I would do anything for love ...

Tonight's post is one that needs two disclaimers: 1) my apologies to my guy readers, my opening story is about childbirth, and 2) I highly recommend that my gal readers grab some tissues for what you'll see at the end of this post ... no scrolling ahead, by the way. 

Giving birth to a child ... or in my case, children ... is truly one of the most amazing times in a woman's life. Just ask any mom, and she'll tell you that even if she endured a 5-day labor and an incredibly difficult delivery, she'd do it all again in a heartbeat for the joy of being a mom. I was pretty lucky with my own three childbirth experiences ... no horrendously long labors or complicated deliveries and relatively quick recovery times. Well, wait ... there was Brad ... my middle kiddo who quite literally came bursting into the world a short 10 minutes after I arrived at the hospital. Bradley's quick appearance meant that the doctor wasn't even in the room for his birth ... nope, no doctor to ... ummm ... well ... ummm ... no doctor to help a momma out. In the days following my "we don't need a doctor here, Mom" son's grand entrance, I hurt ... I hurt a whole heck of a lot.

Back in those days, new moms and babies actually stayed in the hospital for several days ... it was unheard of to send them home the day following the birth. Which was a good thing for me after Bradley was born, because I was in so much pain. Did I mention how badly I hurt after my second son arrived? Just in case you missed it ... I hurt ... I hurt a whole, whole, whole heck of a lot after Brad's birth. I will never ever forget one night when my friend Karen came to visit me in the hospital, and neither will she, of that I can assure you. The doctor had prescribed this special spray to help ease my pain ... ummm ... well ... ummm ... my pain in a certain area. The problem was that I was in so much pain I couldn't manage to actually spray myself ... so much pain that I asked my poor friend Karen to spray me. And God love her heart ... she actually did it. Yep, after Bradley was born, my awesome friend Karen closed her eyes and sprayed the medicine on my crotch. Now that's a friend ... that's a real, true, devoted friend who will do that for someone ... I'm beyond certain that crotch spraying is way above and beyond the call of duty when it comes to friendship.

Perhaps because I've written about my penchant for late-night YouTube viewing when I can't sleep, lots of people send me links to all kinds of videos. I don't watch them all (sorry!), but I do watch quite a few of them. And every once in a while, one comes along that speaks to me in a deep and meaningful way about who I am as a person ... as a mom ... as a sister ... as a grandmother ... as a friend. And last night I watched one of those ... one of those videos that left me questioning myself as to whether I really would do anything for those I love. Would I really do anything and everything I could to show them how much I love them? Would I really find tangible, meaningful ways to let them know I'm with them through good times and bad? Am I that kind of person? That kind of mom? That kind of sister? That kind of grandmother? That kind of friend? Would I do something drastic ... something radical ... something way, way, way out of my comfort zone? Would I do anything for love?

Would I do for those whom I dearly love what these friends did for a friend they dearly love? Would those who love me do this for me? Would I do anything for love? Would you?

Watch the video. Really. Seriously. Click here and watch it.

Tell Them ... Tell Them ... Tell Them

Those of you who are parents will readily identify with the following statement ... I will never forget the first time I held each of my three children. I remember Matt's scowl and his deeply furrowed brow ... that boy was born thinking. Brad with his round little head and his howling wail ... the whole hospital knew when he arrived. And Meg was simply beautiful ... she stole the hearts of the doctors and nurses right away. Those first few moments as my children began their lives was so very precious ... watching them take their first breaths, feeling their little fingers around mine, holding them close to my heart. Nope ... I will never forget the first time I held each of my three kiddos ... never ever. And tonight, perhaps more than I ever have, I am so very thankful for Matt and Brad and Meghann ... so very, very, very thankful for my children.

My heart is so very heavy tonight ... one of my dearest friends lost her adult son in a tragic car accident on Saturday evening. A son, a brother, a father, an uncle ... a good man gone far too soon. Ever since I read my friend's message yesterday morning telling me of her loss, my heart has been burdened for her and her entire family. The depth of the pain they are feeling is unimaginable to me. Listening to my friend last night as she cried in gut-wrenching sobs, I felt helpless ... I so wanted to reach through the phone and wrap my arms around her and tell her how sorry I am for her loss.

