Growing up I escaped to Rita McCullough’s house a number of times.

The McCulloughs lived three doors down on Birch Drive, and our families went toe-to-toe with the number of kids.

Four a piece.

We all ranged in age, but through the years remained close in different ways, and while it was always good to have friends to hang with, my favorite part of those trips to the McCulloughs were the talks with their mom, Rita.

Around Rita’s kitchen table, each with our cups of comfort (hers usually brimming with coffee, mine either milk or juice), it felt safe.

I could tell her how I felt, or share something I was hiding, or cry.  Or laugh.  Or cry some more.

Whatever I brought to Rita’s table, she was loving and open enough to let me leave it there.

In addition to being an incredible mom and devoted wife, sister, daughter, and aunt, Rita also worked as a nurse – and perhaps most importantly, Rita is a woman of deep faith.

Maybe, that’s why I always found her home to be a place of great healing.

Lately, I’ve been wondering how to reconnect with comfort amdist the chaos, and Rita’s table and her many cups of comfort continue to come to mind.

I have dozens (maybe hundreds) of memories of Rita and I talking while she was sipping from a mug…around her table, in her Ford Taurus, at the softball field…but I don’t have a single memory of her ever using a travel mug.

I can’t ever remember her packing up the cup of comfort to go and drinking it…whenever…instead, it always felt like if the coffee was going to be poured, and the conversation was going to be had, than that simply was what was going to happen.

Simple, beautiful, present intention.

That’s what I’m holding on to this morning -as I pour another cup of comfort, and give thanks to the people and practices that help me come back to the here and now with peace and ease.

I’ve just spent the last two early hours of this morning not sleeping.

Stirring on the couch – with every should passing through.

I should do some yoga.  I should write.  I should send some Reiki.  I should stop clenching my toes.  Why am I clenching my butt?  Maybe I should sit.  I don’t want to get up.  Breathe.  I should want to get up.

But I stay down.

This is the hard part of practicing gratitude.  Being aware of the down, loving myself there, too, and then (and maybe only then) rising back up.

I struggle with patience.  The slow rise may give me some.  And maybe being grateful for that gain is enough.

Yesterday, I snagged Briggs 30-minutes early from school to go to Boston for a photo shoot.

I work for Life is Good and they invited our kids to be a part of a new product launch.

Briggs is a lot like me, so he loves playing to the camera.

As part of the shoot, he got to answer a few questions about what makes life good.

The first questions was:  If someone you love is sad, how do you cheer them up?

Briggs answered: Play a game with them.

The second question was: What’s the most fun you’ve ever had in your entire life?

He said (without even having to think about it): Playing baseball with my Dad.

I melted.  My insides all went soft and I could feel every touch of my breath again.

Briggs and Ken play baseball every day.  Inside, outside, sometimes even without a bat and ball.  Just a pretend game that seemingly never ends.

So, I was left to infer that my five year-old has the most fun of his life, every day of his life.

His fun is his own – but the conditions in which his fun plays out are created by his parents.

It’s totally his game, but thank God, these few, precious, early innings are played at home, on the field of dreams we loved into reality for him.

One day last week, our favorite Kindergartener came home full of pride for earning his very first “Bee-Ticket.”

Briggs’s school mascot is a bumble bee.  And, when students are “sighted” displaying good “bee-havior”, they’re awarded a Bee-Ticket.

“How’d you get one?” I asked.

“For saying good morning.”

His Dad and I both smiled – not really understanding – but trying to follow.

“I guess saying good morning is pretty good bee-havior,” Ken said.

“I got it for saying good morning to everyone, Dad.  One of the teachers heard me say it to every teacher.  All the kids.  Not just the Kindergarteners.  Being nice to everybody.”

Now, Ken and I were beaming.

“That is super good bee-havior, partner.”

“We’re so proud of you,” I said (in between many kisses and squeezes).

Less than an hour later though, the glowing bee-havior was swapped out for some nasty stings.

Briggs requested a dinner he barely ate.  There were at least three loads of laundry to do.  No one really felt like unloading and then reloading the dishwasher.  And when it came time to brush teeth, Briggs resisted with the same fervor as one might expect from a carrier of a deadly peanut allergy being forced to tour Planters.

