Bringing Me Back

I haven't wanted to blog for so long.

Generally, when I'm not writing, it's because I'm feeling slightly insecure. There have been times in the past year and half that I've felt wildly confident, but as a whole, I've spent a lot of time questioning my skills, intelligence, and, most notably, my voice. Tonight, though, something happened that brought me back.

For the past week, I've been contemplating returning to school to get my degree in Nursing. I looked at programs last Sunday, talked to two of my best friends, who are nurses, shortly after, and made a decision by Tuesday. Surprisingly, since Tuesday, I haven't questioned my decision even though its meant scanning transcripts, applying to Community College-barely meeting the deadline, and crunching numbers.

Oh, did I mention, I also started working this week too?

Tonight, something happened that reminded me of what it feels like to satisfy the Universe, to be doing something in pursuit of my personal legend.

After submitting my application for Spokane Community College (unfortunately, my Bio class from 2007 doesn't count as the Bio 110 prerequisite-I'm so old), I excitedly texted my mom and told her. Without thought, I ended my text with, "Luckily, I still have the money Grandma Verna left me to pay for classes."

In the 45 seconds it took my mom to respond, I thought to myself, "I haven't felt this at peace about something in a long time."

My mom responded with, "She would be so thrilled...she is smiling down from above."

I couldn't keep it together.

My Grandma Verna died in March. She was 93 and ready to go, but that didn't make her passing any easier. Earlier this summer, Michael and I went to the park to read. Before we left, I asked him to pack my notecards and a pen so I could write letters. When we got to the park, though, I remembered the one person who appreciated my letters most wasn't here to receive one. There was never a time I didn't want to write a letter to my Grandma-not when I didn't want to write homework, post on a blog, never. My Grandma and I shared a special connection and when I got the text from my mom saying, "she would be thrilled," I remembered something else about my Grandma.

She was a nurse.

After a three week trip to Europe, two months as an unemployed adventurer, and a move spanning half of the country, my savings account is much smaller than it was at the beginning of the summer, though. What it still has, though, is all of the money my Grandma left me when she died. Its enough for me to take all of the prerequisites I need to go to Nursing school when Michael and I move to Seattle-its enough for me to pursue the same path she pursued.

It could be a coincidence, but I choose to believe that its my Grandma helping me to satisfy the Universe, leading me to my personal legend.

It Should Be Day 365

A year ago today (er, tonight), I started what later earned the name "the love blog."

I remember exactly how I felt a year ago-overwhelmed with gratitude.

Gratitude for my students who embodied resilience and benevolence and who taught me how to be patient, kind, loving, peaceful, enraged by injustice, outraged by disenfranchisement.

Gratitude for my family who let me fly, mended me when I fell, and acted as the wind beneath my wings each time I planned to soar.

Gratitude for my friends who let me be me-silly and strange, unmatched, grotesque (at times), passionate.

Gratitude for strangers who bought me lunch on airplanes, shared their story with me while they made my coffee, offered almost unnoticeable gestures of kindness that lifted my spirit and restored my faith in humanity.

A year later, I feel remarkably similar although this feeling hasn't been present each day (evident in the chunk of missing days).

In a year, I've experienced the deepest sadness, I've seen my family quake through tragedy, my friends grapple with uncertainties, my students face extremely unjust hurdles.

I've also seen two of my dearest friends marry wonderful men, my nephews grow into amazingly intelligent toddlers who never cease to pull at my heartstrings, my parents grow closer to each other-something I didn't think possible given the strength of their relationship.

In a year, I've learned that love doesn't feel the same every day-love doesn't wear the face-love, though, is constant. Sometimes, like right now, it's overwhelmingly evident. Other times, it begs to be searched for-hides behind the sadness or the anger, It asks for us to uncover areas of ourselves in order to build a stronger bond with it.

Love is always here.

365 Days of Love. Day 166

This is frightening-writing.

After abandoning my blog in September, I've felt an overwhelming sense of guilt. I don't at all think people depend on my blog to remind them of the innate positivity present in our lives. I, however, am reminded by said positivity through my interactions with people and I've always considered my blog as an outlet to say, "Thank you, Universe. Thank you for the people and experiences you've afforded me because I believe these experiences envelope the beauty of life."

I'm not sure why I stopped writing. At one point, I remember thinking, "It's been too long-I can't recover-a year reflecting on love ended 165 days in." From that low point, an incessant internal debate played out in my head-should I pick up where I left off? Leave it all together? Attempt to shoot for 365 days even though it will certainly surpass an actual calendar year?

One day, about a week ago, while walking to a friend's house I thought, "Things don't always go as planned and the joy of being human, the ability to internalize error and setbacks would be wasted if I didn't continue my blog. I nearly quit-like it's so stinking easy to do.

We're not created to quit, though.

In the past three months, I've wished myself away from Wanblee, thought I was in love, learned I wasn't in love, cultivated meaningful relationships with my students, developed deep friendships with my co-workers, started lifting weights, convinced my friends to start running, celebrated my nephew's second birthday, listened to friends, vented to friends, spent time with family, fell in love with the place I am, the experience I'm having, and the promise of this moment.

Despite the South Dakota weather-like changes in my life, one thing remains resonant; I am in control of my joy, I am in control of the amount of joy I seek from others and the amount I allow to seep from me. Whereas I cannot control all of my experiences, I can absolutely control my reactions to them. The strongest sentiment singing from my heartstrings is this:

Love is a choice, experiencing and giving it is a choice. The choice is easiest and most clearly made when we first love ourselves and the decisions we're making in our lives.

Loving is knowing we're here limitedly, knowing we have each moment only once, knowing that we can choose it- we can absolutely choose to

love.

