.

In thinking about my role in this little tragedy, the Greek chorus in my head reminds me of a recent revelation, a reconciliation of sorts with my paternal grandmother, who has been dead for over a decade. Crazy Greek chorus, just like them to bring up some long ago turmoil, buried securely in my mind, to teach me a lesson.

Of Grandmas and Grace

Grandma and I had a monumental tiff during her later years. The kind that overshadowed family holidays and jubilant occasions, like my wedding. That lady was a spitfire on her best days. She was a mountain-mover, a hell-raiser, and woe be to thee if you raised her ire.

We had a minor miscommunication that grew and festered. I can blame my dad for this, because he invited Grandma to something I did not want her to attend. When she called for details, instead of being gracious and insisting she come, I blurted out that she was, in reality, not invited. I know. I'm embarrassed. This classy move led to the Thanksgiving Tumult of 1991. Neighbors still talk about it.

For the rest of her life, we were at odds, which pains me to this day. Tradition says that this is where I remind readers to cherish their loved ones, to seize every opportunity to express their devotion. Not gonna happen.

Here is where I tell you that if I'm at all like my hell-raising granny, I share her sense of justice, her stubborn pride, and her ability to hold a grudge like a precious gem.

Freedom through Tea Sets?

Standing at the tiny stainless sink at the decrepit family cottage, my mother and I shared the job of washing and drying the dishes. Offhand, she tossed out a bomb that shifted my perspective of my grandmother, veritably shattering the angry image and reminding me of her gentle thoughtfulness. My mother said that Grandma had packed a box with an antique tea service. She labeled the box: FOR JEN AND ABBY. Abby, my daughter, was 18 months old when my grandmother died. Moreover, my grandmother was suffering at the hands of a cruel enemy, Alzheimer's, that stole much of who she was and confused her memories.

I stood at that sink totally bewildered. My grandmother remembered my daughter? She cared enough about me—or her descendants—to leave a special gift just for us. In her darkness, in her deterioration, she remembered me with love.

What's with the Greek Tragedy, Again?

So, back to my fractured friendship. A solid decade after her death, my cranky, unforgiving, hardened grandmother, my kind, giving, talented grandmother taught me a lesson in humility, grace and forgiveness.

Platitudes don't work for me, they're too easy. But. If I don't look at this situation in a spirit of growth, I will continue to cherish regret, fatigue and bitterness. Maybe life's not too short for regrets. Maybe in the poor choices we make, in our betrayals, our deceptions and our minor infractions, there is a future wrapped up just for us, specially marked and ready to be opened. Maybe a future of redemption and reconciliation comes with regret as its cost.

For reconciliation, I can handle a little regret.

Like Attracts Like

This year for Memorial Day we told our daughters, ages 12 and 10, they could each invite a friend to come with us to the lake. I admit, I may have had an ulterior motive besides just being the coolest mom ever; I knew they'd bicker less if they were preoccupied with their own selection of people to hang with. Which meant the odds of me being able to read, alone and quietly, on a sun-drenched deck on the shore of a glorious lake, would increase.

This is to be encouraged.

Today we took four giggly girls and the 6-year-old brother on the lake for some boating and tubing. The perfect plan: the boy doesn't really like to tube and the girls each prefer to tube a different way. As each set of girls boarded the tube and held on, I was struck by the types of friends my kids make. They have chosen well and wisely and in sync with who they are, inwardly, on their deepest levels.

The eldest is a talker and thinker. When not tubing, she peered through binoculars identifying birds and explaining to anyone in earshot what they were, what they eat, why they live in Oklahoma. She says things like, "That would be preferable," when asked if she wants to go slower. When we tell her we can go faster she says, "Be that as it may..." the ellipses meaning, "Don't you dare." Her friend's preferred method of tubing aligned directly with hers. They wanted moderate speed, few bumps and really just a pleasant ride. Kind of like two 12-year-old Miss Daisies.

Younger daughter is a straight up thrill seeker. Girl loves to run, jump and play. There is little intellectualizing about her life. She just loves to be. She is almost always happy, she gathers friends like fallen leaves. Her heart is open and alert to everyone. And the friend she brought with her? Same. They giggle and tease, they kick the soccer ball, and they can't go fast enough or high enough on the tube. They wanted to hit the biggest waves, hurl around the most severe corners, jump and flip and finally to fly off into the water.

