What You See Isn't Always What You Get

I'm guessing I'm not the only person who will now and forevermore see a box of chocolate candy and suddenly have the overwhelming desire to say, "My mama always said life was like a box of chocolates. You never know what you're gonna get." I don't eat chocolate candy anymore, but when I did, I always hated it when I thought I was biting into a piece filled with scrumptious, ooey-gooey caramel only to discover that instead it was stuffed with that disgusting, make me want to puke, nasty jelly. Yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck, yuck. I well recall the stark feeling of shocking disappointment that would sweep through me ... I was ready for the delicious taste of caramel mixed with chocolate ... I was excited for the delicious taste of caramel mixed with chocolate ... I craved the delicious taste of caramel mixed with chocolate ... I expected the delicious taste of caramel mixed with chocolate. I expected goodness and received badness instead ... those words are worth repeating because my guess is that some of you need to read them again ... I expected goodness and received badness instead.

I'm also guessing I'm not the only person who knows that people are a whole lot like a box of chocolates ... all the chocolates in the box look pretty much the same on the outside, but they can be as different as night and day on the inside. Some may be a tad bit bigger or smaller than the others or some may differ slightly in color and texture, but there's absolutely no way of knowing what's on the inside of them until you get past the outside layer of chocolate. You can look at the outside of a piece of chocolate candy until the cows come home, but you still won't know what's inside of it until you see or taste or experience it for yourself. I could stand right smack dab in front of you with an open box of chocolates and assure you that every single piece is filled with luscious caramel, but until you tried them for yourself, you'd have absolutely no way of knowing if I was telling you the truth or lying through my teeth. 

It's the same way with people, you know ... hence my premise that people are a whole lot like a box of chocolates. You can't look at the outside of a person and know what's on the inside ... no freaking way can you just assume who someone really is by their outward appearance. And I'm not talking about the clothes they wear or the kind of car they drive or where they work or how they style their hair or whether they are rich or poor ... that's not at all what I mean by "outward appearance" ... that's not even remotely close to what I mean. I'm talking about the way people behave ... the way they present themselves ... the way they want others to see them ... the way they act. Whoa ... wait a minute ... isn't acting the same thing as pretending? That's exactly the kind of outward appearance I'm talking about, friends  ... I'm talking about the way a person may look and act on the outside when someone else is watching. I'm talking about a piece of chocolate filled with yucky jelly that's trying its best to appear as though it's filled with delicious caramel. 

See here's the thing, friends ... the really super important thing I want you to take away from this post ... sometimes people aren't whom or what they appear to be. People can appear to be calm when they are crawling with anxiety. People can appear to be healthy when they are battling a chronic disease. People can appear to be listening when they aren't hearing a single word. People can appear to be caring when they are embracing apathy. People can appear to be forgiving when they are plotting revenge. People can appear to be loyal when they are searching for a way out. People can appear to be accepting when they are seething with judgment. People can appear to be telling the truth when they are spouting lies. People can appear to be demonstrating love when they are fueling hate.

What you see isn't always what you get ... sometimes the piece of chocolate you think contains something incredibly delightful is instead filled with something so disgustingly nasty, it makes you want to puke. But thankfully, there are also times the chocolate is filled to overflowing with exactly what you were expecting ... delicious, sweet caramel you were ready for ... caramel you were excited for ... caramel you were craving ... exactly the caramel you were expecting. But then there are those other times when you are so certain the chocolate contains the worst-ever, disgustingly gross jelly only to discover you were so very wrong. Thank God for times when you expect the badness to destroy you, but instead you are wrapped in grace, mercy, compassion, respect and love.

What you see isn't always what you get ... sometimes it's so very much better than you ever expected, friends ... sometimes it is indeed.

"And Don't You Forget That"

"Lord, help ... I've looked this house over and my derned brassiere ain't nowhere to be found. Land o' Goshen, I've done gone and lost my derned brassiere."

That particular telephone conversation with Mom many years ago as I drove home from work was without question one of the more comical ones we had concerning the plethora of items she routinely misplaced as she grew older. From her false teeth to her pill boxes to her checkbook to her door key to her ... well ... to even her brassiere, Mom was constantly forgetting where she had put things. The puzzling thing to me, however, was that in every other area of her life, Mom's mind and her memory remained as sharp as a tack until the moment she drew her final breath. When I would tease her about her forgetfulness, she would give me "the look" and say, "There ain't a derned thing wrong with my memory! I just got me a case of can't find nothin'-itis, that's all." 

Though my doctors assure me that my now ever-present lack of short-term memory is a common side effect of a couple of the meds I take each day, it scares the heck out of me because my dad had Alzheimer's disease. It's one thing to forget to purchase a couple of items I meant to get at the grocery store, but it's another thing altogether when I tell someone I'll call them back in a few minutes and then completely forget to do it. Thankfully, I'm blessed to have people in my life, both family and friends alike, who have hearts filled with patience, grace and understanding. I will be forever grateful to those people who not only forgive my forgetfulness, but who also take time out of their busy lives to help make sure I don't forget the things that really matter. People who remind me that even during the times when that old nasty depression beast rears its ugly head, they need me ... they depend on me ... they value me as a person ... they love me just the way I am.

