We all live in a zoo. Know what I mean?
Either we are trapped in the craziness that is our life, or somehow we stumbled in to someone else's zoo and thus are stuck behind bars not of our own making.
I've been thinking a lot about cages and entrapment lately. About fear and loss. About being trapped in a situation that I cannot control and worried that I'll never get out.
I'm sure it has to do with the small, petty issue of buying a house.
It could also have to do with my friends down South who are still in the midst of a horrific and life altering experience. Due to the delicate nature of the legal battle that is waging, I cannot go into details, but let me just say that there is a special place in Hell for those who wage war against God's children.
I firmly believe this and pray for justice.
Maybe my fretting over cages has to do with Boy's new adventure. I have no control over the situation and it makes me a little itchy. I'm such a fixer, you see. I want to fix and help and...okay, I want to run the show. It's true.
Yet, I know that these last few years have been about letting go.
Specifically, letting the children go. Just opening up the proverbial cages and turning them loose on the world. It's what we want to happen, but it's so darn hard to do.
Somehow, it's easier to let Boy go. Okay, it's kind of easier. Sort of....Maybe not?
Girl? Not so much.
But I know she wants adventure. I know she wants travel. I know she wants service.
I want to say, "Fly! Be free!"
And I probably will say it, but my little heart will shout the opposite. Don't you feel sorry for Girl? It's not that she's said anything. It's not as if she's packed her bags and heading to India with her brother. She's not like I was at eighteen - ready to run at a moments notice.
It's coming. That's all I know. And it's good. Escaping the zoo means growth and adventure and probably some mistakes. It means learning to do things on your own and meeting new challenges. It means balancing your checkbook and eating Top Ramen because you're broke.
I've been thinking about my own cage too. The one I've locked myself in. I think it's time to shake it up a bit. I had goals that I let fall to the wayside while I managed the family zoo. Maybe now is the time to unlock my cage door and learn something new.
I don't know what it is and I don't know how it will change me, but I want more. I want to live outside the zoo and see what it's like the big, bad world.
Hopefully, I won't get scared and run home!
Showing posts with label Roar. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Roar. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 10, 2010
Tuesday, May 05, 2009
You Can’t Make Me – The Conclusion
Sometimes, only sometimes, the clouds part and the warm sun shines down upon you. When it happens it’s a glorious thing and all one can do is stand in that bright, sunny spot and smile. Such was the case when I learned that I had injured my knee just enough to avoid PE for a few weeks.
”Heck, if I milk it a little, I could probably get excused for the rest of the quarter,” my evil, little mind plotted.
Mrs. Warren, skilled professional that she was, saw right through my plans and brought the clouds back into my atmosphere. It rained. Honestly, it rained right there on my head, just like in Charlie Brown.
“Don’t worry. You can make it up after you recover. All of it." she stated flatly.
As I watched her walk away I realized she wasn’t threatening me, she was making me a promise. It was one I knew she’d keep. Despair washed over me as I considered making up PE after or before school for weeks. I’d be alone—or worse, I’d have to run laps when the football team was practicing. Ew.
Just as I was about to give up, I remembered that there was one person who hated PE more than I did. My Mother. Not only did she hate PE, she really despised PE teachers and if I informed her that Mrs. Warren was attempting to force me to make up PE and that she was the cheerleader coach me dear ole’ mum would come unhinged.
She’s funny that way.
I made the call during lunch, threw in a couple of sniffles (okay, I really was crying) and she said she’d take care of it. I felt better. I knew my mother didn’t like me, but I also knew she disliked PE teachers more.
Apparently Mother made one call to my school counselor. Ms. Counselor assured my mother that there was, “No need for you to come in…I can handle it from here…”. Mother, however, wasn’t so sure. I caught sight of her during a class break as she made her way towards the gym, Ms. Counselor in tow.
The rest, as they say, is history. I didn’t make up four weeks of PE. Mrs. Warren never looked me in the face again, and she passed me with a C. Thus ended my adventures in physical education, or so I thought.
Last spring, my best friend and I started walking. Then we started running. It was a liberating feeling; to be forty and running. But then winter came and with it the rain, snow, and wind. I’m a weenie, in case you haven’t noticed, and I don’t like running in the cold. I kept working out at the gym and waited for those glorious spring days to return.
And they have.
