I Wear Pink When I’m Happy

If you ever see a dog with a yellow ribbon on its leash, give it some space. Perhaps it was traumatized, or perhaps its old and sick, but no matter the reason, if you see a yellow ribbon on the dog’s leash, give him a little space. He needs fresh air and sunshine, but for whatever reason, he’s not likely to enjoy the head pats you want to give him. He can’t tell you himself, so the yellow ribbon is a message so the owner doesn’t have to be quite so diligent in protecting the dog’s boundaries.

Sometimes I wish we humans had signals that we could wear, too.

Some days I’m really, really super happy. When I’m super happy, I wear pink. Pink has become my favorite color. If you want someone to sing show tunes with you on the walkway between the office building and the courthouse and I’m wearing one of my pink blazers, you can bet I’m game. If I’m wearing pink, and you need cheering up, I have extra smiles to give away that day. I’ll listen to your worst jokes and laugh. Sometimes I’ll even wear my pink raincoat. Not even the rain can bring me down when I’m wearing my pink raincoat and carrying my rainbow umbrella.

I’m not always happy. I try my very best to keep a smile on my face, but sometimes I’m really sad and my heart hurts. I don’t have a dress code for sad, but I suppose if I’m wearing my green blazer (the drab one – not the lime green leather one with ruffles), I’m probably somewhere on the sad end of the spectrum.

In centuries past, we wore black to show that we were in mourning. A widow grived anywhere from a year and a day to two and a half years! Black was the color of mourning. I gave that some thought this morning. I thought perhaps that wearing the black was to remind people that you had suffered a loss – to remind them to give you some space, but it seems that perhaps it was to keep the grieving widow from finding her happiness too quickly.

I’m not very good at asking for what I need from other people. I’m not quick to say, “I’m hurting today,” or “I can’t believe my good fortune today, I want to celebrate!” Sometimes I wish I could let people know how I feel just by choosing a shirt.

Imagine if a gray tie / shirt / jacket meant, “I’m really busy today. I wish I had time to chat, but I really need to get this project done,” and people would just smile and nod and let you get your work done without feeling badly.

Perhaps a blue dress / scarf / blouse would mean, “I’m feeling blue – I’m in need of a little cheering up,” and people would stop by my door just to check in. Perhaps they’d touch my shoulder when they talk to me, or drop a chocolate heart on my chair when I’m away from my desk.

Revisiting that “wearing black for mourning” might not be a bad thing. My mom has been gone for two years now. During those first months, there were days I couldn’t talk about anyone’s mom – or about death – or anything that reminded me of Mom, or death, or loss. I couldn’t communicate the need that I had on those days to talk about something else – anything else. I didn’t want people to stay away. I just wanted them to know that if they saw tears rolling down my face for no discernable reason, then maybe then could just hold some space for me. It’s hard to tell people, “I really, really want some company, but I cry when anything at all reminds me of my mom.”

Purple could be for problems we’d rather not discuss. Oh, dear. I think I’d run out of colors well before I run out of emotions.

I’ll still wear pink when I’m happy, but sometimes I cry a little on my way to work. Life’s complicated sometimes.

12/5/2018 – A Christmas Card from Home by Way of Heaven

Posted by BecomingBetty

This morning began with a series of text messages. Texting is not my preferred mode of communication, and I don’t use it often, so when a series of “dings” occurred in rapid succession, it was a sure sign that something was amiss. Indeed, My Aunt Fran went to heaven this morning.

I sent a short message of condolence to my cousin and read the same from other cousins as they came across my screen. I brewed a cup of coffee and sat in the quiet living room, not quite sure how to feel.

I grew up with many loving aunts and uncles, but Aunt Fran was a favorite. She taught Sunday School and Children’s Church. She had a room in her basement full of little toys that she would give out as rewards for good behavior. For many years, she regularly cut my hair while I sat on a chair in her basement and she even allowed us to roller skate on the concrete floor. Sometimes Fran would “kidnap” me for a day. Friendly’s Ice Cream Parlor was a short walk from her home, and we would go together and she would buy me a sundae that was so big that I couldn’t finish it. Aunt Fran bought me my very first tea set, long gone now, but I remember it well.

Aunt Fran was a talented story teller. Whether the story was from the Bible or from her youth, Fran had a rare talent for making even the ordinary exciting. I particularly remember her re-telling of the story of David and Goliath. She played each role, picking up smooth stones and putting them into a pouch for her imaginary slingshot, and then carefully fitting each one into the pouch to slay the giant. A day with Aunt Fran was magical.