Tonight, my heart aches for my friend and her husband, and for their entire family. Tonight, my prayers are for them to find rest and comfort. Tonight, I am keenly aware of the true brevity of life. Tonight, I understand anew the importance of not leaving things unsaid ... of telling those I love just how very much I love them ... of caring for one another ... of listening to one another ... of loving one another. 

Tonight, friends ... tonight, tell them you love them ... tell the ones you love just how much you love them ... tell them ... tell them ... tell them. 

Love you guys ... love you very much.

Almost Perfect

I'll admit it right up front ... last week was less than stellar for me on several fronts. While I'm not going to elaborate on all the things that contributed to making it not one of my better weeks, I do want to say one thing. It's never easy to apologize and ask for forgiveness when I do or say something I shouldn't ... it's never easy, but it's always the right thing to do. And at the end of the day, doing what's right is way more important than doing what's easy. Though I hate to admit it, I'm far from perfect, and I'm completely certain that yesterday wasn't the last day in my life that I'll be saying, "I'm sorry. Will you please forgive me?" Perhaps because I know that truth ... that I'm far from perfect ... perhaps that's why I was given this afternoon.

This morning, I actually was able to sleep in for a while ... that's something that doesn't happen very often because Julie and Ollie usually wake me up around 6:30. By the time we actually woke up and got out of bed, it was almost 8:30. After breakfast, I went to the doctor and then came home and worked for several hours on a big project I brought home that's due on Monday. I decided after lunch that I needed a break from editing, so I went shopping ... yes, shopping ... for some clothes for my granddaughter and the new little one who's due to arrive in July. Since they live in Canada, they need way more winter apparel than summer so I went straight to the clearance racks and found several adorable items. As much as I detest shopping, I sure do enjoy buying things for my grandbabies ... amazing, simply amazing.

It was a beautiful day today ... it's supposed to snow in the morning, by the way ... so after I got home from shopping, I threw the ball for Julie for a while and then headed out for a walk with Ollie. Though it was windy ... it's always windy in Kansas ... it was warm, and the sun felt good on my face as I walked. Ollie and I walked for a little over an hour ... he was one tired wiener by the time we got home. We had just walked in the door when my phone rang ... it was C.J. wanting to Skype, and I spent the next hour talking and reading and playing with her.

Here's the thing, friends ... last week was lousy, there's no disputing that at all ... but this afternoon was almost perfect. That's the way life is, you know ... sometimes it's cruddy and you find yourself wondering how you're going to make it through another day. But then you get an afternoon like today ... an almost perfect afternoon ... and you know it's worth every step it took to get you there. Almost perfect? Well ... tonight ... tonight, that's more than enough for me.

The Invisible Ones

Let's play a little game this evening. I'll tell you a story about something one of my three children did when he or she was three years old, and you guess which kid it was. And so that I don't have to write he or she every time, I'm going to use a pretend name ... one that works for both genders. Sage ... for the story, my kiddo will be Sage. 

It was a hot summer afternoon, and Sage and the siblings were outside in the front yard in their swim suits running back and forth through the sprinkler. I had gone inside to fix myself a drink and get the kids some popsicles, and was only in the house for just a few minutes. (By the way, those of you who are parents know that three children ages six and under need merely a moment to get into mischief.) When I returned to the front yard, I was surprised to see that Sage and the siblings were still enjoying playing in the water. I was even more surprised, however, to see that Sage was naked ... completely and totally buck naked. When I told Sage it was inappropriate to play outside in the buff, Sage informed me that since Sage was invisible, it was okay ... no one would be able to see Sage's nakedness. And when I tried to explain to Sage that I could see Sage and so could the rest of the neighborhood, Sage calmly said, "Nuh-uh, Mom, I'm invisible. You can hear me but you can't see me. I'm invisible." It took me several minutes to catch the running Sage and drape the little naked form in a towel. Sage was, after all, invisible ... and invisible Sages can run very fast. While you're guessing which of my three kiddos is Sage, let me explain why I've had Sage's invisible sprinkler adventure on my mind today.

Last night, I was trying to read through some of the emails I've received over the last month or so ... don't judge me, I get a ton of emails. I happened to click on an email from someone ... I say someone because I don't know if the person is male or female or young or old. The note was quite lengthy, but one section in particular has haunted me all day.