Running to me is an accomplishment. Realizing that I am strong and that I can run is one of the finest things I have ever done for myself. I think back, often, to that girl that I was. I was slender, but I was weak. There may be more meat on these bones today, but I’m strong, I run, and I love that. Wouldn’t Mrs. Warren be pleased!
The sun is shinning and white, puffy clouds dot the expanse of the heavens. It’s a cool spring day, after a rain shower and it seems like a perfect day for a run.
”Heck, if I milk it a little, I could probably get excused for the rest of the quarter,” my evil, little mind plotted.
Mrs. Warren, skilled professional that she was, saw right through my plans and brought the clouds back into my atmosphere. It rained. Honestly, it rained right there on my head, just like in Charlie Brown.
“Don’t worry. You can make it up after you recover. All of it." she stated flatly.
As I watched her walk away I realized she wasn’t threatening me, she was making me a promise. It was one I knew she’d keep. Despair washed over me as I considered making up PE after or before school for weeks. I’d be alone—or worse, I’d have to run laps when the football team was practicing. Ew.
Just as I was about to give up, I remembered that there was one person who hated PE more than I did. My Mother. Not only did she hate PE, she really despised PE teachers and if I informed her that Mrs. Warren was attempting to force me to make up PE and that she was the cheerleader coach me dear ole’ mum would come unhinged.
She’s funny that way.
I made the call during lunch, threw in a couple of sniffles (okay, I really was crying) and she said she’d take care of it. I felt better. I knew my mother didn’t like me, but I also knew she disliked PE teachers more.
Apparently Mother made one call to my school counselor. Ms. Counselor assured my mother that there was, “No need for you to come in…I can handle it from here…”. Mother, however, wasn’t so sure. I caught sight of her during a class break as she made her way towards the gym, Ms. Counselor in tow.
The rest, as they say, is history. I didn’t make up four weeks of PE. Mrs. Warren never looked me in the face again, and she passed me with a C. Thus ended my adventures in physical education, or so I thought.
Last spring, my best friend and I started walking. Then we started running. It was a liberating feeling; to be forty and running. But then winter came and with it the rain, snow, and wind. I’m a weenie, in case you haven’t noticed, and I don’t like running in the cold. I kept working out at the gym and waited for those glorious spring days to return.
And they have.
Running to me is an accomplishment. Realizing that I am strong and that I can run is one of the finest things I have ever done for myself. I think back, often, to that girl that I was. I was slender, but I was weak. There may be more meat on these bones today, but I’m strong, I run, and I love that. Wouldn’t Mrs. Warren be pleased!
The sun is shinning and white, puffy clouds dot the expanse of the heavens. It’s a cool spring day, after a rain shower and it seems like a perfect day for a run.
Monday, July 28, 2008
Counting Down
My interview is in an hour and a half. I made the mistake of drinking coffee. Sounded good, but really, not so much.
Apparently I've developed a new super-power. My secret identity has only been known by the fam and a few trusted friends, but it was leaked to the tabloids a few weeks ago and I have since been identified as She Who Cleans When Angry.
I wasn't born with this power, it simply evolved over the course of married life. The family knew that when I started rearranging cupboards, slamming pots and pans, or scrubbing the floor by hand, they'd better stay out of my x-ray eyes sights (mainly because they'd be put to work too). Nothing makes a floor sparkle like anger.
There's been a sudden shift in my powers recently. It may have been that spider bite or the time I was trapped inside a nuclear facility with just my oven mitts and a latte, but things have changed.
I not only clean when I'm angry. I now clean & organize when I'm stressed.
Take today, as an example: Using super speed I went to the track, the post office, the bank, and headed home. Flexing my incredible muscles I cleaned my bedroom (including vacuuming under the bed), gathered things for Goodwill, swept the floors, did the laundry, and then ran to town. I dropped off the donations, stopped at the store, flew into the farm store for fresh local veggies, returned home and cleaned the kitchen.
The only trouble is these super hero tights are really ugly and don't even get me started on the cape.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a job interview to conquer.
Up, up and away!
UPDATE:
I did the presto chango in the phone booth and emerged in a lovely Hawaiian print dress (black with a tan and green pattern). My toe nails were a bold red and my hair…well you know, its super girl hair, so thus it rocks. I was five minutes early for my interview. Perfect.
The interview itself went really well, if I do say so myself. I’m glad it’s over and now I’ll wait for the yea or nay, but at least the hard part is over.