Mom and Fran were constant companions during the years that they shared at the Apostolic Christian Rest Home in Mansfield. Each had her own small apartment just across the street the other. Fran couldn’t see, and Mom had a hard time walking. Mom was Fran’s eyes, and Fran was Mom’s legs. They were a good team. They complemented each other; they needed each other. Even when Mom’s illness had progressed to the point where she could no longer truly care for herself, she wouldn’t leave Fran.

When cooking a big meal became too much for Mom several years ago, I began cooking Christmas dinner and transporting it to Mansfield, where we would serve up a feast in Mom’s small apartment. We always invited Aunt Fran, and she always came down the hall, usually bearing gifts, which were often treasures from her own apartment that she no longer used for herself. I use one such gift – a cast iron skillet – daily, and the lamp made of pink Himalayan salt glows in my study.

In the final year or so that Mom and Fran spent together, Fran’s hearing was failing, and her mind wasn’t working as before. Last Fall, I was staying a few days with Mom prior to bringing her home with me because Mom had grown too weak to get herself in and out of bed. She became very sick the night before we were to leave for my home, and I had to call an ambulance. I called Fran’s apartment, too, but there was no answer. Although I asked other family to let Fran know what had happened, she was convinced that I had stolen Mom away in the middle of the night without even letting them say goodbye. No amount of persuasion by myself or others involved could ever convince Fran that I had, in fact, wanted her to know what was happening and even had tried to reach her. As far as I know, Fran never forgave me. I had never known Fran to be angry, but angry she was. That night, I not only knew I was going to lose Mom, I lost my Franny, too.

Forgiveness is a lesson that took me more than 50 years to understand. I’m doing much better with it, but I still struggle with forgiveness regularly. It’s easier to understand it than to master it.

I struggle often to let go of the hurt that I cause myself with other people’s words and deeds so that I can just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they apologize or even feel bad for their “wrongdoing.”

I struggle to forgive myself for the times that I fail – whether it’s the dumb thing I did in second grade, or one of the times that I failed so completely that people I love won’t forgive me even though I’ve apologized. I struggle to let go of that pain, too, and just love them – unconditionally – regardless of if they return that love or even acknowledge my existence.

When I am having those particular struggles -the ones where I struggle to forgive myself – I slip into a mindset where nothing I do is good enough. I don’t write because “who else would ever want to see it.” I don’t post pictures of my knitting or of my teacups because “people will just think I’m looking for attention.” I don’t play the piano because I’m rusty and I make a lot of mistakes, and I struggle to get on the treadmill because I’m slower than I was in 2016. Forgiveness is the key to happiness, if you ask me, because letting go of pain frees up so much energy to just enjoy life and to just enjoy living.

This morning I forgave Fran for being angry with me, and I forgave myself for not foreseeing that my failure to reach her myself would cause hurt so deep that it would destroy a 50-year bond. I allowed myself to weep, and to imagine Fran and Mom, reunited. I believe that Fran, moments after her death, was restored to perfect health with perfect hearing and a sharp mind, and that she understood perfectly when Mom told her that I had, in fact, tried to phone her.

I made it to the office this morning a little late, but pretty much on time. All day, my memories have kept spilling out my eyes and down my cheeks. I’m not one given to loud crying generally, but my eyes have grown very leaky since I reached “a particular age.” It’s one of many reasons why I don’t bother with makeup.

When I arrived at the office, my mail was piled on my desk. On the top of the pile was an envelope with a handwritten address. A bright red cardinal appeared on the postage stamp in the upper right corner – a lone pop of color on a black and white document. It’s said that the sighting of a cardinal is a message from a loved one in Heaven. I saw a post to that effect on Facebook yesterday, so it must be true!

I looked at the return address and saw Dalton, Ohio 44618. Home! No matter how long I am in Vermilion, which I love, my heart screams “home” when I think of Wayne County. In the envelope was a beautiful letter from a beautiful lady who has always been special. We haven’t seen or talked in more than 30 years, but today, just when I needed a lift, her letter landed on my desk on a morning when I was down, not only because my aunt died, but because the stubborn needle on the scale just won’t budge no matter how strictly I diet or how many miles I run right now.

She shared some of her memories of my parents which I had forgotten about, but which flooded back. She told me how much she’s enjoyed reading the little blog posts that I share. She talked about my writing about struggles and transparency and told me that I make a difference. She put a smile on my face.

