I’ve been exchanging letters with a former high school classmate for a few months.

She and I constantly wrote to one another in our early to mid-teens, and then for a variety of reasons we didn’t correspond for nearly fifteen years.

Sometimes we write back very quickly – sometimes we don’t.  It’s never clearly been outlined, but somehow I’m certain we both know that the letters are sent free of judgement or expectation.  Sacred space where we both get to revisit who we were and safely question who we are.

I don’t know exactly why, but I’ve been carrying around her last letter for some time – waiting for exactly the right conditions in which to read it.  And late this afternoon, after I worked through a day that was intended for rest, after not waking up early enough to practice my yoga, after feeling dizzy from talking myself into circles at therapy…the moment finally presented itself.

With Briggs snuggled next to me on the couch, the rain pouring down, and my racing mind trying to time dinner, solve a work puzzle, and watch Wild Kratts  simultaneously, I remembered her letter.

I gave Briggs a kiss, got up, and unfolded the beautifully hand written sheets with delight.  Eight minutes later I was restored.

My friend’s stories are compelling and authentic.  I can actually see her courage on the page – and they remind me why she and I (and all of us) must continue to create.

We all have stories to tell and things to share and keeping our treasures (the shiny and the putrid) locked up, serves no one.

Especially ourselves.

We went to the farm yesterday.

Briggs jumped in the hay.  Ken made butter.  I decoupaged a very fresh egg.

We were there with “my side” of the family to celebrate Easter a day early.  Everything about the day was lovely.  The animals, the activities, the company, the sprawling lunch buffet, the view of Mt. Monadnock…the way the milk that came from the cow in the barn directly across from the dining room turned my decaf coffee into the most luscious cup of comfort.

And as I pleasantly sank into my fourth cup of the day, my gaze floated over to meet Henry David Thoreau.  His words lovingly held in a dated, but clean and fitting frame:

Still grows the vivacious lilac, a generation after the door and the lintel and the sill are gone, unfolding its sweet-scented-flowers each spring…

And just as everything about the day had been lovely, everything about this phrase made me feel better.

There was a time when the door, and the lintel, and the sill were important.  There was a time when the home demanded focus, attention, and sacrifice.  There was a time when keeping the home together felt exactly like keeping the earth in orbit.  There was a time when the home was loved and it loved back – and then, there was a time when it wasn’t, and it didn’t.

But good times and hard times remained no match for Springtime, for each Spring the vivacious lilacs still bloomed.

Which, I took as Thoreau’s way of reminding me to relax.  Because while hard work is honest and rewarding and healthy, the pursuit of perfection is wasteful.

Because regardless, the lilacs will still bloom.  And they smell heavenly.

When Kenny and I started dating twelve years ago (next month), he picked up pretty early on that I had a thing for the window paintings by Henri Matisse.

So, he brought me a print.  And I loved it.  But for one reason or another it lived in between two flat pieces of cardboard in a manila envelope for more than a decade.

I kept waiting for the right frame, or wall, or I don’t know.  While the print is beautiful, it’s neither rare nor expensive, but a part of me seemed to believe that it was in actuality, too good for me.  Like I was fooling myself having (and even thinking) about displaying a piece of real art in my home.

I recently met up with my Matisse again, but this time instead of slipping her back inside of that dreaded envelope, I found a frame.  I hung it up on the wall directly across from our bed, laid down, and smiled.

My whole life I’ve wanted to look out from my bed and see the water.  Now I do.  Every. Single.  Day.

A little miracle twelve years in the making.

My sister, Lindsey once sent me a link to a public radio story about three things you should never talk about.  One of the three was dreams.

But, sometimes even public radio gets it wrong.

Last night I had two dreams.

The first took place at a work function.  Maybe a fundraiser, maybe a concert, I can’t say exactly.  All I remember is that it was an event for work and I was expected to be at my best and instead I was shitfaced.

Legless and shitfaced.

I was both in and outside of myself – though both places felt pretty awful.  Inside I was dizzy, spinning with all of this self-loathing witty banter that just wouldn’t come out right.  And outside I was raging with disappointment and judgement.

The outside me was holding my hair back as I hurled again and again – in between puking cries of “I’m sorry” and “I’m a fucking idiot.”

Then colleagues started siphoning in – none of them outwardly condemning, but instead conveying genuine concern or helping me devise moderately believable excuses.  Both made me feel even worse.

Then, hunched over the toilet, I concentrated on my reflection in the shiny flush – met my own eyes and said, “I do not believe this is happening.  Wake up.”

And I did, safely in my own bed, with my son buried in between my husband and me and not a trace of vomit, or booze, or unfixable mistakes anywhere.

I took a deep breath and returned to sleep.

This time in a mall of sorts – but not for pleasure.  I was there for business.  A potential partner meeting with Briggs in tow.  We went into a store, but not the store where my meeting was and so…this is painful to write…so, I left Briggs, on purpose with someone I didn’t know and then went to my meeting.