Apparently I've developed a new super-power. My secret identity has only been known by the fam and a few trusted friends, but it was leaked to the tabloids a few weeks ago and I have since been identified as She Who Cleans When Angry.
I wasn't born with this power, it simply evolved over the course of married life. The family knew that when I started rearranging cupboards, slamming pots and pans, or scrubbing the floor by hand, they'd better stay out of my x-ray eyes sights (mainly because they'd be put to work too). Nothing makes a floor sparkle like anger.
There's been a sudden shift in my powers recently. It may have been that spider bite or the time I was trapped inside a nuclear facility with just my oven mitts and a latte, but things have changed.
I not only clean when I'm angry. I now clean & organize when I'm stressed.
Take today, as an example: Using super speed I went to the track, the post office, the bank, and headed home. Flexing my incredible muscles I cleaned my bedroom (including vacuuming under the bed), gathered things for Goodwill, swept the floors, did the laundry, and then ran to town. I dropped off the donations, stopped at the store, flew into the farm store for fresh local veggies, returned home and cleaned the kitchen.
The only trouble is these super hero tights are really ugly and don't even get me started on the cape.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a job interview to conquer.
Up, up and away!
I did the presto chango in the phone booth and emerged in a lovely Hawaiian print dress (black with a tan and green pattern). My toe nails were a bold red and my hair…well you know, its super girl hair, so thus it rocks. I was five minutes early for my interview. Perfect.
The interview itself went really well, if I do say so myself. I’m glad it’s over and now I’ll wait for the yea or nay, but at least the hard part is over.
Friday, July 25, 2008
Frankly Scarlett...
I just finished reading Mrs. Perfect by Jane Porter. It’s the sequel to her book, Odd Mom Out. I love Jane Porter’s writing. I love how she captures a woman’s insecurities and desires. Reading her work causes me to think about my life and why I do what I do. I’m not alone. I’ve noted this same reaction in my friends too.
A couple days ago I posted about a comment that was made to me at the BBQ. I shared how I couldn’t shake the words out of my head; that they felt like a festering wound. I shared what was said with two friends, just to get their reaction, because that’s what I do. I wanted to see if the air rushing from my lungs would be their reaction. And. It. Was.
They both gasped, just like I did.
But now, after I finished this book, I’m starting to look at it in a different light. Even though the comment was made in jest and even if the one who spouted such a hurtful sentence meant it, it can only hurt me if I let it. That’s right. I have the power to accept or deny a slam.
And so do you.
We women give too much power to other people. We allow our self worth to be molded by what others say or do. Why? Why do we do that? We allow our mothers, sisters, neighbors, bosses to set the standard for how we feel about ourselves. It boggles the mind. It really, really does.
So let me set the record straight, right here, and right now.
The only who is allowed to judge me is God. That’s it. Not my mother, not my neighbor, not my friends, not my enemies. No one has the right to steal another persons worth. From here on out I am really going to try to not let the ideals or thoughts of others steal my fire. Not another single soul.
The only way to make it stop is to stop listening to the smack. Put your fingers in your ears and sing, but don’t listen. Ignore the jive, the dig, and the half sugar coated remark. Just let it go.
No one can make you feel inferior without your consent - Eleanor Roosevelt
A couple days ago I posted about a comment that was made to me at the BBQ. I shared how I couldn’t shake the words out of my head; that they felt like a festering wound. I shared what was said with two friends, just to get their reaction, because that’s what I do. I wanted to see if the air rushing from my lungs would be their reaction. And. It. Was.
They both gasped, just like I did.
But now, after I finished this book, I’m starting to look at it in a different light. Even though the comment was made in jest and even if the one who spouted such a hurtful sentence meant it, it can only hurt me if I let it. That’s right. I have the power to accept or deny a slam.
And so do you.
We women give too much power to other people. We allow our self worth to be molded by what others say or do. Why? Why do we do that? We allow our mothers, sisters, neighbors, bosses to set the standard for how we feel about ourselves. It boggles the mind. It really, really does.
So let me set the record straight, right here, and right now.
The only who is allowed to judge me is God. That’s it. Not my mother, not my neighbor, not my friends, not my enemies. No one has the right to steal another persons worth. From here on out I am really going to try to not let the ideals or thoughts of others steal my fire. Not another single soul.
The only way to make it stop is to stop listening to the smack. Put your fingers in your ears and sing, but don’t listen. Ignore the jive, the dig, and the half sugar coated remark. Just let it go.
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