I keep coming back to that cardinal on the stamp, and the idea of a message from a loved one in Heaven. The letter left Dalton, Ohio, a mere 50 or so miles away, on November 28^th and arrived here on December 4, a day when I wasn’t in the office. I didn’t personally receive the letter until I got to my desk on December 5- six days after the letter left “home.”. The pony express would have been faster! That dear lady closed her letter with “God’s grace and blessing on [my] journey.” In God’s perfect time, a letter landed on my desk at least 4 days late, carrying with it a message of love and hope and friendship. I feel like it also carried with it a message of forgiveness from Fran, and perhaps a “hi, I miss you,” from Mom, stuck to the letter with the glue on the cardinal stamp.

My friend from back home had no idea what I would be struggling with on THIS day on the day that she mailed the pretty Christmas card with the beautiful letter inside. She simply listened to the call she felt to reconnect. In doing so, she made a difference. In this day of instant messages and texts and emails, it is such a thrill to open a card or letter and read a message meant just for *ME*. Had she emailed, instead, I never would have received the message with the red cardinal at just the moment that I needed it.

It is possible to smile through tears. I know, because I’m doing it right now.

Love,

Common Ground vs Middle Ground

Posted by BecomingBetty

Common Ground and Middle Ground aren’t the same. Common Ground is the set of things that we share. We’re humans, we’re parents, we love coffee, or we love dogs. Finding common ground is a strategy used for team building and conflict resolution. It is a form of connection that builds bridges.

Middle Ground is compromise. If your land is on the north bank of the river and my land is on the south bank of the river meeting in the middle of the river is somewhere between your camp and my camp.

Nobody has to win or lose to find common ground. We may share the common ground of loving dogs but be on different sides of a political issue. Nobody loses a thing to find common ground.

Middle ground involves loss. If you stay on the south bank and I stay on the north bank of the river, we have not moved to middle ground. If we both wade out into the river, we both leave our camps.

Middle ground is not always right. Sometimes it’s downright dangerous. Sometimes, if we wade into the river to meet half way, we’ll both drown.

Finding common ground is rarely wrong.If we’re going to heal the divide in this country, it starts by finding common ground – finding out where we are alike and where we agree. After we’ve found common ground, we may have issues where we can find middle ground. There may be issues where we will never find middle ground, because there is only right and wrong.

All the pretty string

Posted by BecomingBetty

I’m pretty much an introvert. Don’t get me wrong – I love people. I love to hang out with people [once I get there] and I love to talk with people and to get to know people. I love to get up in front of a crowd and talk. I love to go where people are and smile at them for no reason at all. Sometimes they think they know me and stop to chat. Despite my love of people, though, I must say that actually interacting with people exhausts me. After a day in court or a day consulting with existing or potential clients, I need some alone time to recover.

That’s where all the pretty string comes into the picture. I didn’t have many friends when I was a little girl. Truthfully, I’ve never learned the skill of cultivating friendships. While my brother roamed the neighborhood playing with the other little boys, I sat in the house and got underfoot.

I think I was about 8 years old when my mother handed me a ball of yarn (hot pink!) and a crochet hook. She taught me to make a slip knot, and then she wrapped the yarn around my left pinky and through my fingers and then held my little hands in hers and guided me through the first stitches. Once I had the hang of “chaining,” she let go. She told me to keep going until I got to the end of the ball of scratchy pink acrylic yarn.

Periodically the yarn would tangle between my fingers, or I would let go to scratch my nose or go to the bathroom, and I would take my chain back to Mom and ask her to wrap the yarn around my fingers again. She did, and each time she would admire my ever-growing chain.

Honestly, I don’t remember how long it took me to finish that long, long chain, but I think it was long enough to allow her to get some housework done – or perhaps some time alone for a cup of tea.

As the summer progressed, we tore that ball of yarn apart time and time again. She taught me single crochet, then double crochet and half-double crochet. Before the summer was over, I had turned that same ball of hot pink fiber into a ruffled rhumba-style ball gown for my Barbie doll. She looked fabulous.

Like many other hobbies, crochet has come and gone and come again in my life. It was something that I had in common with Mom. Mom loved people too, but they wore her out, and so when I went for a visit, I would frequently take my latest work in progress along. She would work on her doily or her baby sweater, and I would work on my hat, scarf or shawl. When we were stitching, we could talk, or we could be silent – bonding over our mutual love of turning thread to treasures.