Soon after, I allowed myself to fully feel that I had just abandoned my son.  The feeling was worse than empty…rather, permanently empty.  I raced back, but he wasn’t where he was.  And as I’m on the brink of a catastrophic undoing from which I am certain my pieces will never quite fit ever again, I stare hard into the floor to ceiling glass walls and this time I scream:

“I WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING. I WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS IS HAPPENING. WAKE UP!”

And I do – sweaty and crying and remarkably grateful for Briggs’s foot jabbing into my ribs. (Again.)

This time I do more than breathe.  I pray:

Thank you.  Thank you for helping me build, out of the lumber of my life, something that is this strong, and good, and kind, and loving.  Thank you for the lessons, and the challenges, and the troubles, that are not really troubles at all.  Thank you for the power to wake up from what is dark and terrible and be surrounded, wrapped up even, in all of this love and warmth and light.  Thank you.  Thank you.  Thank you.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lRLyfZDi-bI

I bought a sign for our bedroom this afternoon.  It says:

Do More Of What Makes You Happy.

When Briggs came into our room to read some books before heading into his room to go to bed, he asked me what the new sign said.  When I told him, he had a pretty genuine response:

“Well, going to bed doesn’t make me happy.  So, why do I have to do more of that?”

I explained how sleep and play and getting big for Kindergarten were all connected.  And he explained:

“Well, playing, TV and hockey are the only things that make me happy.  So, I should have more of those and less going to bed.”

I asked if he was sure that he was only 4 and not 14.  He assured me that he’d be 5 on June 29th.

While I am quite certain that Briggs left off more than a few activities from his Happy List, his response made me truly happy nonetheless.

He answered on instinct, and with such simplicity and authenticity.  My whole reason for purchasing the board in the first place was because it stumped me.

What Do I Do that Makes Me Happy?

Write?  Stretch?  Talk?  Listen?  Color?  Cook?  Coach?  Host parties?  Have sex?  Hold space?  Read, dance, breathe?  Be together?  Be alone?

I like to earn.  Earning make me happy.  Should I do more earning?  Is happy the right word?  Yes – maybe.  It makes me feel good.  Are good and happy the same, or just related?

I decided I wasn’t going to figure it out right there and then.  So, I brought the sign home, hung it up and adorned it with three pictures.  One of Briggs.  One of Kenny.  And one of me.

In each picture we’re silly, happy kids – finding our joy without even looking.

More Finding, Less Looking…I think, as far as happiness goes, there’s something to that.

Most Saturday mornings after dance class, Briggs and I head to the library.  He lets me pick out his books for the week, which has become a real treat.

The only condition is that I can’t read the books I pick while we’re still in the library.  This way all three of us (Mom, Dad, and Briggs) get to discover something new.

This week all of my picks were pretty strong, but two of the five books really spoke to Briggs and me (I’m guessing for different reasons).

The first is a Caldecott Medal Winner: Joseph Had a Little Overcoat by Simms Taback.  A wonderfully illustrated tale about how one man consistently discovers new ways to “make something out of nothing.”

And the second, a more modern picture book by Lemony Snicket, titled 13 Words.  It’s about a despondent bird who has well intended friends (a dog, a goat, and a mezzo-soprano), but is despondent nonetheless, and yet, there is still plenty of love and cake.

In a week filled with highs and lows and up and downs, snuggling in with my son before bed each night and getting a chance to dip into these worlds of Joseph and this despondent bird has created a welcomed and sacred space.

There’s something deeply moving and magical about reading aloud to someone you love…maybe it’s a good idea to do it more often.

When I was in my twenties and working for public radio, I had the chance to do some recordings for a series called This I Believe.

People from all walks of life sharing essays about their greatest and guiding beliefs.

One day, the man sharing his belief was a defense attorney.  His belief was simple:  Everyone deserves someone on their side.  No matter what.

I found his take on unconditional love and his well-spoken essay equally beautiful.  And it’s a beauty that’s stayed with me for nearly a decade now.

Today, on my 35th birthday I’m overwhelmed by the number of good, strong, kind, loving, and beautiful people on my side.

My parents.  My sisters and brothers.  My husband.  My son.  My cousins.  My aunts, uncles and nephews.  My co-workers and former co-workers.  My high school classmates, college roommates, teachers and professors.  My tribe of warrior NICU Moms, and the sweet kids at my son’s daycare. And my friends – who are all my family – and Me.

For most of today, I walked around hearing that defense lawyer’s This I Believe essay on playback in my head.  But for the first time, I heard “everyone” as “I’m the one.”

I’m the one who deserves to be on my side.  No matter what.

Believing in me creates more space to believe in us.  If I can unconditionally support me – squash the judgement, silence the shaming, stop the ridicule – then I can completely, wholly, and loving stand by, with, and for you.  And then, then we’re really connected – and this is what I believe:  connection is what it’s all about.