"I don't know which is worse. It's so hard to not belong or fit in or to be invisible but I think it's worse to be invisible. Because when you're invisible you believe that no one would see you if you weren't there anymore. Like if you didn't show up one day no one would miss you because you were invisible. That's the hardest part. To keep showing up when nobody sees you."

The person said several times in the note that he or she knew I wouldn't reply to the note because I wouldn't understand his or her feelings of not belonging or of being invisible. Well, I did reply to the person ... I replied and asked him or her to read tonight's post. Why? Because I do understand ... I do understand ... I do understand. Let me say that again ... I do understand what it feels like not to belong, not to fit, to be invisible and wonder if anyone would notice if I was gone ... or worse yet ... to believe they would actually be better off without me. I understand that those feelings combined with the tremendous stress of trying to hide who I am for so many years came awfully darn close to killing me. I understand, my friend, and if you don't know anything else today, please know this ... I see you. Just like I could see my little kiddo all those years ago standing naked in our front yard, I see you ... you are not invisible to me, friend ... you are not invisible to me.

Here's the really big thing I'd like you to take away from tonight's post ... there are so many, many people who feel like they don't belong or fit in ... there are so many, many people who feel like they are invisible ... there are so many, many people who wonder if anyone would even notice if they were gone. Open your eyes ... open your eyes and your hearts, and look for them ... look for them, friends ... look for the ones who feel invisible. Open your eyes and your hearts ... tell them you see them ... tell them you need them ... tell them they matter to you. Tell them they are not invisible to you.

  

I Said Yes

When people told me a year ago that I would one day stand again before groups of people as a speaker, I tried to hide the sadness in my eyes and the pain in my heart as I softly said, "That will never happen. I'm finished speaking ... that part of my life is over." What I didn't say to those folks was, "And that's as it should be ... it's my fault, and I'm getting what I deserve." You see, every single event I had booked through 2015 cancelled when I told the truth about who I am ... every single event ... and more than a few of the people who called or emailed to inform me they were cancelling didn't hesitate to tell me it was my fault and that I was getting what I deserved. What they didn't understand was that I didn't need them to tell me those things ... every single beat of my heart and every single pulse of my soul told me how unworthy I was. 

This evening, I spoke for a group of about 100 people, and the minute I walked into the room, that feeling of unworthiness swept over me in a big way. I had been nervous all day about speaking tonight, partly because I knew that some of the folks who would be attending are well-respected professionals. If you've been reading along with me for a while, you know how I freak out about wearing the appropriate attire for special events ... yep, when I walked into that room and saw all the people in their fancy business duds, I thought for sure I was going to throw up right in front of all of them. It didn't matter that I received a ton of compliments at work today about how sharp I looked ... I instantly felt like a fish out of water. And just like a fish out of water, I felt myself gulping for air as I wondered if it's possible to throw up as you faint. Thankfully, the person who had asked me to speak saw my obvious distress, made her way to me with a bottle of water, shoved me into a chair and said, "You need to calm down. You're okay ... just breathe and drink some water. You're going to do great ... breathe in ... breathe out ... take a drink. You can do this."

It wasn't until I stood looking into the eyes of the people tonight and began to speak that my nervousness started easing off. It was when I looked into their eyes that I knew we were the same. It was when I looked into their eyes that I knew why I was there. For those of you who are speakers, you know that there is often one person in a group who catches your attention ... one person who seems to be carrying a heavier burden than the others. Tonight that person was a man who looked to be around 50 ... a man who patiently waited at the end of the line of people who came to talk to me after the meeting was over. He asked if he could hug me, and as he did, he broke down and began to cry. He told me his name and said he is a counselor at a high school. He sobbed as he told me about students who are being bullied at school ... about a student who was bullied several years ago and ended up committing suicide ... about students who live in constant fear ... about students whose parents have rejected them. He asked me if I would be willing to speak to the students and teachers at his school.

Most of the time when I'm asked to speak now, I say I need time to think about it. And I turn down more requests than I accept. I didn't hesitate for even a moment as I said yes to the man this evening ... I said yes to him immediately. I have a friend who reminds me almost every day that not one step of my journey over the last year and a half has been random in any way. I think she's right. I think the high school counselor is why I was invited to speak tonight, and I think perhaps he was there tonight because there's someone at his school I need to meet.

I said yes, friends ... I said yes.