The night didn’t end well.

Though, before we completely let it go, Ken came to bed with a rather enlightened suggestion.

“Maybe we should start giving away G-Tickets for being good at home.”

He was joking – but I wasn’t.

“We could call it G-Havior.  When Goodwins are sighted being good to ourselves, to each other, and out in the world.  Get in some exercise, G-Ticket.  Eat a healthy lunch, G-Ticket.  Share your feelings, read a book, do some laundry, take a nap, play with your friends, G-Ticket.”

“We’re all doing this, aren’t we?” Ken asked.

Though, there was really no need to reply.

PS – Our official G-Havior board was just made this afternoon, Briggs has racked up two G-Tickets so far: 1) For being an awesome guest at his friend Bobby’s birthday on Friday night (and at Auntie Heid’s on Saturday night) and 2) For finishing a great lunch.  Dad earned his first G-Ticket for being good to the world by contributing to our school’s golf tournament this afternoon, and I earned mine for envisioning the board and then actually making it. 

A few days ago, I was talking about this blog with a very kind and smart friend.

“Lately, I’ve been wondering why I do it.  I don’t know that there’s a point.”

“It’s a discipline,” he said.  “That’s more than enough.”

When he called it a discipline, I gave myself permission to accept (even if just for the moment) the gift of accomplishment.

I see myself in many ways – still want to see myself in many ways.  Disciplined and strategic though, rarely reflect back.

Mostly, I don’t know what I’m doing.  Mostly, I don’t have a plan.  Mostly, I am just trying to figure out how I feel, and then using those feelings to take the next highest healing step.

I trip up (and down) a lot.

But this morning, I realized that this month marks my one year return to writing.  A full year of honoring this sacred and scary practice of gratitude, creativity, and discovery.

I know there is more – so much more – but perhaps (even if just for this morning) I will believe that I am disciplined enough to do it.

It’s been harder to write.  To Move.  I feel like hiding…in sleep.

It’s harder to be present.  To hear the birdsong and feel my breath.

And when my husband called on my way into work yesterday, to tell me how good I am and how loved I am – I cried.  Because being seen – all the way through – hurts a little.

I have always preferred to prove that I am deserving of such devotion.  To win.  Earn.  Fight, if need be.  So, I recognize being loved with such abandon – even when all my marks feel missed, lost, or (worse) silly to strive for – as a miracle.

A miracle that I can feel and honor in my relationships with others, but one that I am still working on with Self.

Fortunately, She is patient and full of forgiveness.

A few days after my son came home after spending his first two months living in the Newborn Intensive Care Unit at one of Boston’s top hospitals, I started profusely apologizing to my mother in-law.

She and I were standing in my kitchen, watching Briggs sleep in his bassinet across the way in the living room, and without warning I just started (and kept on) crying.

“He’s so small,” I sobbed. “And I’m so sorry.  I’m so, so, sorry.”

Without hesitation my mother in-law pulled me close, stroked my hair, and steadily and lovingly reminded me over and over, “He’s perfect.  He’s perfect.  He’s absolutely perfect.”

I kept trying to interrupt her.  To keep saying sorry.  For her son meeting me.  Loving me. Marrying and making a family with me.

I felt responsible and defective.  Like I had somehow purposely caused Briggs’s premature birth, and robbed us (all of us) of that blissful beginning.

And I wanted everyone, especially Ken’s family, to know that I understood if they were upset with me.

But, no one was.  Not even for a moment.  No one was offering pain or judgement.

All anyone wanted to do was love.

Love Briggs.  Love Ken.  Love me.  Love us.

Love actually was all around – and my initial response was to try and make it okay if they didn’t really want to include me in it.

But they did.  They completely did.  They still do.

When I have a hard time hearing my best self.  My most loving, supportive, and imaginative self, I tend to go back to that day in my kitchen.  I see my perfect dozing preemie, and my rooted, strong mother in-law willingly and miraculously holding me together.

And I remember what it is to be held.  What a gift it is to hold space.  And that it’s okay, to start healing your heart through someone else’s.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxD1kV9lt74

Truth is, I didn’t want to go to work today.

I worked very hard all week.  And late nearly every night.

