Forgiveness
Releasing a Dream
I was 11 when I began stalking Adam.
Growing up, I spent a lot of time at friend’s houses. One friend had a younger brother who played Little League and she and I would frequently be dragged along to his games. Now, as sophisticated and suave 6th graders, we were well above watching the 8 year old’s play. We were into the big boys.
I developed an intense crush on a 13 year old named Adam. He was tall and thin with long blond hair. The hair was the important part – put some long locks on any boy at the time and I would start drooling. Adam was like Prince Charming and Jon Bon Jovi all rolled into one. The scary thing is that I knew more about Jon Bon Jovi than I did Adam. You see, although I still have an entire roll of pictures of him, I never summoned the nerve to approach him at the field. He went to a different school, so the intel I had on him was scarce and somewhat suspect.
But I didn’t care. I was happy enough to create his personality and interests while watching him run the bases. I’d weave fantasies of us running off together. I had pictures of him in my school binders (binders full of Adam?) and on my walls. He may not have known who I was, but he was a major fixture in my life. This continued for the next two years.
One day I heard my mom call across the house,
“Lisa. Telephone.”
Picking up, “Hello?”
“Hey. It’s Adam. From the ballpark?”
I almost dropped the phone. It was a dream come true. I knew he had access to my number through a chain of friends, but I never imagined he would call.
Of course, I tried to play it cool.
“You go to —- high school, right?”
“Yeah.”
“A friend of mine goes there. Do you know —–?”
“Nope.”
“Do you play baseball for the school?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you play any other sports?”
“Nope.”
And that was what the entire conversation was like. All 30 minutes of it. He was nice enough, but he was no Prince Charming and certainly no Jon Bon Jovi. In fact, he was boring. He just happened to have long hair.
When I hung up the phone, I also hung up on my crush on Adam.
That was an easy dream to release. I had little invested in it and, as a boy crazy 13 year old, I had lots of other options on the horizon. He truly was easy come and easy go.
Not all dreams are so easy to release. The more time, effort and energy we have invested in a dream, the more we are committed to holding on even when all signs point to letting go. The more we see the dream as a reflection of ourselves, the tighter the binds to the image.
Dreams can be amazing and powerful motivators that help us make wonderful changes. They can inspire and encourage and carry us through the darkest days.
But some dreams are made entirely of fantasy. In order for a dream to become reality, it must contain elements of truth. If we hold tight to unattainable fantasies, we will never be content.
I faced this cold, hard fact dead on when my husband left. I had held tight to a dream of us growing old together. I saw us hand in hand with wrinkles covering our faces and our heads swathed in gray. That dream was no easy go. It was unbelievably painful as it was ripped from my grasp. But until I released it, I would not be happy.
So, how can you tell which dreams are inspirational and which are detrimental? How do you know if you should hold on or release your dream?
Fact Check: Don’t make the mistake I did with Adam. Check the elements of your dream against reality. Preferably sooner than later. Reality will hit regardless, but it’s nice to anticipate and plan for its arrival. Sometimes, the truth derails the dream entirely and sometimes it is merely a roadblock to work around. Regardless of what it is, awareness is key.
Alignment: Does your dream align with who you are and your core beliefs and needs? I see evidence of ignoring this one in the school system. Many second career teachers (especially in math) started out in fields where they were isolated all day. They had always dreamed of being an accountant/underwriter/etc., but they never though to realize that it didn’t align with their need for social interaction. Cue crushed dream.
Perspective: Sometimes the path to achieve a dream doesn’t become apparent until a new perspective has been gained. You pretty much have two choices here: keep on living and shelve the dream until your experiences give you direction or talk with others and hear their take on your aspirations. Of course, friends don’t always know what’s best. Mine encouraged my fantasies about Adam:)
Shift: Many dreams are not all or none. I’ve had fleeting fancies of running in the Olympics. But, let’s be honest. A 5’2″ 35 year old late in life runner has about as much chance of that as Tiger does of becoming president. So, a gold medal was out, but I could still shift my dream to running a marathon – the kind where they let anyone run:) Maybe the dream is the image that can motivate you to a more realistic reality.
And, for goodness sakes, if you have a crush on someone, don’t wait two years to talk to them!