At Leash's End

Though I'm already dreading the arrival of spring storm season, I must say that I'm ready for warmer weather to get here. This winter seems to have been especially long and especially cold for many parts of the country, and I'm sure I'm not alone in being ready to trade in my indoor exercise routine for some nice long walks outside. There's just something about being outside ... it's soothing to me somehow ... the wind across my face, the sound of birds in the trees, the feel of the trail beneath my feet. And of course, walking outside means Ollie the wiener dog ... my loyal, faithful, bridge-running, squirrel and rabbit-chasing, happy-all-the-time, tail-wagging, people-loving wiener dog walking buddy.

Today was a sunny, warm day ... a touch on the windy side, but otherwise perfect for a long afternoon walk. It's been a couple of weeks since Ollie and I walked outside, and he was itching to go this afternoon when I grabbed his harness and the leash from the rack in the garage. As I clicked the lock on the retractable leash to keep Ollie close to my side as we crossed the main street, I thought as I have many times before what a wonderful invention the leash is. I remember the old days when leashes were only one length, and there was no option but to wrap the leash around my hand if I didn't want my dog walking too far ahead of me. Yep, with Ollie being the adventurous little hound that he is, I'm grateful for the retractable leash every single time we go for a walk.

When we reached the trail, it only took a moment for me to realize that every human and dog in every nearby neighborhood had decided to do the same thing Ollie and I were doing ... there were people and dogs everywhere. Ollie's excitement level about going for a walk went up a gazillion-fold when he saw all the other dogs, and he tugged with all his wiener dog strength on the leash, whining as he tried desperately to run ahead and greet each one of them. Knowing that I would have to keep the leash locked if we stayed on the trail, I immediately turned around and told Ollie that we were going to walk the more deserted route we take during the winter months when it gets dark early. He wasn't the happiest wiener in the world as I tugged him off the trail away from the other dogs, but it didn't take long for his jubilation to return once I unlocked the leash so that he could run up ahead of me on the sidewalk.

Ollie and I walked for more than an hour this afternoon, and for pretty much the entire walk, Ollie ran ahead of me ... he ran ahead of me as far as the leash would reach. I smiled as I followed behind him, watching as he did his little hopping and skipping run ... he really is an adorably happy little guy. My mind was racing as fast as Ollie's feet were hopping and skipping ... so fast that I almost missed something ... I almost missed something important ... something meaningful ... something that I should have seen and understood long ago. It wasn't until we were on our way home that I got it, that it struck me, that my mind slowed down enough to take it in ... the truth that walked before me ... the truth at leash's end.

As we approached one of the three streets we had to cross on our way home, I tugged on Ollie's leash to pull him close to me to keep him safe from the cars that were speeding by. The more I tugged on the leash, the harder Ollie pulled against me until I finally picked him up and carried him across the road. The minute his little paws were back on the road, he ran to the end of the leash as hard and as fast as he could ... so hard and so fast that when he reached the end, the jerk of the leash against his harness not only gave my shoulder a jolt, it also lifted my little wiener dog's front feet off the ground. I stopped dead in my tracks and said aloud, "Ollie, you need to slow down, buddy, before you hurt me and you both. Sometimes it's not good to run ahead ... sometimes it's better to walk. Why are you in such a hurry anyway? One step at a time, little guy ... one step at a time."

I guess Ollie understood that the words that came out of my mouth were meant more for me than him, because when my eyes began filling with tears, he turned and trotted back to me and pawed at my legs for me to lift him into my arms. Burying my face in his furry little neck, I whispered, "I'm the one who needs to stop trying to run ahead, Oliver ... I'm the one who needs to walk ... I'm the one who needs to trust the process and stop trying to run ahead. One step at a time, buddy ... one step at a time ... one step at a time." 

Ollie walked the rest of the way home close to me ... I don't know if he knew I needed him to walk by my side ... maybe it was that he needed me to walk by him. I do know that God can use anything He chooses to reveal His truth to me. I know that because today that truth walked before me ... today that truth walked before me at leash's end.

Maybe It's About the Story

Last night, I changed my cover photo on Facebook like I do every week or so. I'm not sure what made me start changing the image so often ... I remember having one certain photo as my Facebook cover for like a year or longer. As those of you who are friends with me on Facebook well know, sometimes the images I choose are somewhat unique ... like the orangutan photos for example (the story behind those pics deserves a post all its own, by the way). Sometimes the images I choose are of my kids or my granddaughter, and there's only one word that defines those photos ... love. Sometimes I use photos of majestic mountains or fiery sunsets or crashing waves ... those images remind me that the world is so much bigger than the tiny part I live in each day. But sometimes ... sometimes I run across an image that reaches out, grabs my soul and screams, "This one is for you, Terrie." 