It's perplexing to me that things I so desperately desire to remember seem to be the ones that so easily slip from my memory, while the things I so desperately want to forget are the ones that appear to have seared themselves into the deepest, darkest crevices of my mind. There are times when I struggle to remember that I matter and that I make a positive difference in the lives of others ... times when no matter how hard I try, I simply cannot forget the feelings of worthlessness or the fear that I'm harming others rather than helping them. It's in those times ... those times of feeling invisible at best and despised at worst ... it's in those times that one or more of my wonderful, patient, filled to overflowing with grace and understanding people steps up and helps me to remember that I'm here for a reason. It's when I can't remember the good and can't forget the bad that someone always seems to know exactly what I need to hear when I most need to hear it.

See here's the thing ... we all need some help remembering now and again ... remembering that we matter to others ... remembering that we aren't alone ... remembering that our journey isn't over. We all need to get a note like I did last Friday from my sweet friend Maggie that said, "You're a gift to all of us, Terrie, and don't you forget that." I'm sure Maggie had no way of knowing how deeply her words would impact me or of how badly I needed to read them that day. Maggie is the gift to everyone she meets ... that she is ... that she is indeed. Some things really and truly should never be forgotten, friends ... some things should always and forever be remembered ... some things should never ever be forgotten.

"And don't you forget that."

The Best Part of My Day

When I first went to work for an advertising agency almost 20 years ago, I found out pretty quickly that I knew basically nothing about the ad biz. I thought I did, mind you ... I was, after all, an avid watcher of thirtysomething back in the day. My picture of the world of advertising was skewed to say the least, with my only experience being that of lying in my bean bag chair watching Michael and Elliot come up with one brilliant idea after another ... all while shooting hoops on the miniature basketball goal in their office. Granted if you venture inside the walls of the company I work for, you'll sometimes see folks swinging a golf club or tossing a football and one of my favorite art directors could often be found wearing his Incredible Hulk hands while he worked. But I'm here to tell you that the ad biz isn't all Hulk hands or sinking a putt or catching a football by any means ... my co-workers and I work way, way, way harder than Michael and Elliot ever did.

No matter where you work, even if you love your job, I think it's safe to say that for all of us, some weeks are longer than others ... weeks when you work so hard and so long that your brain hurts. This week has been one of those weeks for me ... actually, I've had three of those weeks right in a row, and my brain's just plain old tired. I've come home the past few nights and didn't want to do anything that required me to think at all ... I wanted to just come home and do absolutely nothing, and by nothing I do mean nothing. I didn't want to think ... I didn't want to talk ... I didn't want to watch television ... I didn't want to walk ... I didn't want to cook ... I didn't want to do one darn thing other than rest my mind and attempt to recharge my batteries before I had to get up and do it all over again the next day. But ... every single night when I come home, whether I've had a tough day or a great one, there's one thing I can always count on ... one furry little reddish-brown ball of energy who is without fail always happy to see me. And every single night when he goes racing through our little house because he's so excited to see me, I say the same words to my little wiener dog pal, "Ollie boy, you're the best part of my day, buddy ... you're without a doubt the best part of my day."

As I sit here typing, my furry little pal is stretched out beside me snoring ... on his back with all four paws up in the air, his head resting on my knee. I can't help but think about how my old girl Julie used to snuggle in close to Ollie, and I can't help but wonder if he misses her the way I do. The thought of Ollie missing his buddy Julie causes me to reach over and rub his upturned pinkish-white belly, and as I do, my little dog lets go a deep and contented sigh. His nose wiggles and his paws twitch, and he barely opens his eyes long enough to see that it's me whose patting him. And you know what I realized? It's not just that he's the best part of my day that makes my heart warm when I come home ... it's knowing that I'm the best part of his day, too.

Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire

If I haven't learned anything since I first began writing this blog, it's that I never know which, if any, of my posts are going to speak to people. Sometimes after I finish writing a post I think, "Well this one stinks worse than Ollie the wiener dog's breath, and it's not going to help anyone," while at other times I think, "Whoa, dude, that's some deep stuff, and it's going to change the world." And you know what's funny? More often than not, I'm wrong on both counts. It's often the posts that I think are poorly written or lacking inspiration or totally void of any remote semblance of wisdom that cause my email inbox to overflow with messages from people telling me how much it helped them. And those posts that I think are over-the-top profound and life-changing are often the ones that leave folks shaking their heads and telling me I'm the worst writer in the history of the universe. Which brings me back to my beginning statement ... I really and truly never know which, if any, of my posts will do what I hope they will do ... help someone.