What parent doesn't love to watch her kids enjoy life? Sometimes, I think that when we get to the lake, leaving "real life" behind, we see a distillation of our kids. I caught a tiny glimpse of this today as they navigated their way through the waves. I am thankful for their differences, for their emotional capacity to befriend and to love, and the vigor of their lives.

Serendipity

I ran into one of my favorite people on Thursday afternoon at a middle school track meet. I hadn't seen her all school year; our kids don't seem to be in the same circles. Doesn't it stink when your social life is dictated by the hormonal whims of your kids?

I was standing alone, not in the bleachers, watching the track meet and my other two kids run wild in the early spring glory. Other parents milled nearby, but none I knew. Then, my friend walked past. I was so happy to see her I blurted out her name, knowing she was on her way to watch her own daughter at the opposite end of the field.

She patiently stopped to talk to me. I think we chatted so long she missed her daughter throwing the shot put, farther than the boys. You go, girl.

My friend has been through a few rocky years but seeing her, she looked poised, confident, happy, and just settled. She's buying a house. She loves her job. She enjoys every moment with her kids. She used to come to a Bible study I taught. Now she was teaching me.

I shared some struggles we'd been having this year and she listened. She gave me a challenge, she told me it works out. She said all the right things.

I have many acquaintances. I know lots of people. She is the one who had this just-what-I-needed message for me.

Lean on Me

Last night a group of women gathered at a new wine and tapas bar in Tulsa. (LXi for those of you playing along at home). The reason we grouped together there, aside from the fantastic food, gorgeous cocktails and spare, child-free decor was to celebrate a friend who is moving from Oklahoma to Wales.

We sat on sofas around a huge table, playing musical chairs every so often in order to chat with all the others. Laura, the guest of honor, spoke about the home they are returning to, the village school, the commute. Of course, we talked about friends. Laura said when they first moved here, they knew it was a three to five year commitment; she thought she could grit her teeth and knuckle through without putting down deep roots.

Her experience mimicked my first few years in Oklahoma. I thought our stint here would be three years, five max. Fifteen years have passed.

Even if we had only been here for one year, I could not have made it through without friends. Friends like Beth, and Suzi. Laura, Julie, Krista and Lucy. Work friends, church friends and playground friends.

I railed against making new friendships and yet they cropped up unbidden and joyful, like the sprouts of seeds I'd forgotten I planted. A luminous surprise on a gray day. At once I didn't want to sow the seeds, knowing I needed them desperately.

Even though Laura's moving back to her home across the sea, it is a place where she doesn't know anyone. And she will have to begin again, with those first awkward chats at the park or school. Of course she'll be fine. She's amazing. But the older we get the harder it is. I think we avoid trying because it's uncomfortable. It takes energy. It takes tearing down the intimacy walls that we had already left exposed to those old friends.

And? It's worth it.

Mountains and Miles

This weekend, I drove from Tulsa, OK to Urbana, Illinois to celebrate the 40th birthday of my dear friend Kristin, whom I met 20 years ago. We met at the Jersey shore in the summer of 1990. We were hippie Christian college kids with our worlds before us. During that intense summer living in community with a dozen or so other students, studying our faith in an academic but delightfully fun environment, it was only natural that enduring friendships would spring up. One like ours.

Our friendship continued while she finished school in Michigan and I finished school in Pennsylvania. Our lives crisscrossed the Eastern side of the country as we married and birthed babies and moved to where the jobs were. In a conversation, back in the day, we talked about how we were always connected, over mountains and miles.

We are still separated by miles and mountains. But when her sweet husband asked me to come in for the party, I knew I wouldn't miss it. I met so many fantastic people: Lorna, Dorie, Rebecca, Jubal, Renee, Havah, Rachel, Becca, Paige, Lawrence...the list goes on. Kristin and I did exactly what we needed to do. We talked. Over gorgeous meals, in the car, in the dining room, in two cafes and one bakery, in the mall, at the door, in the kitchen, on the stairs... a blur of voices tripping over each other, urgent at times to get it all out, slow and pensive at others, reaching for understanding.

I have so many thoughts to process from this trip it can't all be summarized here. We talked a lot about friendship, real, true, fast adult friendship. The kind that happens organically and strikes deep roots. Kristin explained how some deep friendships had met rocky, unsatisfying ends. She talked about a few relationships whose fragile buds were still getting used to the idea of spring. There was a sense of the inevitability of shifting lives and friendships that can leave us feeling unmoored.

But at her party, looking around the room full of diverse, truly interesting people, I saw how deeply she is loved.