The image I chose for my Facebook cover photo last night was one of those ... one of those that grabbed me the moment I saw it. In the background is a blurry image of an open book, and in the foreground are the words, "Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story." Powerfully intense words for someone like me who is so often driven by the desire to finish ... to be done ... to arrive ... to find the happy ending. Powerfully intense words for someone like me who worries so much about being done that I fail to appreciate how important the journey to that "doneness" truly is. I haven't been able to shake those words from my mind today ... "Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story."

If that's true ... if it really is about the story, then what is the story? The story is life ... the story is living ... the story is life and everything that comes with it. The story is the good and the bad and everything in between. There are times when the story is beautiful. There are times when the story is messy. The story is life. The story is honest. The story is deep. The story is family. The story is growing. The story is tears. The story is acceptance. The story is laughter. The story is real. The story is sharing. The story is glorious. The story is helping. The story is painful. The story is friendship. The story is love. The story is life, friends ... the story is life. The story is getting up every morning ... breathing ... living ... the story is life. 

"Maybe it's not about the happy ending. Maybe it's about the story."

Maybe it is about the story ... maybe it is indeed.

Yabba Dabba Do!

Ready for me to confess another deep, dark secret? Of course you are. But ... I'm warning you, you might want to grab a glass of wine or a beer before you continue reading because this confession is a biggie ... huge ... enormous ... gigantic even. Ready? Settled in with your beverage of choice in your nice comfy recliner? Alrighty then ... here it is ... wait ... I'm not sure I can reveal something so personal to the entire world. What if people hate me? What if I get a deluge of emails and messages bashing me? What if some of you stop reading if I admit the truth? Oh, yeah ... been there, done that already and lived to wear the t-shirt and tell the story, too. And we all know that which doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right? I know that some of you will never again view me in the same way ... that my confession may well cause you to question my sanity or doubt my intelligence ... that I am opening myself up to judgment and criticism. But if I haven't learned anything over the last year and a half, I've learned this ... there are times in life when I just have to pull up my big girl panties and be brave and courageous. So here goes ... I totally and completely love the old television animated series The Flintstones. Wow ... I guess confession really is good for the soul because I feel like I've had a weight lifted from my shoulders ... wow, wow, wow.

For many years, I could quite literally quote entire episodes of The Flintstones show ... not so much now, but for way more years than I will ever admit, I had memorized the lines of not one, not two, but every single character in the show. And ... okay, this is really going out on a limb ... I went through a phase when I constantly uttered the words "Yabba Dabba Do!" I said, "Yabba Dabba Do!" with a lilt in my voice when everything was going well or something great happened, and I said, "No Yabba, no Dabba, no Do," when life sucked or something lousy occurred. Yep ... I managed to work the words into almost every conversation I had and to express every emotion you can possible imagine. The words "Yabba Dabba Do!" just spoke to me for some reason, not the least of which is that they sound so stinking cool as they roll off my tongue. I even dressed up as a Flintstones character for Halloween a couple of years ... okay, okay, maybe it was more than just a couple of years. I have nothing to offer up in defense of my deeply rooted affinity for the odd cartoon series ... not one single, solitary piece of legitimate evidence ... except to say that I flipping love all things Flintstone. 

I'm sure you're wondering why I feel the need this evening to fess up about my obviously unrequited love for Fred and Wilma and Barney and Betty, so please allow me to explain. It was a recent conversation with my life-saving head doctor that brought my old pals back to mind ... a conversation about right vs. wrong, good vs. evil, acceptance vs. condemnation, truth vs. falsehood. In answering a question the good doctor posed to me concerning her belief that I have some ... ahem ... unresolved anger toward God, I told her I often feel like Fred Flintstone. Again ... please allow me to explain. Fred was generally a pretty good guy, but sometimes he, like me and quite possibly you as well, had an internal battle going on within his heart and mind. To portray Fred's internal struggle, the writers of the show created scenes in which an angel would appear on one of Fred's shoulders while a devil appeared on the other. And as Fred's heart and mind battle raged within him, both the angel and the devil chattered in his ears as they each tried to convince him they were correct in their assessment of the matter at hand.