And excellent birthday cake. That’s pretty important, too. 🙂

http://www.npr.org/player/embed/95895379/95913034

Last night around 8:30 I learned that I’m the Manager of Billerica’s newest tee ball team, The White Sox.

So many kids registered this year that they needed to field an expansion team, but up until yesterday afternoon when I submitted my four year-old’s registration, this new team still didn’t have a coach.

I volunteered and learned that team pictures were less than twenty-four hours away.  I got the contact information for all the parents, got the word out, and nine out of our ten players were able to make it tonight.

I walked in to our local middle school hungry from skipping lunch, frustrated from a hectic day at work, and pretty foggy on what the game plan consisted of after simply showing up.

But, miraculously, the league organizer (who called with the Manager offer last night) picked me out upon walking in.

“Are you Amanda?”

“I am, are you Joe?”

“I am.  Thank you so much for doing this.”

Within a matter of minutes I found the White Sox zone, met nine awesome kids and their equally awesome parents, had uniforms passed out and we were on our way (in a rather well formed line) to have our mugs put on keepsake baseball cards.

The parents, the kids, and I all clicked and as we wrapped up our final round of fist bumps and high-fives for coming together and getting it done, I heard my name from the other side of the crowded room:

“COACH AMANDA!”

I turned around and there was Braiden.  A kind, tall, compassionate kid a year older than my son, whom my husband and I had coached in a local soccer program nearly two years ago.

“Oh, man buddy.  It’s so good see you,” I said.

His Mom was all smiles, said she couldn’t believe he remembered, but when he saw me from across the room he was so excited.

I asked if he was still playing soccer – he is.  And if he was playing tee ball – he isn’t (his older brother’s on a baseball team).  And then we did our own fist bump, high-five routine and said our goodbyes.

I may have walked in a mess, but I walked out feeling pretty together.

I have a hold on the important things – now, I just have to learn how to let those important things call out more of the plays.  I’m guessing that’s the only way to really forget about that big, shiny scoreboard and just enjoy being a part of the game.

Yesterday, Briggs and I were playing Wiffle Ball in our side-yard.  He was the batter, I was the pitcher, and the frustration was mounting.

“I can’t hit it!” He snarled.

“You could,” I explained,  “if you squared your feet and held the bat the right way.”

He reluctantly allowed me to demonstrate and then quickly mimicked my stance and hold.

WHACK!

He connected with ease and the ball sailed straight over the prickly bushes missing the neighbors’ yard by mere inches.

I smiled at him, he smiled back and then asked, “Mom did you use to play baseball or something?”

I told him I played a lot of softball as a kid – even earned a bunch of trophies.

“Did you get the most home runs?”

I confessed that I didn’t.  I told him I wasn’t the top scorer, fastest runner, most accurate pitcher, or even the best hitter.

“Then, what were you the best at?” He wondered aloud.

“Every year I got a trophy for being the Best Hustler.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means that I was the hardest worker.  No one could out work me.”

“Got it,” Briggs said.

Then he and I went back to our game until he finally did smack one clear over the neighbors’ fence and the game was called.

On our way back in I started gently and quietly heckling myself.

Yup, never MVP.  Never top scorer or earner.  Never the smartest or fastest, but hardest worker.  You sure as hell clinched that one.  Hardest worker?  Who the hell wants to work the hardest?  That sounds awful.  

Truth is the heckling was pretty consistent this past week.  My own personal peanut gallery psyched me out of writing, yoga, and clean eating.  Kept me from connecting with my best ideas and recognizing my greatest gifts.  Leaving a perfect opportunity for Depression to run up the score and Anxiety to speed up the clock.

But, damn it, nothing works better for a Hustler than being the underdog.

So, yeah, last week I spent a lot of time feeling tired, sad, and scared – but, turns out I can get hit by a pitch and still remember how to step back, take a breath, and keep swinging.

I’m a Hustler baby.

For a long time I believed that the only reason why anyone ever liked me was because of what I could do.

So, I operated from a place of doing more, so more people would believe that I was valuable.  And I relied (heavily) on that outside affirmation to counter my internal dialogue of:

You’re a mess, you’re a screw-up, you’re a fraud, and you’re an idiot.

And while my best Self knows that what I am is so much more than what I do – I still sometimes find myself feeling…not enough.

But, the thing is – feeling and being are not the same.

I can feel not enough – but know that I am complete.

I can feel sad – but know that I am joy.

I can feel afraid – but know that I am safe.

How I feel constantly changes – but who I am remains the same.  I am, what you are: love, light, compassion, connection.  You and Me, We’re all that good stuff.

Today was just one of those days when what I felt, didn’t connect with who I am.  And that’s okay, because even when it feels like I’m walking around divided, I can remind myself that how I feel is temporary, and who I am (who We are) is permanent.

I am what I am.  And that’s ALWAYS enough.