My last post, Slice and Dice, was one of those that I didn't think would do anything other than make at least a few folks chuckle at the ridiculousness of me trying to fix my faucet. I was wrong ... I was overwhelmingly wrong. I replied to the person who sent me the message you'll read in a moment and asked her permission to post her note in its entirety this evening. I felt the pain in her words as I read, perhaps because I've felt the same pain more times than I care to recount. I'm going to close tonight's post with her message, but before I do, I'd like to leave you with a couple of thoughts of my own. Though I never know which of my posts might speak to someone's heart, I sure hope tonight's is one that speaks to a whole heck of a lot of people. People who need to know that when you lie to someone and that person finds out that you lied to them, it hurts ... it hurts their heart, it wounds their soul, it damages their ability to trust and it diminishes their feelings of self-worth. I read a quote the other day that said, "The worst part of being lied to is knowing you aren't worth the truth." There's a ton of truth in that statement, friends ... a whole ton of truth indeed.

"Terrie, just want to thank you for your incredibly on point slice and dice post.

A hard situation just slapped me in the fact (yet again today) and while I WANT to have the right attitude, I am hurt and struggling. I want to be happy for someone, but when I figured out that someone else (not the beneficiary of the good thing) lied to me within that situation (at church no less), I just wanted to cry.

This isn't a misery loves company message but just a thanks from someone who appreciates honesty. Quite frankly, if the person who lied to me had just been up front, I'd have handled it much better. As it stands, I'm depressed and moping, wondering why. Why lie to me? 

After reading your post, I don't feel so alone."

Thank you for writing, friend ... thank you for sharing your soul so that it may help another.

Slice and Dice

Remember a couple of posts ago when I wrote about the spring on my garage door breaking? Well, I eventually wrote about the broken spring anyway after I let my mind go wandering down memory lane and bawling my eyes out first. Don't worry, no jaunts back in time tonight and no tears ... not hardly. Tonight I'm just plain old ticked off because of how badly I suck at home repair. I seriously cannot think of one broken thing I've been able to fix on my own ... oh, wait, I guess I did fix the wheel on the lawnmower last summer. And yes, I can say it's fixed even though I pretty much have to tighten it every time I mow the yard ... okay, okay ... I have to tighten it a couple of times every time I mow, but it hasn't fallen off again so that qualifies it as being fixed. But alas, other than my stellar repair job on the lawnmower wheel, I usually do more harm than good when I attempt any type of home repair. Which leads me to the topic for tonight's post ... the leaky faucet in my tub.

Now I know you're wondering what in the world a leaking faucet could possibly have to do with slicing and dicing, but trust me, it has a whole heck of a lot to do with it. I should probably back up and tell you that the faucet has been leaking for ... ummm ... let's just say "a while," and it's gradually gotten worse. It's not like pouring water or anything like that, but it has gone from a drip every few minutes to a drip every few seconds. Even though the faucet has been leaking for "a while," I haven't been super concerned or worried about it ... until this morning. For some insane reason, I woke up this morning thinking that I had to fix the faucet or my house was going to flood ... today. Remember the night I was convinced the little crack in the basement floor was going to cause my gas furnace to explode? 'Nuff said.

I had a couple of appointments this morning but as soon as I was finished, I headed to the nearest Home Depot in search of a new handle to put on the pipe thingie that sticks out of the wall behind the tile in the shower. I bought one that said "universal" on the package, meaning it would fit on any type of pipe thingie (which, by the way, isn't true). Want to know something else that isn't true? That you can pop the plastic cover thingie off of the old shower handle with a screwdriver. I tried four different screwdrivers and couldn't get the dumb thing to budge. So I did what all great home repair people do ... I went to the toolbox and got a utility knife. I actually took two knives back to the bathroom with me because of my frustrating experience with the screwdrivers, a utility knife and some sort of Samurai-looking knife that Brad left here when he moved to Maine. 

Ollie pretty much follows me wherever I go when I'm at home, and today was no exception as he trotted into the bathroom right behind me and sat on the rug peering up at me and wagging his tail.

"I know what you're wagging about, wiener," I said. "You're wagging because you think it's hilarious that I'm trying to fix this stupid faucet, aren't you? Well, you just watch me, wiener boy," I said as I turned toward the handle and wedged Brad's Samurai knife under the plastic cover thingie. "As long as I don't slice my hand open, it's all ..." I'm not about to tell you what I said when the super-sharp Samurai blade popped the plastic cover off ... and then kept moving right along into the side of my thumb. It's amazing how quickly I went from worrying that a drip was going to flood my house and how much a plumber would charge me to worrying about whether or not I needed stitches and how much the doctor would charge me. And Ollie? Well, he quit wagging his tail and starting whining and jumping up on my legs as I stuck my bleeding thumb under the water so I could see how deep the cut was. You know the old saying, "You learn something new every day"? Well, I learned two in one fell swoop today: 1) I need to find a cheap plumber to fix my leaky faucet, and 2) some cuts can be glued instead of stitched.