The strife, the joy, the wrong turns, the detours, the people we collide with, the people we mesh with

We can love it all because it's all we possess and it's all we'll ever

receive.

365 Days of Love. Day 165

On Monday, when I turned off the I-90 and headed south towards Wanblee, I grew increasingly… despondent. It’s as if every mile South meant another mile of…sadness within my soul. To be clear, I care a lot about the students I work with, I love the people I work with, but there’s an incomprehensible soberness present within me when I return to the Reservation. I’m not writing to trying to define it or reap pity for it, but rather, to share a revelation recently revealed to me about sadness.

Yesterday, I attempted to uncover a new running path and encountered disappointment 15 steps in when I realized the “path” wasn’t really a path at all. Annoyed, I turned around and took to the highway.

Normally, I run to the housing development 2 and half miles away. The 5 mile round trip run bores me and each fearful step brings the pesky promise of dogs who, by their barking and chasing, clearly consider me a threat.

Yesterday, I ran the other way on the highway. I ran towards the store, the nearest town (still 30 miles away), the Interstate. No dogs chased me and each step, it felt, took me closer to places I wished to go.

While I ran, I considered my current lot, I reflected on each strange feeling present and past induced by this experience, I thought about the things I could do to change my situation. The entire run, I thought, reflected, considered….

After 45 minutes, I turned into school housing and in the near distance, I saw the setting sun. Pinks, purples, and blues lit the dimming sky and then I remembered

this is an experience.

Everything is an experience.

And, experiences are privy to me as a human. Experiences should be felt and not wished away, even if they are unpleasant.

Pain, sadness, anxiety are experiences just as joy is an experience.

I trust that I can learn to love greater by experiencing, truly experiencing, every moment of every day. 

365 Days Of Love. Day 164

Over the summer, I spent a fair amount of time working on a grant for John, the owner of a therapeutic fishing pond (I've wrote about him before). On Friday, I received an e-mail detailing the disbursement of the grant.

Good news, right? Ehhhhh.

When we applied for the grant, we asked for $10,000 for the purchase of an ATV. John, after a near fatal car accident, sustained brain injuries that prevent him for being able to drive a normal vehicle. Doctors have, however, afforded him permission to drive an ATV. The e-mail I received on Friday said that although our grant was accepted, the Foundation, would grant The Pond $2000. Not really sure how John would handle the news (and feeling pretty disappointed myself), I waited until this morning to call him.

I started the phone call with, "I have good news and bad news..." and when I finished, he said,

"Well, that's good news."

He was profoundly positive and immediately self-suggested that he call the Foundation to thank them.

I don't I am a naturally negative person, but I do find myself disappointed easily (mostly in myself). I set really high expectations for myself and when I fall short, I propel into extreme self-criticism. I wanted to to that this morning and then John reminded me of something.

Everything is a gift and "falling short" simply means we get to explore more outlets, try new ways, of reaching our goals.

I'm really lucky to know the people I do. I feel as if I'm constantly given reminders to be positive, to look at things from a promising perspective. John (again) taught me that loving is broadening our perspective, exploring our (many many many) options.

365 Days Of Love. Day 163

It's really hard for me to say thank you when people compliment me. Whereas I've done a few things to improve myself, I credit the being I am to the beings that offered me influence, regardless of the subject.
Even little things, like the lipstick I wear, roots itself in the influence of another (in this case, my super stylish former roommate, Jade).

When I reflect on this, I'm reminded of the connectedness of humanity and the importance of truly immersing myself in culture (all facets of culture) and, in turn, opening myself to the influence of others.

Certainly, aspects of myself resemble the unchanging roots of a trees. I do not wish to be so influenced that I lose sight of the being I inherently am nor do I encourage that for anyone. I believe connectedness only comes when  independent individuals commit to genuinely sharing their lives with one another.

In connectedness, learning lies. Learning about ourselves and our communities, learning about others and the innate driving forces behind their decisions, simply learning how to live.

 We learn that differences fuel uniqueness and uniqueness is valuable. We learn that people are products of their stories and some stories are terribly tragic. We learn that love truly knows no boundaries and, that in power of one another, lies our Universal strength.

A strength that, I believe, needs tapping into, a strength catalytic of change and equity...and greater love.

365 Days Of Love. Day 162

Yesterday, at my librarian conference in Huron, I participated in a session about finding your calling. One woman, started crying as she iterated to us that she felt as if she wasn’t brave enough to reach her calling. Empathetically, my heart stung too. I can’t imagine being in my sixties and feeling inept to reach towards any sort of calling. As soon as she said, “I’m not brave enough,” I felt immediately grateful for all the people who have ever called me brave.

Then, I wondered, why? Why do people think I am brave or why have I felt able to do things that others might have felt fearful of? It hit me this morning, during a conference session in which speakers chatted about new books for young readers.

I garner bravery from writing. I always have.

For as long as I can remember, when I was anxious or scared, I wrote. When I would scream at my mom in the middle of the night because “I COULDN’T SLEEP”, she handed me a pen and paper and commanded I “write” (a wonderful alternative to me crawling in bed with my dad and her).

A little later, when friends and I fought and fear inhibited me from approaching them, I’d write page long notes apologizing and asking for forgiveness. Pen and paper gave acted as catalysts for strength.

When a teacher sexually harassed me, I didn’t come to terms with the incident until I wrote about it years later in an assignment for creative writing class in college. Until I wrote about it, I was captive to the ideas and thoughts induced by my insecure self and the misuse of power from a person I trusted.

Even now, when I’m scared or unsure, I write. Writing generates answers, writing gives me hope…

Writing makes me brave.