The truth is I feel like my old buddy Fred most of the time ... like I've got an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other. And maybe the truth is that we all feel that way at certain times in our lives. Times when we are torn between believing or not believing, trusting or not trusting, listening or not listening, accepting or not accepting, speaking or not speaking, loving or not loving ... yep, that list could go on and on and on and on and on and on. If indeed we all feel as though we have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, it seems to reason that means that we ... in the ways that matter anyway ... are all the same. If we all have an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other, we are all equal in our struggles, equal in our triumphs, equal in our attempts to understand who we are and why we are here.

The good doctor left me with something to ponder and try to comprehend ... she told me that perhaps I need to consider that instead of having an angel on one shoulder and a devil on the other,  I have only angels. Angels ... to help me on my journey, to encourage me to accomplish the task that has been set before me and to make me a better person through the process. I decided today that If ever a thought deserves a "Yabba Dabba Do!" friends, it's that one ... it is that one indeed.

Come on and say it with me ... you know you want to ..."Yabba flipping Dabba flipping Do!"

So About Last Night ...

A couple of weeks ago, I baked a bunch of cookies and took them to work for my co-workers to enjoy. I sent an email to let them know the cookies were in the kitchen, and in that email I said that they benefit when I miss my kids. It made me chuckle when one of the young men came to my desk and said, "I don't mean this to sound selfish, Terrie, but I sort of like it when you miss your kids. These cookies are awesome!" As I'm sure many of you empty nest parents will agree, there are certain times of the year and certain events that cause me to miss my kids a whole, whole, whole lot. Such was the case yesterday as I readied myself for a certain television event that would be taking place in the evening. Yesterday, I missed my movie-making son in a big way ... so much so that my friends at work got to chow down on homemade butterscotch and chocolate fudge today.

Watching the Academy Awards has always been a big deal for my Bradley, even when he was pretty young. He would stretch out on the floor with his chin in his hands and watch with wide eyes as award after award was given out. I can remember more than a few times when he would fall asleep under the glow of the television and I would carry him upstairs to his room, tuck the covers around his sleeping little body and kiss him good night. I also remember how mad he would be at himself the next morning because he fell asleep. It's funny how the tables turned ... when Brad was a teenager, I was the one who would fall asleep as we watched the Oscars and he would wake me when the show was over and tell me to go to bed. Many, many years Brad and I watched the Academy Awards together, and last night as I sat on my couch watching the show with my canine companions, Julie and Ollie, I missed Brad ... I missed him a whole, whole, whole lot.

I must say that I thought last night's Academy Awards show was one of the best I've seen in several years ... come on ... Ellen as the host will always score big in my book. And if Ellen weren't enough, Pink sang "Somewhere Over the Rainbow" and Bette Midler ... yep, the divine Miss M herself ... sang "Wind Beneath My Wings." Seriously ... Ellen and Pink and Bette ... it just doesn't get any better than that. I was deeply moved by the appearance of Sidney Poitier, just as I also was by the participation of so many older generation actors. Perhaps it's due in part to the loss of two well-loved actors in recent months, Paul Walker and Philip Seymour Hoffman, but the show had a different tone to it this year in my opinion. It was almost as if there was an unstated sense of awareness and respect as to how brief life can be ... death eventually claims each one of us, both the common man and the super famous as well.

It seems fitting to close tonight's post with some words from what I considered to be one of the best acceptance speeches of all time. After winning the award for Best Actor in a Supporting Role, Jerad Leto spoke some words that touched not only my heart, but the hearts of millions around the world as well. Well done, Mr. Leto, well done.

"In 1971, Bossier City, Louisiana, there was a teenage girl who was pregnant with her second child. She was a high school dropout and a single mom, but somehow she managed to make a better life for herself and her children. She encouraged her kids to be creative, to work hard and to do something special. That girl is my mother and she’s here tonight. And I just want to say, I love you, Mom. Thank you for teaching me to dream.

"And this for the 36 million people who have lost the battle to AIDS and to those of you out there who have ever felt injustice because of who you are or who you love, tonight I stand here in front of the world with you and for you. Thank you so much and goodnight."