I recently purchased A Stash of One’s Own: Knitters on Loving, Loiving with, and Letting to of Yarn, by Clara Parkes. It is a book full of essays by other people who love yarn. It’s not a long book, and I am enjoying it so much that I’ve been “rationing” it – reading just one essay at a time, then surfing Ravelry for patterns designed by the writers.

This morning I read an essay by Franklin Habit and his relationship with needlework and his mother. His mother’s “stash” became an embodiment of her for him, and he spoke of the emotions that surfaced after her death when it came time to process her death – and her stash.

As a child, his mother’s “pretty string” was forbidden. Later in life, their mutual love of “pretty string” brought them together in new ways. It’s a beautiful essay, and well worth a read.

Late last year, in Mom’s final illness, she asked me to bring yarn and a hook to the nursing home where she lay all day. Her occupational therapist encouraged the idea, and I scoured my stash for yarn that was brightly colored and very soft. I grabbed an assortment of crochet hooks from my collection and delivered the package as proudly as a little girl clutching a handful of dandelions from the lawn on Mother’s Day.

Although Mom admired the yarn, it was clear that crocheting together was something we would not be able to do any more. I haven’t finished a crochet project since. The scarf I worked on at the nursing home sits unfinished in my bedroom. Instead, I did something that Mom never really tried. I learned to knit.

My love of pretty string leads to me knitting in public when I am waiting for an appointment or enjoying the sunshine in the park. The yarn attracts people. They want to watch. They want to touch. They want someone to teach them to use the pretty string.

My home is full of pretty balls of string. To be perfectly honest, wrapping yarn around a pair of knitting needles and watching it turn into solid fabric or lace feels like alchemy or magic. I can lose myself in knitting – and frequently do, surrounded by balls of pretty string, losing myself in memories, or making new ones.

Zen and the Art of Knitting

Posted by BecomingBetty

I took a class on world religions when I was in my 30s. I was raised in a evangelical fundamentalist Christian household and community, and the class was my first real exposure to ideas that were not based on the Bible. I was intrigued by both the similarities between religions and the differences.

While most of the religions focused on one or more deities who needed to be pleased or appeased, Buddhism stood apart. Although Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha, plays an important role in Buddhism, Siddhartha was an earthly prince. He was a human who lived and died.

One of the concepts of Buddhism that I found my mind returning to again and again is the concept of impermanence and non-attachment. I will readily admit that I’m not good at non-attachment.

Buddhist monks may spend days or weeks making intricate sand paintings called mandalas. When the design is completed, rather than affixing it to a board and framing it for all to admire, they pray over it and sweep it away. It is no more. The fact that “mandala art” is become part of rock painting and decorating is antithetical to the very concept of the mandala. Recently I encountered “mandala yarn” used to crochet elaborate wall hangings to be cherished for generations. I considered making one.

I began crocheting when I was a little girl. Mom handed me a crochet hook and a ball of yarn to keep me busy. I was soon crocheting elaborate doll clothes and simple shawls. Although there have been periods in my life when I didn’t crochet for months or even several years at a time, crocheting, and more recently knitting, have been a big part of my life for several years. Learning to knit, for me, has been more than a lesson in arts and crafts. It has been a lesson in embracing imperfection, a lesson in patience, and most recently in “letting go.”

For years, I’ve tried meditating to combat anxiety. I’ve used mantras and scriptures, apps and music to facilitate that state of near-trance when I enter a state of flow – where my mind stops chattering long enough for God to talk. For me, nothing has been more thought-clearing than the simple act of creating with yarn. There’s something almost magical about turning a single piece of string into a piece of fabric. Whether it’s a dish cloth or a fancy garment, the simple rhythm established by wooden needles passing one over the other creates a calm that I have yet to experience through any fancy application of technology. The creation of a garment or accessory is a bonus.

Yesterday I found myself part way through a knitting project. I have a tendency to buy yarn that appeals to me and then try to find the right project for it rather than choosing a project and then choosing the fiber. Sometimes I pick the wrong project. Yesterday I found myself looking at a piece of knitting that I started a couple of months ago and put aside because it just wasn’t working.. I’ve tried several times to love it and to finish it, but I couldn’t’ get to that place where my needles fly on their own without thinking. Every stitch was a struggle. It was one of those projects where the design was just wrong for the fiber.

I really wanted to love it, because I had at least 15 hours invested. The yarn was hand-dyed, purchased at a trunk show and cost a pretty penny, too. I looked at the work in progress, spent another hour or so knitting another couple of inches and finally accepted that I was never, ever going to love what I was making enough to finish it. I had a hard choice to make: I could stuff it into a bag and try to forget about the expense – both monetary and time that lived in that little bag…. or I could “frog it.”