I'll leave you tonight with one more thought ... something that occurred to me while the doctor was putting the glue on my thumb. It only took a millisecond for that knife to go from doing what I wanted it to do ... help me fix the leak ... to hurting me. Now change the word "knife" to the word "words" ... slicing and dicing should only be for veggies, friends, not for thumbs and not for the way we speak to others. Go ahead ... think on that one for a while, and then send me a note or leave a comment with your thoughts. Remember to be kind to one another ... remember that your words can help or they can hurt. You can choose to slice and dice, or you can choose to be nice ... think about it.

Wish You Were Here

Sometimes I miss you so much, it hurts ... like down to the very core of my soul hurts. Especially on days like today. You would have been 98 years old today, Daddy, and I wish you were here. I don't have to tell you that it's also St. Patrick's Day ... did we ever have a birthday party for you that didn't involve shamrocks and green bow ties and leprechauns? Remember your 65th birthday party? When you came walking out of your bedroom dressed from head to toe in green? Mom was so mad at you, Daddy ... green top hat on your head, green dress shirt buttoned all the way up to accommodate the lime green bow tie tied tightly around your neck ... the much too small green sweater vest stretched to the max across your belly, the ugliest green plaid pants ever made sitting snugly on your waist, green socks and shoes covering your feet ... oh, yeah, Mom was madder than a hornet at you that day, Daddy. But all the rest of us ... all the rest of us thought you were hilarious. I wish you were here today, Daddy ... oh how I wish you were here.

It's not just your birthday that makes me wish you were here ... it's that day and all the other days, too. I wish you were here to know my children because I know you'd love them and they would adore you. I wish you were here to help me spoil Coraline and Amelie, though I'm sure Matt and Bec would tell you I do a pretty good job of that all on my own. They are amazing, by the way ... Coraline and Amelie ... I finally understand why you loved your grandchildren the way you did. I wish you were here so that my two little Canadians could know and love you the way their dad did. I wish you were here during the stormy weather, because I was never afraid when you were around, Daddy ... you always had a way of making me feel safe and protected. I wish you were here on the days when I feel so very sad, because the twinkle in your eyes and the love in your heart always lifted my spirits. I wish you were here to tell me everything will be okay. I wish you were here to wrap your arms around me and tell me one of your stories ... one filled to overflowing with truth and hope and lessons for a lifetime. 

I don't ever remember you drinking beer, Daddy, though I do remember your "it's good for my heart, Sam," stash of Jack Daniels you kept in the cabinet downstairs for your little nightcap each evening. If you were here tonight, I'd take you out for a shot or two of Jack to celebrate your 98th birthday ... I'd raise my glass to you, Daddy, and thank you for all you did for me ... I'd raise my glass and thank you for showing me what it means to be a person of honor and integrity ... I'd raise my glass and thank you for loving me unconditionally through thick and thin and everything in between.

Happy birthday, Daddy ... wish you were here. 

The Breaking of the Spring

Back when my three kiddos were all still living at home ... gosh, those words sort of dug into my heart as I typed them ... my house isn't their home anymore because they all have homes of their own. Which is exactly how it should be ... but I can't help it ... there's a lump in my throat and more than a tear or two filling my eyes. This place that I call home is home in large part because of my children, and though I shouldn't, I will probably always say those words ... "back when my kids were still at home." Geez ... that's not at all the way I intended to begin this evening's post ... geez, geez, geez ... so let's go back to the beginning and I'll give it another shot.

Back when my three kiddos were all still living at home, we all looked forward to the week in March loved by students everywhere ... Spring Break. The kids and I usually traveled to Tennessee that week to see our family, with the exception of a trip to the mountains of Colorado thrown in now and again. Geez ... there's that lump in my throat again and those stupid tears in my eyes ... geez, geez, geez. I suppose I should tell you that I'm feeling extra sentimental this week for several reasons, not the least of which is that my dad's birthday is Thursday ... he would have been 98 years old this year. I can honestly say that not one day has passed in the last 23 years that I haven't thought of Daddy ... not one day. Well, crap ... maybe I should just call it a night and give up on writing what I planned to write for tonight's post. I mean seriously ... do you know how hard it is to type with a bucketful of tears in your eyes? Oh, well ... I'm already in now, so I guess I might as well go ahead and finish the post.

Believe it or not, my original subject matter for tonight's post has absolutely nothing to do with Spring Break other than my plan to lead by talking about how differently I feel about Spring Break now than I did when my kids lived ... well, you know. Back then, I would get almost as excited as Matt, Brad and Meghann when that week rolled around. A whole week to spend soaking up all the love that was present in my little family ... in my mind at least, it was like "Leave It to Beaver" times a gazillion. I'm not quite sure how to reconcile all those fight to the death arguments my kids had during all of that together time ... suffice it to say that those times definitely skewed my "perfect little family" view just a bit. I was planning to close my intro paragraph by telling you that what I most look forward to now when Spring Break rolls around each year is that traffic on my commute is light years less than it is during a normal workweek. And then I was going to make a clever connection between the lighter traffic and parking my car in my garage when I get home ... pulling my car into the garage and hitting the button on my garage door opener to close the door. Yep ... that's what this post was supposed to be about ... parking my car in the garage and closing the door.