Dream On

“What hath night to do with sleep?” 
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

Up until roughly seven or eight months ago, I dreamed almost every night while I was sleeping. Not only did I dream a lot, I also remembered most of my dreams ... in fact, I even remember dreams I had years ago (and no, I don't mean the wolf dream I have when I'm running a fever ... everyone knows that my wolf fever dreams belong in a category to themselves). When all of a sudden for no apparent reason I stopped dreaming, it freaked me out just a bit ... okay, okay, it freaked me out a lot. Completely convinced that I must have some sort of rare "no more dreaming for you" type of disease, I did what I always do when I'm completely convinced that I must have some sort of rare disease ... I used the Google. You can only imagine my relief when I determined after many hours of research that my lack of sleepytime dreaming was most likely a side effect resulting from a change in the dosage of one of my medications. I also learned that in most people, the side effect wasn't permanent and in time they began dreaming again. Whew ... talk about putting my mind at ease. Gosh ... what's a life without dreams, eh? Proving that self-diagnosing via the Internet is always a smart idea, about a month ago my dreams did indeed return ... boy, did they ever.

I'm sure you've heard the phrase, "Be careful what you wish for," countless times ... as have I. And after months of wishing I would start dreaming again, I can most definitely, without a shadow of even a tiny bit of doubt, from the depths of my soul tell you to be careful what you wish for ... really ... be careful what you wish for. While I've had my share of weird or frightening dreams down through the years, I can't remember having a stretch of time when every single dream I had was strange ... until now. Please, allow me to explain. Last night I dreamed I lost my car ... not so crazy, right? Except that everyone I asked to help me find it told me I had to climb a marshmallow mountain, walk through hot lava, do 50 push-ups while wearing suspenders and a tie, and appear before the king of Candy Land and persuade him to tell me where my car was. And after I did all that, the knights of the Round Table pulled out their swords and tried to kill me. No, there's nothing at all weird or crazy about that dream ... not at all. Oh, but wait ...

The night before, I dreamed I was on an airplane ... again, not so weird ... frightening maybe, but not off-the-wall weird. Until I realized the plane was about to crash and I grabbed a rope and jumped out the back of the plane and landed safely on the ground ... where I was met by an army of soldiers who told me I was a traitor for leaving my fellow passengers to save my own skin. I woke up when I was crawling to the group of injured people from the plane after one of the soldiers conked me in the head with a giant ceramic teddy bear. And the night before that, I dreamed that some woman I had never met was holding my obviously severely wounded and bleeding Ollie the wiener dog up toward heaven like some sort of sacrifice as I tried desperately to break through the force field that separated me from him ... while I was eating string cheese and trying to buy a bottle of water from a street vendor pushing a silver cart with a live monkey riding on top. Nope, nothing bizarre or terrifying about those dreams ... nothing at all.

I'm sure all you dream interpreters are already hard at word deciphering the deep psychological meaning within my dreams, so here's a touch more info for you as you attempt to analyze the insanity of my mind. Many of my dreams now involve violent behavior of some sort ... violent behavior directed toward me or someone I love. I'm never violent myself in my dreams, by the way ... it's the other people doing all the stabbing, beating and shooting. I dream a ton about losing things or about being lost myself, and I also dream a lot about falling off of tall buildings or mountains. I still dream good, sweet dreams about my granddaughter and my children now and again, but a huge chunk of my dreams these days are dark and haunting ... so much so that if I could figure out a way to not sleep and still function, I'd do it in a heartbeat.

While I don't much care for waking up in the middle of the night, jumping out of bed, turning on the light and searching for Oliver the wiener dog under the covers to make sure he's OK or feeling the overwhelming need to check my garage throughout the day to make sure my car is there, I'm learning that even bad dreams can teach me some pretty important lessons about life. Lessons about valuing the moments I'm given each day ... moments to be kind ... moments to be loving ... moments to be understanding ... moments to be compassionate ... moments to be unafraid ... moments to be brave ... moments to be helpful ... moments to be honest ... moments to be sincere ... moments to be friendly ... moments to be courageous. Lessons about chasing my dreams ... lessons about never giving up ... lessons about dreaming bigger than I ever have before.

I'm tired, cold and yawning ... guess that means it's time to go to sleep and see where the land of dreams takes me tonight. Bring it, Mr. Dreammaker ... I'm ready to learn ... I'm ready to learn all the things you have to teach me. 

Dream on, friends ... dream on.