I don’t know where the term “frogging” came from. Simply put, it means unraveling the fabric and recapturing the yarn or string. What had taken so many hours to create took only a few minutes to unmake.

I thought that I would feel a twinge of remorse at watching all of my work-time disappear, but I didn’t. At one point, I was left with a huge tangled mess when the stitches didn’t unwind evenly. I picked through the mass and pulled the knots apart one by one. After a long while, I was left with three balls of yarn that looked just like they did before I began the knitting with them in the first place.

I looked through my electronic gallery of patterns and one seemed to cry out, “make me with that beautiful yarn,” so I listened. My needles flew. I found the rhythm, and the world dropped away.

From time to time, I would look around the room from my knitting chair, and I spied possessions that no longer serve me. Some were broken or outdated. Others tied me to a place in the past. Like the “frogged” project, they no longer felt right. I took the broken things to the trash and the things that might be useful to someone else to the “donation” box. The ties to those objects unraveled much like the knitting. I encountered “knots” as I removed certain objects that had belonged to a beloved family member, but that I never loved for the sake of the object.

As humans, we long for continuity. We become attached to people, places and things. The concept of detaching from our possessions, relationships and even our ideas is painful. We hold onto things (ideas, belief, possession, and people) that harm us because we are afraid to trust our instincts – afraid to admit that what we are doing, keeping, and believing isn’t working.

No earthly thing is forever. so long as we live, we will be forced to say “goodbye” to people, places and things over and over. The more we are tangled up in the past, the harder it is to move into the future – to live the life where the design and the material work together.

Sometimes “frogging” means admitting that I hired someone that was wrong for the position I needed to fill. Sometimes it means realizing that I’m not the best person to handle a project because my skills just don’t match the needs of the client. Whatever you’re dumping bucket after bucket of your energy into, make sure that your going to have a result in the end that you can be proud of – or at the very least, one that won’t make you cringe every time you think of all of the time and expense that you put into it.

I wouldn’t be a very good Buddhist monk. Although I give away a lot of my finished projects, I admit that I become attached to some – those I keep. Others I donate. Some I give to people who I love. Others end up in the “frog pond” and are turned back into a ball of yarn waiting for just the right project to come along. There’s no shame in that.

It’s a Small, Small World.

Posted by BecomingBetty

My husband and I took our 17-year-old son to Walt Disney World at Christmas time this year. We toured Animal Kingdom and Disney’s Hollywood Studios together the first day. My husband decided to enjoy some relaxation while our son and I went to the Magic Kingdom and Epcot Center the second day. My son’s name is Matt. We rode several rides and watched several attractions together. I wanted to ride “It’s a Small World” – and he didn’t. We waited together through about half of the 45 minute queue, and when he made it abundantly clear that he would rather be eating lint, I allowed him to exit the wait when we came upon a gate that would allow him to escape.

I waited another 30 minutes alone, surrounded by people, and watched their interactions. The park was terribly crowded. It was still early in the day, so children weren’t having full on meltdowns yet, but it was lunchtime, and there were plenty of hungry little people. I started to feel a little sorry for myself, waiting all alone, and then I realized that I don’t need to make my son miserable to have a fabulous time.

I came to love that ride because my mother loved it. I came to love it more this year, riding alone, because it brought a plethora of beautiful colors and a whirlwind of motion into what had become a dark night of the soul- my journey of grief after Mom’s death in November.

I sat next to someone else’s child. He saw tears streaming down my face and said, “don’t cry.” I smiled and laughed through my tears and said back, “they’re happy tears.” I’m not sure that they were until that moment, but at the moment I made the claim of happiness, I was determined to be in love with that moment – and I was.

Winter in Ohio can be a hard time to create happiness – at least for me. The ground is covered with dirty snow or thick ice. The trees are barren. The birds are somewhere warm for the winter. It’s dark by the time I leave my windowless office to cook dinner, and the dining table looks out over the deck that is covered in dead leaves instead of containers overflowing with flowers in a hundred different hues.

My world got a lot smaller when Mom died. I lost the person I phoned when I needed to talk about what was bothering me. I lost my frequent destination for my Tuesday “day off.” My world got “small.” I wrote about losing her daily for a short while, until someone I don’t even know in “real life” said something that I decided made me feel like reading my words was a burden to other people. I stopped writing, and my world became still smaller.

