My Shades of Gray

I stopped coloring my hair one year ago. I didn’t stop covering my grays to make a statement of any kind, I just got tired of the effort. I was tired of the cost, and of the chemicals on my scalp, and of having to constantly worry about my roots. So, I stopped. I had many concerns about stopping, but my tiredness overrode the concerns. It has been a long process, a love-hate relationship of sorts. Well, maybe the word hate is a little strong, but I have definitely had my insecurities with it along the way. Society has programmed us to be so afraid of and against aging, encouraging us to thwart all signs of it at any cost. I will be honest, most of all I wondered if I would still feel attractive and lovable. I crave love and affection, after all. But I held on to that deep-seated belief that beauty comes from within and not from the color of our hair.

Well, one day, a month or so back, I was proven right. I got cat-called while walking to my car after a yoga class. I had left that class sweaty and glowing, feeling strong and powerful and beautiful and connected. I could feel it from the tips of my toes all the way up through the crown of my head. And as a car made its way to the stop sign and eased around the corner, the driver called out of the window, “Girl, you are looking good tonight!”, with an emphasis on “night”. It wasn’t the kind of cat call that makes my skin crawl; it wasn’t the kind that makes women wish we were invisible. It was more like a hearty and genuine, “Namaste!” out the window; a, “My beauty sees your beauty!” It was the outward affirmation for what I was feeling inside. And I thanked him for noticing. He didn’t care about my grey hair. Nor should I.

So, I guess what didn’t begin as me trying to make a statement has become me making a statement. Be who you are. Find it and be it well, and allow it to proudly shine out. You are beautiful. And you are looking good toNIGHT!

💕

The Gift

The perfect gift has a way of making you feel loved. But the best gift is the gift that keeps on giving. And sometimes, even unbeknownst to you, it has been giving all along. Without you even realizing it, this gift has been working its magic for years.

I discovered one of these gifts this week. It was given almost seven years ago during a very, very dark time. My memories of this period of time are hazy, to say the least. The mind has a way of softening up the edges of trauma for us. But I remember that my brother came. And I know that my husband was dead. He had only been gone two weeks or so when my brother came to help. And the fact that my brother had come was truly a gift in and of itself. It was a messy place to be with three grieving children, and it felt as though I could barely place one foot in front of the other, let alone walk my children through this tragedy. My brother came with his light and love despite his own trauma. He was a dying man, only 36 years old, with only a few months left on this earth, but still, he came to our rescue. And despite the hazy memories, the power of his love and the depth of his service were not lost on me. There were dishes to wash, and a wild three-year-old to tame, and bills to pay, and a house to clean out, and a dental practice to sell, and decisions to make, and overdue taxes to settle, and school to attend, and a job to go to. Life does not stop for death. It keeps moving, like a freight train, and I think back now and honestly have no idea how we survived. But then, through the hazy memories, I remember the gifts, like that of my brother’s visit, and I know how we survived.

It has been awhile since I have thought about that gift. But it is college essay time and I had the extreme pleasure of learning about my son’s journey from his own perspective. I assumed and expected him to write about his father’s death in his college essays. Not to give a sob story, but because he is who he is today because of, and in spite of that trauma. And wouldn’t you know it, but his father’s death was not the focus of his essay. That visit from my brother was. That
eleven-year-old boy has carried that gift with him for all this time. And that, my friends, is the mark of the perfect gift.

The Bottle

I see your bottle and I know you want to put me in it.

Don’t you know that bottle is too small and I will not fit inside?

And if you stuff me in, I will be so ugly and you will be sorry.

You cannot bottle this.

You did this to me.

You put me in the bottle.

You squished me in and wanted me to stay,

Because you were comfortable with that

And you didn’t want me to come out.

But I had to get out.

I suffered deeply inside that bottle; I almost forgot who I was.

And I got out and do you know how badly it hurt?

It hurt so bad 

and then I was all alone outside that bottle 

and I had to find my beauty again.

I remembered it from before

I had been pretty,

And I knew how to sing.

And my heart was so big and full of life.

And do you know how hard it is to come back 

after having been stuffed in a bottle?

Wonder

For when does the tree ever wonder,
Am I beautiful enough?
Did my leaves change brilliantly enough this year?
Am I being the best tree I can be?
Never.
The tree simply is.

And that is enough.

Rewriting the Story

(So, I am writing again. The end goal is a memoir. Here is a little teaser for you: the final chapter.)

This book was originally going to be just a talk. A talk about resilience and how to reframe your thinking. A talk about changing the way you tell your story to make it work for you, instead of against you. Do you want to be the victim, or do you want to be the hero?

For example, the day I decided that it was my right and privilege as a mother to let Jillian go was the first day I actively went against everything I was brought up to believe in. It was my first official step toward freedom.

The day I kicked my husband out was me finally listening to my gut before reason. Now I know that my body is my first responder. It knows when something is wrong even before my heart and mind do. Now I know to listen closely to her wisdom.

It is not about embellishing or diminishing or rewriting the truth; it is simply changing how you tell the story.

My new mantra is, “I create beauty.” When you look at my life, you might see all the ways I fucked up. What I see is all the beauty I created in between.