Now I know what you're thinking ... "Really, Terrie? A post about parking your car in your garage and closing the door? Seriously? For real? You really were going to write a post about that? You've got to be kidding me." I'm so not kidding, friends ... just keep reading. So a couple of weeks ago, I pulled my car into the garage, pushed the button on the opener and heard the door as it began to close. I live in an older house that has two wooden garage doors that weigh like a million tons ... no, I'm serious ... they have to be the heaviest garage doors in the history of the universe. The door was about halfway down when I got out of the car and headed toward the door that leads inside my house. I had my hand on the doorknob to open the door and go inside when I heard what sounded like a gunshot, and I instinctively ducked and covered my head. Once the garage door was fully closed, I slowly raised my head and looked up at the ceiling half expecting it to cave in on top of me ... of course I did. But then out of the corner of my eye I saw it ... dangling from the steel track, swaying ever so slightly, was a broken garage door spring.

I'll spare you all the boring details of what took place over the next hour or so, but I will tell you that my neighbor Toby figured out how to raise the super-heavy garage door long enough to allow me to get my car out. See here's the thing, friends ... here's why I chose to write a post about parking my car in the garage and closing the door. I chose to write about it because I think there's a lesson to be learned from my broken spring experience ... at least there's one for me anyway. Sometimes I'm a lot like that spring, you know ... all wound up so tightly with tension and stress that it's only a matter of time until I fall apart. Sometimes I'm a lot like my car ... held captive with seemingly no way out. Sometimes I'm a lot like my neighbor ... doing everything I can to help a fellow traveler in need. And sometimes ... well, sometimes I'm a lot like the garage door ... sometimes no matter how hard I try, I can't lift myself up all alone. Sometimes I'm heavy, weighed down and broken ... sometimes I simply cannot lift myself up without someone to help me. 

Think about it, friends ... maybe, just maybe, that broken spring on my garage door is about way more than just a broken spring. And maybe it's about way more than just a broken spring for me ... maybe it's about a broken spring for you. Perhaps it is ... perhaps it is indeed.

Weiner Dogs and Toilet Seats

"The ache for home lives in all of us. The safe place where we can go as we are and not be questioned." --- Maya Angelou

So I think it's probably pretty safe to say that most of us act at least a wee bit differently at home than we do when we're out in public. Or perhaps it's more accurate to say that most of us who want to keep our jobs or not be kicked out of a restaurant or relegated to the "what a weirdo" section at church or the softball field or the local library at least attempt to keep the odd things we do at home exactly there ... at home. But humans being humans, I also think it's pretty safe to say that most of us wonder a little, or a lot, about what other people are like when they're tucked away in their homes. Who among you hasn't wondered if the president of your local bank throws on a pair of pretty close to worn out basketball shorts and a t-shirt with more holes in it than a piece of Swiss cheese the minute he gets home at night? And don't even tell me you've never pondered what your doctor really eats and drinks when he or she is in the comfort of their own favorite recliner. Or if the sanitation dude is a total neat freak. Or if your coach at the gym gorges on Rocky Road ice cream. Or if ... oh, say ... if by some remote possibility the writer of a fairly successful blog has a wiener dog who jumps in her lap every single time she sits down on the toilet.

It's hard to believe that next week will mark five years since Ollie the wiener dog came to live with my sweet old girl Julie and I. I'll always remember the first time the two of them cuddled next to each other in my bed ... after Julie decided she didn't hate Ollie, of course. But what I can't remember is just when it came to be that Ollie started jumping in my lap when I sit down on the toilet to pee or poop. Perhaps he did it from day one, and I just don't remember my little wiener dog's totally weird and unusual bathroom etiquette, though I think I would remember such a monumental occurrence. After all, it's not like I've ever had any other dog who insisted on making himself right at home on my lap during such a personal and private activity ... thank goodness. Truth be told, it really doesn't matter when or why or how Ollie decided to keep my lap company while I take care of ... well, you know ... all that matters is that he does it every single time without fail. All I have to do is head in the direction of the bathroom and he comes running ... heck, I've even seen him leave his food in the middle of eating so that he can run in and jump on my lap the minute my butt hits the toilet seat. Since I know some of you are wondering ... Mr. Oliver doesn't do anything while he's sitting there other than to look like he's a regal king seated upon his throne ... all he needs is a little crown and one of those kingly-looking robes in wiener dog size of course.

I know I began this post by talking about the things we do at home that we don't ever want anyone else to know about and then I went right ahead and told you about the rather strange toilet habit I share with my little wiener dog. Want to know why? Because as weird as it is that Ollie jumps in my lap when I'm on the toilet and even weirder that I let him do so, it is undeniably funny, and my guess is I'm probably not the only person who needs to laugh at myself once in a while. Every now and again, I need to have a good hearty chuckle over some of the enormously silly and crazy things I do when I'm home alone ... and all of the time, I most certainly need to not take myself so seriously. And my guess, friends, is that I'm not the only one who could use a good strong dose of both of those things ... laughing and lightening up, that is. My guess is that I'm not alone in being absolutely terrified of what people will think of me if I let them inside my home to see the real me ... my guess is that there are more than a few of you who think and feel exactly the same way.