I came to the realization a little over a week ago that my world had become too small – too dark. I set out to change it. A friend shared social media invitations to a class teaching African dance. I signed up, even though I knew that when I arrived, I wouldn’t know a single soul. I did something so far outside of my comfort zone – dancing – in public – in stretchy fabrics. I didn’t hide when, later in the evening, my friend showed up and started filming and sharing “live.” Just by being there, my world got a little bigger.

The following weekend, instead of sitting inside the house and doing the same old thing, I got my husband into the car and drove to the “Great Big Home and Garden Show.” We don’t have any home improvement projects on the agenda for this year, but I wanted to see the gardens. They didn’t disappoint. There were tulips and daffodils and hyacinths – a riot of color. There were trees in bud, and although I was in a giant building, I could almost feel myself outside beside a running brook in one of my favorite parks. Almost. I felt my world expand a little more.

When I moved to my present home nearly two decades ago, I never built a new network of close friends. While I don’t mean to minimize the importance of the male friends and mentors in my life, I’ve reached an age where I’m looking to build my connection with other women.

I don’t go out and “do” things with women. Now that I have become a “woman of a particular age,” – now that I am the involuntary matriarch – I see clearly how important that network of strong, wise women is to have. Only by reaching out and by sharing our joy and sorrow can we truly live a full life.

This is the “year of yes,” to quote Shonda Rimes. This is the year that I will grow my world by doing things that I don’t usually do – by saying yes to new experiences and learning new things. It is a small, small world – but it doesn’t have to be.

Ask Me Anything

Posted by BecomingBetty

I always thought I knew a lot about my mom’s life. She told scores of stories. I can tell you about the day that her old dog, Shep, died. I can tell you about the day my dad proposed to her – and that she didn’t answer him right away. I can tell you about the day that she received the phone call that there was a baby girl waiting to be adopted, and she could pick her (me) up that same day. I thought I knew a lot.

One day, my still-sharp 88-year-old mother’s brain changed. She couldn’t tell me the familiar stories anymore. During her final illness, on days she couldn’t quite place who iI was in her life, she asked me questions that led me to pose my own questions about what shaped her early life – questions that she could no longer answer.

I don’t know if my mother ever had a boyfriend before she married my dad at the age of 37. I don’t know what she dreamed of when she was a teenager. I don’t know a lot of things. Looking back, I don’t think that I know a single story about Mom’s life between ages 10 and 25 or so. There are still family members alive who might be able to tell me their own stories about her during those years, but nobody can tell “her” story.

As we cleaned out her apartment last weekend, I couldn’t help but wonder why she kept certain things. although I never saw her journaling, a part of me hoped that I would find a box of notebooks – diaries – hints at who my mom had been before she was my mom – and who she was when nobody was watching.

I wonder sometimes how much my children really know. Once in a while Matt, my youngest, appears shocked when he learns some bit of my history – some part of my life prior to the year 2000.

I wish that my mother had written her story. I do keep a journal most days, so my life from age 50+ is theirs for the reading if they should choose to to do some day. The years before, however, the years who made me who I am – flaws and all – are locked away in my head except for the little glimpses I tell in my stories.

Maybe some day I will tell my children to “ask me anything,” and record those answers in writing or on video. How I wish Mom had said to me, “ask me anything” in those months leading up to the end of her life. There are so many things I would love to know now – not that they would change a thing – but things that would help me to understand why things were the way they were.

There were things that were hinted at but never spoken. There were times when I asked Mom about first-hand memories that were vivid to me that, according to her, “never happened.”

I’m not certain that I have the courage to tell my children to “Ask me anything” and give them the answers while I am still living. Perhaps, though, the revelation of that information might help them to understand me and the experiences that made me who I am. Perhaps the joys and sorrows and traumas don’t matter to anyone else. Perhaps, though, my daughter, or my great-granddaughter some day far in the future would hear my memories and realize that I, too, questioned my worth at times, and that I spent 50 years or so worrying too much about what others thought.

Perhaps some day I will write my own story. Parts are interesting – other parts heartbreaking or downright boring. What might be boring to me might explain to my daughter why I am quirky about certain things. If she ever wishes she had asked me a certain question, perhaps she could find the answer.

So, kids, when I am gone, look for the name of the document and the password hint. In the meantime, ask me anything, and I’ll do my best to answer now – or in the future.

This one’s for you

Posted by BecomingBetty

There was a time not so many years ago when I would write for the joy of writing. I would write stories and poems. I wrote term papers and articles. I enjoyed writing. I enjoyed sharing my writing. One day it came back to me through the grapevine that someone felt that my writing was “passive aggressive.” They felt that it was directed at I them. Maybe it was. I can’t tell you what was in my head at the time.