Here is a woman who knows how to connect, to choose her friends wisely and well, to find what she needs and be what others need. She laughed, and hugged, and talked some more. Through all the curves our lives have taken, this could have been one of those disposable friendships of youth. It isn't. We still connect, are still connected, across mountains and miles. I am honored to have celebrated a big day with my dear, "old" friend.

Do You Have a Winning Game Plan

My friend Julie is a sport psychologist who works with world class athletes and top business managers to improve their performance. Her book Performance Intelligence At Work gives readers tools that promise to increase their performance by defining their wins and following a winning game plan.

Julie's always being asked to speak to this group and travel to that state and meet with these athletes. She is, in short, in demand. Being a wife, mom and successful business owner has its downside. She constantly juggles her roles, and over coffee a few months ago, she explained to me how she makes decisions about how she spends her time. She defines and aligns.

I know. I like rhymes, too. And at first glance, I know what you think, "Uh-huh. Fine. Sounds good." Because she is important, and busy, and in demand, and after all, that's kind of her job. And you move on. But. But.

She asked me to try this exercise wherein I separated my life into all the main areas that were important to me. Then, under each category, I wrote down all the tasks or characteristics that applied to that area. After doing this, I would, in theory be able to define the main "purpose" or strength in my life and thereby align all my activities with that purpose.

Sounds easy, right? Well, that was about four months ago, and I just figured out the overriding character, or strength, and was finally willing to commit this to paper. (To me putting something on paper is the equivalent of swearing a blood oath.)

I'm one of those people who rebels against categories, and types, and personality quizzes. My mind fights the idea that people can be quantified and qualified by their parts, rather than the sum. I change my mind a lot, and I like to have my hands busy with numerous and varied projects.

It took me a few days to even start the assignment. Even doing it, I kept thinking of other things I needed to do. I designed a cute little chart on which to do the job. I abandoned that to pen and paper. I got a fresh cup of coffee. After completing the breakdown, I was paralyzed. I DID NOT want to claim that character, or quality. In fact, I set it aside for months.

I wanted to do all the things I was doing, and I was afraid. I was afraid that I would discover I need to abandon all of those completely rewarding activities and become, like, a banker or something.

I told Julie this and she said, "Finish the assignment. You will gain more than you will give up."

And because even though I hate being told what to do I also like rules, I did finish. I've defined. Now, I'm on to the next step, aligning all my activities with this definition. If it doesn't fall under this then I walk away from it, guilt-free. How cool is that? After that, I'm going to work on my winning game plan.

There is a certain freedom in categories and pigeonholes. You know where you belong. You know where home is. There is rest in knowledge, there is rest at home. And I can always change my mind.

If you want to define and align, Julie is coming to Tulsa February 12 and 13 for a two day workshop. She is a fun speaker with tons of energy and a great sense of humor. You will leave with a plan of action. Moms, teachers, small business owners, dads, coaches, her work applies to all areas. You can be my guest by leaving a comment or sending an email. I'd love you to join me.

What I leared from Twitter (and Jesus)

Bah. Kids returned to school today after the two week holiday hiatus. I made a strict, concerted effort to not think about school over those two weeks. It had been a rough semester for one of our precious angels and I just wanted to give her (and us, her parents) a break. So then, I thought we were all set to return yesterday. We had some preparatory conversations about how we planned to approach this semester and I thought we were set.

You know how a dog with a bone will take the bone to a special place in the house and gnaw on it? When he's done, he'll tuck the bone away for later. He'll return to the bone, find a quiet spot and gnaw some more. He'll smack his lips. He'll drop the bone and grasp a better spot and worry that one a little bit. He'll carry it into a patch of sun and gnaw some more. Yeah. That was me, last night. I clicked off my reading lamp after lulling my mind into submission with a book (Bel Canto if you're wondering). I had, oh, maybe five minutes of sort of sleep and then, my mind awoke with a furious and probably neurotic frenzy of worry.

I started writing mental letters to the school, listing all the ways they'd fallen short. I thought of different tools we could implement to help her get and stay organized. I berated myself for not making some helpful phone calls over break, and for being a goofy mom who was out of touch. My mind raced with anxiety. I could feel my pulse quickening under my skin, and all I really wanted, what I knew I really needed, was sleep.