Wiener dogs and toilet seats ... while I never would have thought I'd be saying this, those two things just seem to go together now ... they do indeed, friends ... they most certainly do indeed. 

BYOH

Several months ago, I watched a TEDx talk by the founder of To Write Love On Her Arms. Though I'm familiar with the organization and the work it does to help people who are battling, I knew nothing about how it came to be. I cried like a baby as I watched and listened as founder Jamie Tworkowski spoke of the young female drug addict whose story became the inspiration behind the creation of the organization. Their mission statement includes the following words ... "To Write Love On Her Arms is a nonprofit movement dedicated to presenting hope and finding help for people struggling with depression, addiction, self-injury, and suicide." The telling of one woman's story grew into a movement that has helped to save so many, many lives.

While Mr. Tworkowski's entire TEDx talk was moving and inspirational, there was one thing he said that really burned itself across my mind and branded itself upon my soul. He was telling the story of the successful six-figure career he walked away from in order to devote himself full-time to TWLOHA, when he said these words, "I needed to be able to bring my heart to work." He was young ... he was making tons of money ... he was successful ... and yet what he really wanted was to bring his heart to work. Obviously since I'm writing this post several months after hearing Mr. Tworkowski's words ... "I needed to be able to bring my heart to work" ... his words not only made an impact on me the night I sat on my couch watching his TEDx talk but they continue to do so now even months later.

As I drove home from work this evening, I was thinking about some conversations I've had this week with different co-workers ... conversations that had absolutely nothing to do with work and absolutely everything to do with hearts. And you know what? Some of those conversations were difficult and some were easy, but every single one of them happened because people brought their hearts to work. Those conversations have caused a question to pound in my brain for the last couple of days ... a question that just won't go away. What if? What if we all bring our hearts to work? What if you bring yours and I bring mine? What if we slow down and take the time to really see the hearts of others, both inside the walls of the office and without as well? What if we bring our hearts to the grocery store? What if we bring our hearts to the doctor's office? What if we bring our hearts to the airport? What if we bring our hearts to the church? What if I bring my heart and you bring your heart? What if?

Have you guessed what the title of tonight's post stands for yet? Bring Your Own Heart. Bring your own heart to work. Bring your own heart to your family. Bring your own heart to your friends. Bring your own heart to everyone you meet. Bring your own heart to you, my friends ... bring your own heart to you. One young man who needed to be able to bring his heart to work did just that ... and the world will never be the same again.

BYOH, friends ... BYOH every single place you go. The world ... your world ... and the world of everyone you meet ... will never be the same again. BYOH ... BYOH ... BYOH. I promise you won't regret it.

The Wolf at My Window

Tonight's post is one of those that's been churning around in my mind for a while ... one of those posts I have to mull over and ponder about and think on for a long time ... one of those posts that I worry will make some people angry ... one of those posts I know I probably need to write but I don't necessarily want to write. But what so very often happens with those types of posts is that something occurs that makes me realize I absolutely have to write them. Often, that something that occurs is a conversation with someone ... or several different conversations with several different someones as the case may be ... or one of the thousands of emails I receive each week ... conversations and emails that mysteriously all lead back to the same subject on which I've been mulling and pondering and thinking. That always freaks me out, by the way ... when people who don't even know each other keep directing me back to the same message, the same lesson, the same truth ... always, always, always freaks me out big time. So back to my original premise ... this is one of those posts I know I probably need to write that I don't necessarily want to write but that I now feel as though I have to write.

A while back, I mentioned in another post a recurring dream I've had since I was a little kid every time I run a fever. Once my body temperature climbs above 100 degrees, I can count on dreaming what I call my "super scary fever wolf dream." It doesn't matter where I'm living or how old I am, it's always the same exact dream ... there are wolves outside my house trying to get inside my house so that they can eat me. I'm sure there's a legitimate physical connection to me being sick and having a fever that sparks my wolf dream ... yeah, right ... what I'm actually sure of is that I'm just plain old downright crazy, and running a fever somehow transports my subconscious craziness to a whole new level ... a level that includes hungry wolves trying to break down the door to my house so that they can rip me apart with their razor-sharp teeth and eat me alive. That's gross, I know, but that's what I dream when I'm sick ... I dream my super scary fever wolf dream every single time I have a fever. But here's the thing about those particular wolves, friends ... the super scary fever wolves ... I always know they'll go away when my temperature falls back into the normal range. Those snarling, growling beasts leave when I get well ... they don't hang around unless I'm sicker than a dog after it eats a bunch of laundry detergent pods (one chocolate lab who shall remain nameless who now lives in Maine). Yep ... when the fever goes away, it takes the super scary fever wolf dreams with it.