Writing was an outlet for my feelings. Feelings are not always right or wrong. Brooke Castillo (check out her podcast) says that the thoughts that we have about a circumstance cause our feelings. If that is correct, then we can change our feelings by changing our thoughts. That’s a lot harder than it sounds.

I get anxiety. I won’t say that I suffer from it (although I sometimes do), but the fact is that I experience anxiety is truth. I am feeling anxiety right now. I am anxious that this blog post isn’t eloquent or polished. I get anxious that people will think there’s something inferior about me because I admit that I have anxiety.

Anxiety has a physical quality. My tummy feels a little funny and it feels like someone is squeezing my voice box. Sometimes it feels like my heart is beating in my throat. Sometimes anxiety has an identifiable source. Other times, it’s just there.

My anxiety has a host of symptoms that accompany it. Sometimes I worry. I play a scenario out in my head and invent a dozen potential outcomes – some of them catastrophic. It’s rather like the movie “Groundhog Day.” Sometimes there aren’t conscious thoughts – just a feeling of impending doom.

I used to love to add to this blog. I allowed anxiety to take it away from me. I worried about what other people might think of me as a person or as a professional. I stopped writing.

Like other things in life, anxiety ebbs and flows. When anxiety reaches its high tide mark, I stop creating. It takes too much energy. There is nothing left for music or writing. I can get through the things that I have to do, but there isn’t energy left to create.

When my anxiety is high, I hope for an invitation to spend time with someone then make myself sick being anxious about it. If I can push through the anxiety, I nearly always have a great time. It’s getting there that is the problem.

I know some remarkable people who have anxiety. Over time, we learn ways of coping with it, or even harnessing it. I’m no expert on treating anxiety- or even coping with anxiety, but I have survived anxiety for at least 35 years, which qualifies me to say it can be done.

I’m constantly seeking and evaluating new approaches to dealing with anxiety. Some work better than others. My anxiety toolbox includes exercise, meditation and essential oils. Sometimes it has included medication and therapy.

May is mental health awareness month. Perhaps this post would have been more appropriate last month, but the truth is that admitting you have anxiety causes…(you guessed it…) more anxiety!

My hope is that there is someone out there who reads this who will say, “I am not alone.” I’m putting this blog out in the world unedited, flaws and all, to prove to myself that it’s okay to do C+ work once in a while. If you think this is for you, it probably is. Tell me what you think. We can talk about it. It would make me anxious…but I think I’d like it.

What’s in a Name?

Posted by BecomingBetty

If you’ve followed my little blog for any time, you’ve read before that I am an adopted person. I was born in June of 1967. I didn’t go home from the hospital with my family or origin, but my birth mother didn’t sign papers to give me up until September, so I entered a kind of legal limbo as ward of the State.

When the legal documents allowing it were finally signed, I went home with a family where I was given a name, kind of like when you take home a puppy, I suppose.

I arrived with a handwritten note about things I liked and disliked, but nothing about a name. Nothing about the names of the people who gave me up or the people who cared for me for those first months. I was devoid of history – and identity.

I’ve given birth to three children. Each time one of them has reached that e-month mark, I’ve marveled at their budding personalities. They’ve known me. They’ve trusted me. They’ve listened to me coo their names thousands of times. They have known who they are.

My mom and dad gave me a name. They named me after my mom’s sister. We shared both first and middle names. She was called by our first name, and to distinguish us I was called by first and middle names.

As an older adolescent, I asked people to drop the middle name. It sounded too “country.” I imagined myself more sophisticated than that name – think “Petticoat Junction,” if you’re old enough to remember that kind of thing.

My Aunt and I had a special relationship growing up. She had no children of her own, and so having a child named after her was an honor that she seemed to really enjoy.

As I’ve aged, I’ve used that middle name more often. I long to be more “country.” You can take the girl out of the country and all that jazz.

My birth mother and I found each other on the internet around 20 years ago. I asked her for my birth name, but she didn’t think I had been given one. I didn’t think much about it at the time. That chapter of searching for answers brought more unanswered questions, and I eventually found it too painful to continue. I sent her a birthday gift this year but she never acknowledged it. It was kind of sappy. I bought two teacups in a second hand store. I sent her one set and kept the other so that we could sip a cup of tea together, but apart.