So, I resorted to techniques I used when pregnant. Deep breathing, mental imagery, praying, reciting Scripture. Nothing helped. My mind circled back again and again to what was wrong and how we'd fix it. I started counting out my breaths. Then I started counting backward from 100. Finally, I turned to my only source of solace at 3:33 am; twitter. Well, first I went to si.com, but as the Steelers had just missed out on the playoffs, that did little to help. I opened my twitter feed.

What I saw there in those wee-hours tweets was sadness. And longing. And a reaching out, a begging for help. None of the tweets were obviously desperate, but there was an aching in them. Many of the tweets were basic calls for more business, or to lose some pounds, or for a spouse to get home, or other mundane every day worries. Some were deep cries for friendship or help or advice.

What I did then taught me something I already knew and forgot. I started praying for these people and their hearts and their hurts. I know some of them personally, some I'll never, ever meet. Turning my heart outward changed my situation and how I approached it. It also let me flex my compassion muscle and do something real for strangers. In shifting my focus outward, I came to realize that all this junk I was gnawing on could be handled in the bright light of day. I hid the bone and started to pray. Hope I don't forget next time.

Make New Friends and Keep the Old?

photo credit: Simon Howden

Remember that song? My kids learned it in kindergarten. The song asks us to make new friends and keep the old, one is silver and the other gold. What if the old friends are also the new friends?

I found myself asking this question all day Tuesday and into Wednesday. My family loaded up the car and hurtled from Tulsa toward Pittsburgh, PA (City of Champions). Since this trip is over 1000 miles, we stop on the way to presevere parental sanity and some semblance of routine; usually we stay at a hotel with a pool. But this year, after reconnecting on Facebook with a long lost friend whose home was almost a midway point, we planned to stay with her.

My emotions jiggled inside me; I was nervous, excited, anxious, giggly, happy and curious. I met Kristin when I was 19 years old, almost 20 years ago. We had an intense friendship over several years of college and wrote and spoke regularly. Then we graduated, married, had babies and lost touch. I wondered during our drive to her house what seeing her again would be like.

I knew the big chunks: kids, marriage, struggles, the usual. But did she still love music? What was her husband like? How about her kids? Would we have anything to talk about? Would my husband feel totally out of place?

Turns out, Kristin, like me, is different than she was all those years ago. And strikingly the same. Thoughtful, intelligent, deliberate and kind. I honestly can't remember what drew me to her in the first place, but I do know what draws me to her now. So I find myself with a brand new old friendship. One that I hope will grow.

I Been Busy

Angela wants a sushi belt for summer. A "sushi belt?" you ask. Yes, a sushi belt. I ordered some sushi fabric up from an etsy seller in Hawaii and made this sweet number. Ribbon lined and interfaced with stiff facing to hold its shape. Two silver toned D rings make the belt fully adjustable.

These little ladies are for my friend Laureen who prefers tea but does not prefer it when her tea bags get sucked into the bottom of her purses. Tea bag wallets are fabric envelopes that will hold your favorite brews in four little pockets. You could probably fit 2 bags in each pocket. Held closed with a ribbon and button.

When I moved to Oklahoma from Pittsburgh, PA, City of Champions, the one thing I could not get used to is the use of the word "sack" for every bag-like apparatus. My spine tingles, and not in a good way, when I hear this word. In honor of my new hometown, Tulsa, I made these poop sack sacks, because, well, they make me laugh. Or the name does. Poop sack sack. Just what it says it is. Clips onto a leash and carries 3-5 disposable bags for poop picking up. Could also be for "diaper bombs" as my sister calls them or even your car for trash. Whatever you need a "sack" (ew) for.
My friend Mary asked for a fabric, behind the door hair doodad organizer for her daughter. She wanted clear pockets and a place for headbands as well. Here is my iteration of that. It hangs on a rod, has a ribbon tool holder (center) and four large vinyl gusseted pockets (and 2 small ones on either end). I thought the hair holders and barrettes would work in the pockets and the headbands could slip into the ribbon. Also, another ribbon or two could be added, as well as more pockets. It can be monogrammed or otherwise customized, and more pockets might make a nice addition as well. Of course, this is just the sample but if you want it, let me know.

Also, the image placement here is giving me a headache, so sorry about the weirdness.

Leave a comment to win a poop sack sack.

What's So Good About It?

If we had been there, surrounding Jesus during his last hours, I know I would have been confused.

First there's this party; then there's a feast where Jesus washes 12 stinking sets of feet, beautifully referencing his ultimate service. Then there's a trudge to the garden in the middle of the night, the admonishment to stay awake, the arrest, the scatter.