Hell, on Thursday, I missed the very first open-house of my son’s school’s career because of work.

And so, even though my work today would give me the opportunity to be outside, on a mountain, on a beautiful day talking to very kind people, I didn’t want to go.

Because, I didn’t want to wake up early.  I didn’t want to leave my family.  And, I didn’t want to admit that I was thinking:

I’m too old of this.  Shouldn’t I be done with this part?  How am I still, at this stage in the game, setting up tents?  Handing out coloring books? Being the intern?

Despite the “didn’t wants”  and dirty thoughts, I still found my way to that mountain.  Setting up tents.  Handing out coloring books.  And giving kids and families the chance to finish the simple sentence, “Life is Good because…”

So many kids wrote: “Mom” and “Dad” and various takes on “because I’m awesome.”

One little girl came back three times to write: “School”

And another, much older and wiser woman scrawled: “because I can see the light, even when it’s dark.”

And while I still missed my family, and I still was happy to come home, I realized that (thankfully) I will never be over, above, or passed the point of wanting to do the work of starting the conversation of love, gratitude, and connection.

On the day of my father’s second wedding, I lost my tights.

My father’s bride-to-be had bought my younger sister, Lindsey and I similar dresses and matching tights.

Lindsey was born with a love of order, and I came into this place way more messy.  So, at 14  and 12 it was really no surprise that Lindsey had her dress, tights, shoes and hair accessories all neatly laid out, and my ensemble was strewn between three different rooms.

And when it came time to get ready – while Lindsey was still in the shower – I stole her tights.

I made up some story about how she must’ve put her tights somewhere else during the planning process, because these tights – my tights – I found these under the bed. And hers would never end up under the bed.

A fight ensued, my grandmother ended up going to the store to purchase another pair, and everyone knew that I lied.  Including me.  But I never admitted it, in fact, I actually became so enraged that I threaten to punch Lindsey if she brought up MY tights one more friggin’ time.

21 years later, I know that both Lindsey and I have forgiven me – but I know that I at least haven’t forgotten.

Even now it brings up some stomach churning shame – less because of what I did, and more because of how hard I held on to it.

And for what?  A pair of tights?  Looking together?

As I’ve grown, I’ve gotten better at admitting and accepting my mess – at not pulling others so far down into with me – but it’s a practice – and perfection doesn’t exist.  So,  thankfully, I can still get better.

And for the most part, I’ve given up on tights.

Seven years ago yesterday, my wedding dress didn’t fit.

The ceremony was scheduled for 10 o’clock in the morning, and when I tried to zip into my classic, simple sleeveless gown around 9, it fell right off.

I’d had my period the day of my final fitting and lost another two pounds in between then and the big day.

My in-laws also got lost.

Ken and I got married in my small hometown of Rindge, New Hampshire and my soon-to-be mother and father in-law were following a GPS (programmed with the wrong address) from their hotel (two towns over) to the ceremony and reception site.

My mother in-law barely had enough time to get her hair done.

But, my aunt sewed me into my dress on site, and my sister in-law had her Mom’s hair done-and-done in no time.

None of this mattered.

Even half-naked in the women’s room, 20-minutes before I was to meet Ken in the middle of the aisle, pinching the insides of my dress to make it work, I KNEW I was where I was intended to be.

Everything felt good.  On path and on purpose.  My body, my mind, and my soul were all in union, and the peace, and love and joy flowed with ease and abundance – regardless.

I didn’t know what would happen.

I didn’t know that we’d both come down with H1N1 two days latter and spend our honeymoon being still on the beach – or hunched over separate toilets.  I didn’t know we’d lose our first pregnancy, or that our son would spend the first 61 days of his life in intensive care.  I didn’t know how hard those conversations would be years later, on our couch, trying to figure out why the hell we felt so separate and exhausted.

I just knew that I was where I was intended to be.  And that knowing was enough to safely walk into the murky unknown.

Somehow, in my marriage and in our family of three, what I’ve never known has never been worth more than what I do know.

And remembering that brings me back to the knowing.

I DO know what I want.  Which way to go.  Where I want to be.  I just need to keep finding the courage to listen.  Really listen.  And let love lead.