As you can imagine, sometimes the conversations I have with my life-saving head doctor are pretty intense. I suppose it's a good thing to have someone who makes you see things about yourself that you'd rather not see, but sometimes I walk out of her office feeling like a wrung-out dishcloth. That's especially true when we talk about depression and what it can do to me or anyone who battles it every day. If you know me at all, you know the minute I was diagnosed as having major depressive disorder, I promptly consumed volumes upon volumes of information regarding the disease ... I wanted to know everything I could about the creature that was doing everything in its power to destroy me. I learned a lot ... trust me, I can quote a gazillion statistics about depression ... but it wasn't until recently that I've been able to verbalize what depression feels like to me. And when I finally began to talk about what it feels like to me, I quickly discovered that there are a ton of people who feel exactly the same way as I do.

Depression feels like a super scary fever wolf to me, but unlike the ones from my fever-induced dreams, this wolf is always there ... day or night ... this wolf sits right outside my window and never leaves. Sometimes he moves farther away from the window and sometimes he even falls asleep, but he never goes away. There are days when it takes every ounce of strength within me to make sure the window stays closed and the wolf doesn't get in, and then there are other days when all I have to do is glance at the window and I know the wolf won't be breaking into my house that day. But whether I'm summoning the last bit of fight I have left within me or I'm coasting downhill with not a care in the world, I know the wolf is there ... I know the wolf is there, and I know there's a damn good chance he always will be.

I know that those of you who are in the fight of your life against depression fully understand what I'm saying, and I know that a lot of you completely agree with my description. I also know, however, that there are people who will tell me that I'm being negative or that I'm going through my life with a glass half-full attitude ... there's not a trace of doubt in my mind that I'll receive a crap load of emails saying just that. And while you have a right to your opinion, I would ask that you consider this ... maybe, just maybe, knowing that I have to keep an eye on the window and the wolf outside of it makes me more diligent in my fight. Perhaps knowing that the wolf is right outside my window and that he'd like nothing better than to eat me for breakfast, lunch, dinner and every single snack in between until there's nothing left of me keeps me more vigilant. There's every possibility that looking through the window and seeing the ever-present wolf ... that hearing its low growl and smelling its hot breath and seeing its sharp teeth makes me more and more determined to do everything within my power to make sure he keeps his distance and stays the heck away from me.

Windex, anyone? I've got a lifetime supply, and I'm more than happy to share. I don't want my wolf sneaking up on me because I stopped cleaning my window, and I don't want yours sneaking up on you either, friends. We have to stick together, you know ... those wolves can be pretty sneaky critters when they want to be.

Just Help Me Up Already

I'm sure it's probably safe to say that most, if not all, parents have experienced the feeling of complete and utter helplessness that washes through your gut when your kid is just beyond your reach and you realize they are about to take a nasty tumble. If you're a parent and that never happened to you, kudos to you for being one of two things ... superhuman or the most overprotective parent in the entire universe. Which, I suppose, since each one of my three kiddos took more than one or two rough spills in their day ... while I was within arm's reach of them, I might add ... must mean that I am indeed far from being superhuman or that I must have been the least overprotective parent in the universe. Just so you know, my children would adamantly argue my "least overprotective parent in the universe" statement ... they often remind me of just how overprotective they thought I was. Though I stopped short of encasing them in bubble wrap, I was indeed the queen of overprotective moms for sure. But guess what? Despite all of my best efforts to protect them, my children still fell and got hurt from time to time. Even if I was standing right next to them, there were times when I just couldn't quite get my hands on my kids and they fell.

When my son Brad first told me during a phone conversation about one of his favorite Maine discoveries, I tried to picture the structure in my mind ... a several-hundred-year-old walkway composed of hundreds of large granite stones that stretches a mile out into the ocean. As I listened to my son describe the path that leads through the water to a man-made island that is just big enough to hold the old brick lighthouse that rests upon it, I attempted to imagine the sheer strength and determination of the men who set about to complete such an unbelievable undertaking. It's not like they had powerful machines to cut, move or place the enormous granite slabs ... far from it. The stones were cut from the ground by hand using chisels and hammers, transported to the waterfront by horse-drawn sleds and placed into the ocean using a system of ropes and poles. What later became known as the Rockland Harbor Breakwater Light was a monumental task that began with the construction of the breakwater walkway in 1881 and completed in 1899. That's 18 years of chiseling, hammering, cutting, transporting and placing those hundreds of massive stones into the ocean ... by hand. The present lighthouse and keepers' structure was completed in 1902 ... yep, I said "present lighthouse" and yep, that means the structure is 114 years old. I tried to picture and imagine and conceive all those things in my mind as Brad and I talked on the phone that evening, but it wasn't until I stood on the rocky shoreline a couple of weeks ago and saw it for myself that I realized I was gazing at a very real and important piece of American history.

