Tag: pandemic

Broken Crayons

“Trauma breaks you into pieces. Healing teaches you broken crayons still color.” – Inner Practioner

I don’t think there is anyone on Earth, who can say that this coronavirus situation hasn’t caused them any amount of pain and trauma. If there is such a person, they are either in deep denial, or a complete sociopath. Even if your own life has been relatively unaffected, it still breaks one’s heart to see the news stories of others who have lost loved ones, to this disease.

So with the assumption that my readers are people of feelings and empathy, I am going to go with the idea that we all have suffered some amount of trauma, concerning the coronavirus. It’s okay to admit that you have undergone some trauma. In fact, the only way to heal from any kind of trauma, is to admit to yourself, that it actually happened in the first place. That is usually the hardest part. If you keep trying to artificially scab over, or put a band-aid on a festering wound, it won’t heal properly. You’ve got to dig deep into the wound, pull out all the growing infection, and administer the correct daily medicine, for the pain to properly heal. This is what allows the trauma to be a thing (or a scar) of the past, and not an ongoing, unconscious driver that negatively affects elements of your every day life and relationships.

I think that the reason why a lot of people choose denial, versus dealing with their trauma, is two-fold. First, people think that it is strong to gut through situations, keeping a stiff upper lip. Somewhere along the way, we got the strange notion that admitting that you have a problem, makes you weak. How messed up is that! It is the opposite of strength, to stay in denial about a situation that has caused you pain. Still, we often choose to stay in denial because we fear that if we squarely face everything about how a certain trauma has affected us, we are afraid that we will fall apart at the seams, and stay stuck forever. And that is the second reason, why we keep our traumas, unfortunately, all bottled up.

When we finally get brave enough to look at our traumas honestly, and with sincere acceptance, that is when the real strength and healing begins. That is when we fully understand that broken crayons are still able to make the same vivid colors and artwork that they did before. And you know what else? Typically broken crayons end up being stronger than when they were whole. They aren’t as fragile. It is much harder to break a small piece of a crayon, than a long, elegant, fresh crayon, just coming out of the box. Also broken crayons recognize themselves in the other broken pieces, and that is where the truest compassion arises, giving the artwork of life, an even deeper depth of color, and meaning, and emotion, and joint, mass strength.

What’s a little broken in you, since the pandemic started? Has the pandemic triggered old, unhealed traumas in you? Have you allowed yourself to shed some cleansing tears? Have you reached out to others for support? Have you allowed yourself to be a little broken, realizing that even the most “perfect crayons” have little imperfections and will wear down a little bit, over the years? (Remember that the shrinking down of a crayon, comes from love and use, over the years. Everyone knows the favorite crayon in the box. It is the one crayon that is barely there, from being so useful and loved so much. It’s the “Velveteen Rabbit” of crayons.) What if, right this very minute, you had your favorite crayon in front of you, in your hand? You know the one. Your favorite crayon is that “go-to color” that you always looked for in that big, old Crayola 64 box, and you always tried to incorporate it somewhere in every one of your “masterpieces”. My favorite Crayola crayon was called “Burnt Sienna”. Now, what if, right now, you took your favorite crayon between your fingers and you broke it like the “Karate Kid”? (Don’t pretend like you never did that. Or at least, don’t pretend that you never witnessed that naughty boy in class who you secretly had a crush on, breaking the crayons with one hand, as you feigned shock and disgust, but secretly thought that this move was kind of cool and daring. . . . .until he got his dirty mitts on the Burnt Sienna crayon.) So now, your favorite crayon is broken right in front of you and you are required to draw a lovely picture of your life. You are drawing a picture of a path, leading into the sunshine of your future. The path is your life. It must be drawn in your favorite color, the one that really speaks to you, from the depths of your soul. So you pick up your broken crayon, and you cradle it or put a little tape on it, and you understand that while the crayon is a little broken, it can still draw your path in the very color that you had been envisioning that path to look like. And now you also have a little spare piece of crayon, in your back pocket, for those times in the future, when the path gets a little rocky again, and you need to draw on, a new direction. It is almost as if, in some ways, the brokenness of the crayon, has multiplied its capabilities. You now have the knowledge, that came from experience, that you will be ready for that rocky piece of road, up ahead in your path, because you now have the inner depth, and the experience, and the acceptance, to know that broken crayons will always have the ability to draw and to color, until they are completely used up, and then disappear into the horizon, and into the completed master piece of Love.

Are you passing on love, or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love.

Betty Faye

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This one hit me hard this morning. It reminded me about the time in my life, that my only daughter and I went shopping for the only doll which my daughter has ever liked or cared about. It was last fall, when my daughter was 16. We “adopted” Betty Faye together at the Cabbage Patch Hospital in Cleveland, Georgia.