I turned 49 a few weeks ago. I’ve lived nearly half a century with the name I was given at the age of 3 months and until today, it never bothered me that I didn’t know my “first” name.

Ohio passed legislation a couple of years ago that allows me to request a copy of my adoption file with my original birth certificate. I downloaded the form this morning. It will only cost $20.00 to see if I ever had a name. I filled out the form, but it requires notarization and I haven’t decided if I ‘m motivated enough to go to the trouble.

I have a feeling that when the documents come, I’ll discover that I’m the original “Baby Girl,” (eat your hearts out Criminal Minds fans). I’ll still be me. The diplomas on my wall and my driver license will still match the identity that I have formed. It would be nice, though, when that inner child cries out to know what name to coo to her to bring comfort.

My cousin told me today that I wear my aunt’s name well, and that made me very happy. She was a special person, and sharing her name is an honor. This longing isn’t about her death, I don’t think, although that event brought it to the surface. It was a catalyst, not a cause.

I don’t know a lot about many things, but I know a little about a lot of things. I just write what I know.

~Be~

How Do You Love Me? (Sorry, Elizabeth)

Posted by BecomingBetty

(With all apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

How Do I Love Thee? (Sonnet 43)

Elizabeth Barrett Browning, 1806 – 1861

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of being and ideal grace.
I love thee to the level of every day’s
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for right.
I love thee purely, as they turn from praise.
I love thee with the passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood’s faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints. I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life; and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.

I had this conversation with a good friend the other day. We both have spouses whose “love languages” differ from our own. It’s so very easy to get caught up in mentally listing all of the ways that we show love to our significant others. On a regular basis, I show love by saying it (words of affirmation), and by reaching out to rub a back or hold a hand (loving touch). I cook dinner on a regular basis (acts of service), and I buy little remembrances (gifts). Over time, my primary love language has shifted from “gifts” to “words” or “touch.” (if you have no idea what I’m talking about, pick up a copy of Dr. Gary Chapman’s wonderful book, “The Five Love Languages.” In a nutshell, we each have ways that we tend to express love. We feel most loved when we receive love in our own “language.”

When a couple speaks different “love languages,” it’s easy for one or the other to feel taken for granted. That’s where I think we get into trouble sometimes. Instead of recognizing the things our partner does for us, we keep a list of the things that we do that “go unappreciated.” Or worse, we keep a mental list of what we’ve done for others expecting them to reciprocate in kind, and we miss it when they express love in their own way.

My husband is an “acts of service” guy through and through. He does the laundry and cleans up the kitchen. He mows the lawn, builds things, paints rooms, and makes coffee. There is literally nothing that I have ever asked him to do for me that he has flatly refused to do for me. He does these things because they need to be done, but HE does them because he loves me and because they free up my time to do other things (like help run the family business, or write in my blogs).

My husband is not big on gifts, which caused a big problem early in our marriage. I felt unloved when I didn’t get my birthday, anniversary or valentine’s gift – especially because I invariably would buy one for him. what was even worse was that instead of getting excited about the gift, he acted like he could have not cared less (which truth be told, was often true!) It wasn’t until I read The Five Love Languages that I realized why he didn’t “care enough” to buy me gifts and why it hurt me so when he didn’t. We learned to adapt. I either buy my own gift or give him a list to choose from.

How does he love me? This weekend he hung an antique mirror for me. He installed shelving in the pantry. He helped me clean the house on Friday evening. On Saturday, he went for groceries with me. On Sunday, he worked very hard putting things away for winter and cleaning while I had fun doing some recreational shopping. He also told me that he loves me. He wrapped his arms around me while I slept. He made the coffee. The list goes on and on.

Here in Ohioland it was Sweetest Day on Saturday (for those of you in other parts of the country, that’s like a bonus Valentine’s Day- it’s a flowers and candy and fancy dinner kind of holiday). We talked about the fact that Saturday was Sweetest Day on Wednesday or Thursday. The conversation went something like this:

Me: Saturday is Sweetest Day – I know you think it’s a Hallmark holiday, right?

Him: Yes. I do. I will buy you something if you want me to.

Me: That’s okay – I’ll find something for myself. Is that okay?

Him: That’s perfect.

My sweetest day gift consisted of chocolate and a wonderful bar of sweet smelling french-milled soap – my favorite indulgences.

Once in a while, he surprises me and picks out a gift for me, and when he does, he knocks one out of the park. The gifts are perfect every time. In the meantime, I will count the ways he shows me he loves me, and forget about keeping score.