The day Brad took me to visit the breakwater lighthouse, it was a balmy 40 degrees and the sky was the deepest blue color of sky I've ever seen. It was late afternoon as we began the mile-long walk across the giant slabs of granite, and I mentioned to Brad that it appeared to me we were the only folks heading out toward the lighthouse while all the other visitors were making their way back toward shore. I voiced my concern about getting caught on the granite breakwater after dark, and Brad assured me that he would keep an eye on the time and get us back to shore before the sun went down. We were clipping along at a fairly steady pace, chatting about the beauty and craftsmanship of the stones beneath our feet and discussing how the slabs seemed to have been so carefully placed. Other than some decent-sized gaps between them, the placement of the giant granite stones reminded me of a carefully designed puzzle ... which only served to increase my amazement and wonder as to the skill and tenacity of the designers who had created such a masterpiece. I was almost skipping from rock to rock as Brad and I made our way toward the lighthouse ... it was an absolutely perfect day to be on such an absolutely perfect adventure with my son ... well, an almost perfect adventure anyway.

Ever since I had some problems with my balance a few years ago, I'm always careful to look down at my feet when I'm walking ... I'm not sure why, but that seems to help me to maintain my balance and keep me from swaying or stumbling. I was being extra, extra, extra careful that afternoon on the breakwater as I kept my eyes glued on my feet and the granite slabs beneath them ... the last thing in the world I wanted to happen was for me to get tripped up and lose my balance and fall off the rocks into the ocean. Brad and I were about halfway on our journey out to the lighthouse when it happened ... he said something funny, and I turned my head to glance at him. I can't remember for the life of me what it was he said, but it was enough to take my focus away from my feet and even more important, away from my focus on the cracks between the giant rocks. Though it was only for a moment, I looked up at Brad just long enough to catch the toe of my boot in one of those cracks which in turn caused me to lose my balance and fall. Yep, that's right, friends ... I fell right in the middle of the breakwater stone bridge thingy in Rockland, Maine ... I did indeed. It was one of those falls when it felt like everything was happening in slow motion, you know? Like if I could just get my hands down in front of me, I could stop myself from smacking the rough surface of the granite beneath me and save myself from wounding both my pride and my body. No such luck, however, as I fell face forward and hit the stone hard ... hard enough that I probably should have broken my wrists or my knees or both. Thankfully, I didn't break anything ... bones, camera or glasses ... but I do still have a couple of honking bruises on my knees even now almost three weeks later.

I'm not sure how long I laid there stretched out like an eagle on that slab of granite, but it surely felt like it was a long time. Brad hovered over me asking me if I was okay ... I think he was afraid to touch me in case I was seriously injured. Sharp pains shot through my hands as I tried to push myself up, and I quickly realized that I wasn't going to be able to get up off the rock without some help. I could hear Brad telling me to move my wrists and asking me if I thought I had any broken bones as I said, "I'm fine ... I'm fine ... nothing's broken. Just help me up already." He hesitated for a minute or two, still worried that I had to have broken something for as hard as I hit the granite slab, but my sweet son finally reached down and helped me get back on my feet. The first thing I said in response to his repeated questions asking me if I was okay was, "You don't tell anyone about this ... you hear me? This stays right here on the breakwater!" It probably goes without saying that the minute he could, Brad texted his brother and told him I had fallen and it was the first announcement he made to Shelby when we got back to their house. To his credit, however, Brad didn't laugh at me until he was certain that I wasn't hurt ... but you can bet he's had more than a few hearty chuckles about my tumble on the breakwater since that day, and I'm sure he'll remind me of it for many years to come.

See here's the thing, friends ... I've thought a lot about the fall I took that day in Maine, for lots of reasons. I've thought about how lucky I was not to have broken both of my wrists or to have fallen into the ocean ... I've thought about getting distracted and taking my eyes off of my feet ... I've thought about how in the world I would have gotten up had I been alone. And in thinking about all of those things, I thought about falling in another way ... I thought about how every single one of us falls down now and again, maybe not physically, mind you, but we all fall. We fall emotionally ... we fall mentally ... we fall spiritually ... every single one of us falls at some time or another in our lives. And when we do ... not if, but when ... when we fall, we need someone to help us up. That's especially hard for me, you know ... recognizing I need help to get back on my feet and then actually asking for that help. Falling is easy ... I can get tripped up and fall before I even really realize I'm falling. It's asking for help to get back up that's hard ... telling someone else that I can't stand up on my own, asking them to reach down and help me up, admitting that I need help to get back on my feet ... that's the hard part, friends ... maybe even harder than accepting the help after I've asked for it. Go ahead and think about that for a bit, and while you're at it, think about this, too. If I had been alone on the breakwater when I fell ... if I couldn't manage to get back up by myself ... if I didn't have someone to help me ... most likely, I would have spent a long and terrifying night on a pile of ancient rocks in the middle of the ocean, and there's a pretty darn good chance I might not have been able to hang on until morning. Think about it, friends ... really think about it.

"I'm fine ... I'm fine ... nothing's broken. Just help me up already."