I knew that I was pregnant with a daughter before she was born. She is the fourth child, and she has three older brothers. I am a “girly girl.” I like clothes and shoes and purses and high heels and lots of accessories. As a child, I loved dolls in every form. I loved Barbies, and Holly Hobbies, and Drowsy babies, and fancy foreign dolls on pedestals. I had the largest collection of paper dolls known to man. I still have a few of my precious paper doll sets, in storage. So, when I was pregnant with my daughter, I started collecting dolls for her, that I just knew she would love, with her whole heart and imagination. I bought the prettiest, most collectible, most cuddly dolls which I had ever seen, in bulk. My inner little girl bloomed, as my pregnant belly bloomed, and “together” we shopped for dolls for my soon-to-be daughter and I expectantly piled them high, in the closet.

For the first couple years of her life, my daughter was my own living baby doll. I dressed her up in a new outfit, every single day. She had the prettiest blankets and bathing suits and bracelets and monogrammed binkie holders, and I reveled in all of it. When she was about three, I started introducing my daughter to her curated doll collection, but she didn’t show too much interest. Her brothers proved to be much more fascinating, as they bounced her, like a ball, on the trampoline or used her for target practice for their dodge ball games. My daughter showed her athletic prowess early on, and the boys decided that my daughter was a worthy, valuable teammate for a lot of their games, and she was thrilled to be part of the action. Plus, never one to sit down much, she much preferred to play with her toy kitchen, dramatically chopping up and carving up plastic turkeys and lettuce, “Gordon Ramsey” style, with devilish flare, or to jump enthusiastically and tirelessly, mimicking all of the intricate moves on the video game, Just Dance.

One day, we had a “come to Jesus moment”, when my daughter was almost four. As I gingerly pulled out a fancy, antique Madame Alexander, exquisite doll from her still intact trademark cardboard blue box, in order to transition the doll over to the next generation, my daughter looked at the doll with a glimpse of disgust and maybe even despair. Then she looked me firmly in the eye and very matter-of-factly said, “Mom, dolls are scary.”

My daughter is a talented artist. She has long, shiny, beautiful hair and she loves to do it up, in all different styles. She is so creative when she paints her lovely nails. (luckily she didn’t inherit my ugly, stubby, chippy little fingernails) We enjoy shopping together. So, while we have shared a lot nice “girl times” together, playing dolls was never a part of our bonding experience. So, imagine my complete surprise when she seemed eager to visit the Cabbage Patch Hospital with me, this past fall, when we were staying in a cabin in the mountains of Georgia. I figured that it was just an odd fascination and curiosity about a giant plantation-like looking building, where Cabbage Patch kids are “born.” Even my husband and eldest son agreed to go, for laughs, I suppose.

We walked all around the doll hospital. It was the first time in a long time, that wearing a mask felt fun and normal and appropriate. All of the salespeople were dressed like nurses, and there were walls of photos of famous people who had visited the Cabbage Patch hospital, over many years. It was a silly, fun, unusual, interesting experience, at a time when we needed that type of experience the most.

After getting my fill of the place, I noticed my daughter kept looking at one of the dolls. “If you had to just pick one doll, out of the thousands of dolls here, which would you pick?” I asked her casually. She giggled embarrassedly and pointed to little blonde, pony-tailed Betty Faye, all decked out in comfy aqua pajamas.

“I’ll buy her for you, if you want her,” I said casually. (trying to keep hope out of my expression) “You know, as a funny souvenir and remembrance of our trip.”

She took me up on my offer right away, and we headed back to the “nurse’s” office, to fill out Betty Faye’s adoption paperwork. I don’t know why my sixteen-year-old daughter showed the interest and enthusiasm for a doll that day, that she had never shown before. Was it to make sure that she didn’t miss out on anything in her childhood, with college and adulthood now looming, so soon in the future? Was it a form of love and connection that she was trying to express to me? Or maybe, was it that a soft, comfy doll to hug was just the ticket, after a year of so much fear and uncertainty that came with the pandemic? No matter what the reason, I lapped up the experience, and so did my daughter. And every once in a while, when kissing my baby girl goodnight, I notice that Betty Faye has made her way off of the shelf, and into the bed, with an ever smiling face, promising that you are never too old or never too young, to enjoy all that life has to offer, all along the way.

Are you passing on love, or are you passing on pain? Heal your pain and pass on love. 

Happy Birthday

“I have started this blog for me, but if it is helpful to others that would be grand.  I have always felt that when people truly share what is really on their hearts, the world is a little less lonely.  I don’t know where my second half of adulting leads me but I am certainly in the contemplation stage.  And this new stage of my adventure is probably very similar to my son’s new experience – exciting, scary, exhilarating, freeing, introspective and necessary for us both to further develop into what we are meant to be in this mystery called Life.” – me (July 16, 2018)

Today is the second birthday of my precious creation, Adulting – Second Half. I started this blog on an emotional whim the day after my eldest son left our home, for his own adult life. I want to thank all of my loyal friends and readers (some of you who have been with me from the very beginning) from the bottom of my heart, which is overfilled with connection, gratitude, and love for all of you. You have given me your time, your validation, your insights and your love. Your gifts are so dear to me. I do not take you for granted. It is so wonderful to not have to write to a void. You are the other half to my writing process. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

When you start things on a whim, you don’t necessarily have a goal in mind. This blog was an impromptu outpouring of my emotions, my grief, my excitement, my fears – basically, my stored up heavy emotions, in the form of words. I think that’s mainly what the blog still is for me. Sometimes I get caught up into looking at the daily stats. Sometimes I think of grand marketing ideas of what to do with my writing, but mostly, every morning, I just get giddy to open up the browser to my blog and then open up my heart, to all of you. Writing my blog makes me excited for mornings, and I am honestly not a morning person.