More confusing and painful events will occur for these lowly followers.

My 5 year old asked me about Good Friday this morning. As I began to tell him the story and his soft little boy fingers stroked my face (and kind of got on my nerves), I realized not for the first time the complexity of the story. So much had to align; so many layers of meaning converge; so many people were involved in different ways with differing motives.

The thing I want to focus on, though, is that as they witnessed the foot washing, the praying, the arresting, the healing, the disciples DID NOT KNOW Sunday would be so amazing.

Again I try to put myself in their sandals. Their leader, their friend, their teacher again did not live up to human hype about rulers. Rulers don't serve, they thought. Kings don't ride donkeys, and they sure as heck don't get arrested on trumped up charged, especially without a fight.

But I think the most painful, confusing part for them would be hearing their King say, "It is finished," hang his head and descend into death. They did not know SUNDAY was coming.

Removed by centuries we easily gloss over Good Friday. We know Sunday is just a matter of days and hours. We know the war is over; we know the end of the story. We read the last chapter.

So as I move through a day where there's no school, no work, nothing big planned, I pray that I am called back to the followers' spot in history. To reflect on what they felt as they watched him die. I have always appreciated the disciples for their humanity. They are prideful, eager, sometimes a little slow, impetuous, ambitious. In short, they are people. They are not always painted in the best light, but isn't that most accurate? They did not know Sunday was coming.

In the Numbers

Okay, social networking is all the rage these days; bloggers are blogging about how they blog, tweeting about how they twitter, and writing and talking and blahblahblah about the benefits of our new apps.

Twitter has been fun and useful for me as a smalltime crafter. I am able to direct traffic to my sites efficiently, purposefully and usefully. Most of my followers until recently were either existing friends or interested in my work. I had developed chatty relationships with several of them and I got a lot of daily joy out of their tweets.

Then I got greedy. Searching through other's pages, I saw their huge amount of followers compared with my lowly low 100s. One of my favorite tweeters wrote that she had garnered hundreds of new followers overnight; I wanted that. I wanted oodles of peeps hanging on my every word. I wanted "followers" to want to experience my genius. I wanted it all.

The site she suggested seemed fairly easy; it was basically a service whereby every member agreed to follow at least 90% of the other members. So you just click through and follow, or you wait two seconds and your inbox will fill with "new follower" emails. And then, in theory, you follow them all back.

At first, my head swelled in proportion to my number of followers. Despite the stipulated reciprocation of the set up, I felt spurred on, encouraged to share every little detail. I knew they wanted me, not just my number....didn't they?

Within two days, I had over 200 followers, but I didn't cultivate them, find them, talk with them. They were data in an index, not faces and stories. And to be honest, I'm fairly sure most of them don't care what I write either. There are so many updates on my homepage that I can't navigate to the ones I really want to see and the ones I do see hold little interest to me.

I unsubscribed at the end of the second day, and went through my "following" list, deleting those who add no value to my experience...I want to pick my friends, not sign up for followers. I want to be engaged in a real and intentional way. Adding people willy nilly is not the way.

It's what I tell my children: its not the quantity of friends that counts, its the quality. I know it's trite but it's true.

The Artifice of Intimacy

Social networking seemed at first to me like its target audience would be the tweens and teens who clatter away, communicating with their flying text fingers instead of their mouths. But since my husband is a teacher, we wanted to see what the younguns were up to on the old internets. We each got Facebook accounts, and we have officially joined the swirling, hyping horde.

And I love it.

I love that my kids' classmates moms are on there and I know what they do when they're not being "moms." I love seeing what former classmates are up to, who's married and who had kids and who moved. It is like a huge online reunion.

Which is also what makes me squirm.

When I accept a friend request, suddenly, someone I haven't seen in ages knows exactly what I'm doing, what I'm thinking and where I'm going. My friend can't imagine anyone would care that she is now shopping for doggie diapers or listening to piano practice. Writing my status updates, on the other hand, are the highlight of my day.

That is until I realize who has access to it. The cute boys I crushed on, the popular girls who loathed me (or vice verse), the friend who fell through the cracks, the drifter no one really knew.

It seems strange to me that items intended for people who know me now are being passed along to people who knew me then. And yes, they are two different people. Same name, different ideas. The mommies I talk to in pickup line want the deets on the new yarn store I checked out. And so do the friends from science class who didn't know I know how to knit.

Does having someone in your friends profile mean they know who you are?