A lot of life happens in two years. In the scheme of things we don’t necessarily think of two years as a long time. When we are dreading something arduous, we might even say, “Oh, I can handle it, it’s only two years!” And two years, does go by mighty fast and for some reason, years seem to go by, even exponentially faster, as we age. Perhaps this “speeding up” of time, is because we gain a deeper respect for the limited time we have to live, the closer we get to the reality of dying. Still, even as two years whizzes by, a lot of happenings happen in that relatively short amount of time. I can honestly say, that when I started my blog, going through a historic pandemic, never, ever, ever came to mind as a sub-plot.

Thank you for being my witnesses, my cheerleaders, my co-experiencers, and my teachers. Thank you for inspiring me to show up, to open up, and to practice and hone my skills. Thank you for sharing my life with me. This blog and by extension, the readers of this blog, will always be one of the fondest highlights of my life’s experiences. This I know for sure. You have changed my life for the better and that is a beautiful gift to give to anyone.

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The Circle of Control

A few weeks back, I had a meltdown at dinner, expressing to my family how much I hated this pandemic happening. I was so sad that I was having to make strict rules about friends and outings. I expressed how much I hated the fact that my children wouldn’t be able to share in the fun ceremonies and events and milestones that their senior friends so much deserved, but would be missing out on. I shed tears about all of my daughter’s tennis events, written on the calendar, going by, getting crossed off the calendar, one by one, week after week. It killed me that my middle sons wouldn’t even get to say good-bye to their senior fraternity brothers, before these young men headed out on their own adult, professional lives. I wanted my husband to know how concerned I felt about him having the extra weight on his shoulders, by having to worry not only about our health and supporting our family, but for the ever mounting, stressful business issues happening, day in and day out, due to the coronavirus. I wanted my eldest son to feel the comfort of being with his family, instead of by himself, in his bachelor apartment, not making close physical contact with anybody, for weeks on end. I wanted to stop it all and I wanted to make it all just go away, for my family, for our friends, and quite honestly, for the whole entire world.

“Mom, we get it, the coronavirus is not your fault,” my youngest son said.

That statement stopped me in my tracks. It snapped me to attention. It gave me a lot of relief, and also, quite a bit of introspection. I guess that it made me realize how egocentric I can be, even in my caring for others. It made me realize how my control issues sometimes are disguised as “worry” and “concern.” If my own well-being is only present when the conditions outside of me are exactly what I think that they should be, then I will have to understand that my personal “well-being” will only be a sparse and fleeting feeling for me, for the rest of my life. The reality of what was really going on, during my meltdown at dinner that night, was my needing for everything to be ” just right” for everyone else whom I love and have concern for, in order for me to feel okay and alright with the world. That’s not fair to me, or to anybody else and frankly, it’s simply just not going to happen. Ever. Because when this pandemic passes, other issues will come around. That is the nature of life. Granted, the pandemic is a whammy, but sometimes it takes a big, ol’ slap in the face, to really get some introspection about your own coping skills and your own perceptions and about the overall way that you go about living your life and how you relate to others.

One of my dearest friends often refers to “the circle of control.” Here it is:

How the Circle of Control affects the Intellect's life?

The circle of control is a good tool to have in your back pocket. I think that it is a particularly helpful reminder, during especially high stress events, like now. I see a lot of “Petty Bettys” on our Nextdoor neighborhood social app. People are very, very concerned about other people’s actions and the funny thing is, that this concern spans a broad spectrum. People are calling the police about neighbors getting together, and yet the very next post on the app, is about getting a group of neighbors together to persuade our local politicians to open up more stores and beaches and venues, in our area. And both of these social media posts have dozens and dozens of responses full of righteous anger, judgment, and frustration that people aren’t thinking the exact same way about the pandemic and the issues surrounding the pandemic, as they are seeing it.

In my case, when I try to control things outside of me, it is to quell my own fears. If I can keep up my illusion of control, then I feel more secure. If the pandemic is MY fault, then I have the capacity to fix it. Silly me. Like my son said, “We get it. The coronavirus is NOT YOUR FAULT.” The coronavirus is not your fault either, friends. Only focus on what you can control (see the middle bullseye of the circle of control) and let the rest of everything, take care of itself. Feel the deep relief, knowing that only what you can control is your responsibility. Know that the laser-focused-in-on-the-bullseye responsibility for yourself and for your actions, is more than enough, for any one person to handle. And with that deeply resonating knowledge and wisdom about what is really your responsibility and what is really under your control, let out a big, slow, deep, calming, sigh of relief and just go about your day as peacefully as you can.