Recalculating
Early April of 2010 was a strange time for me. My divorce had been finalized a few weeks before, I had given notice at my current school that I would not be returning the following year, I had just started falling for Brock and I was planning on moving to Seattle in June. I should have been in a panic. The life I was living had an expiration date. I didn’t know how I would make money or where I was going to live come June. I should have been scared of the unknown, especially since I am a planner by nature. Surprisingly, I was only slightly uncomfortable with the amorphous nature of my future. I think I was so relieved to have survived the divorce that I felt like I could accomplish anything.
I had been applying to school jobs online in the Seattle area, but I needed to visit the city in person to complete the background check needed to get my teaching certification in Washington. My friend and coworker, Carissa, was in a similar situation. She was ready to leave Georgia and wanted to move to the NW to go to graduate school. Like me, she had vague plans but nothing solidified. We decided to move against the spring break migratory patterns and visit Seattle that April. We planned on a combination of sightseeing and job hunting/ school searching while we stayed with my dad and his wife.
We rented a car and plugged in my GPS, which I packed since I had only been to Seattle once as adult (I was visiting Seattle the previous summer when I received the text that my husband had left). Now, if you are familiar with Seattle, you know there is an area through downtown where the interstate splits into 17 levels (okay, so maybe it’s more like 3, but it feels like 17). As Carissa and I were traversing that area in order to get from the airport to my dad’s house, the GPS instructed us to take a left turn from the top level where there was no place to turn. We ignored its command since we hadn’t taken out the extra rental insurance. A few moments later, the device announced, in a voice that sounded like a robot raised in Australia, “Recalculating.”
It became a common utterance of the GPS over the next week as we traveled around unknown areas. We laughed every time we heard that word and it became the theme of our week. I’m not sure if it was due to the excessive cloud cover in Seattle in the spring, our wrong turns, or divine providence, but I have never heard my GPS recalculate so much before or since. Carissa and I never became annoyed at the machine, we actually laughed harder each time it needed to recalculate. It wasn’t worth getting upset about. We trusted the GPS to get us there even if it took a different path than expected.
It was fitting, as Carissa and I were both recalculating ourselves during that trip. We went into the week with grand plans of interviews (for both) and university tours (for her). The reality? We went whale watching, took the underground tour, did the wineries, saw Vagina Monologues, listened to live music, visited the Pike St. market and hiked the foothills of the Cascades (every trip peppered with “recalculating”. We only made one future-related stop and that was to submit the fingerprints and other information for the background check in order to teach in Washington. Now, Carissa really wanted to take a break from teaching and become a full-time student. She was only applying as a back-up. Me? I had no desire to go back to school; I was applying to be able to bring in a paycheck.
Except I made the decision at the last minute not to complete the process.
My entire life, I have played it safe. I have always been conservative with career choices and money. I only took very calculated risks and generally only when I was okay regardless of the outcome. I’ve never been impulsive. I’m not one to fly by the seat of my pants. I am a planner to the nth degree. I find comfort and security in lists and spreadsheets.
But that week, I recalculated. I made the decision to put aside the plans (and, yes, spreadsheets) of the previous 8 months. I decided to shelve my preparations for a move to Seattle. I still don’t really know why I did it and I still can’t believe that I did. I chose to follow my instinct that spring rather than approach the situation more rationally. So, after traveling 3000 miles from Atlanta to look for employment in the NW, I started looking for Georgia jobs while seated on my father’s couch. Nuts? Absolutely. But, strangely, I felt calm about the decision.
Within a few weeks, I had a job in Atlanta lined up for the fall and I located an apartment. It’s a decision that I’ve never regretted but I still can’t fully understand. Yes, I had started seeing Brock, but that relationship was very young and we had no idea that it was going to persist. Honestly, at that time, I would have said that my need to escape from the memories of Atlanta was stronger than my feelings for Brock. So, why did I stay? What was it in that moment that allowed me to trust the GPS of my gut rather than the itinerary mapped out in my brain? I don’t know but I’m glad I listened.
It’s easy for us to try to fully plan our route through life. But sometimes, our vision becomes clouded or we make a wrong turn or divine providence intervenes and we have to recalculate. Sometimes we get upset when that happens. We want to get back on the planned route and continue the planned journey. We might get irritated at having our preparations interrupted.Yet, we never really know where a path will lead. Every journey has an element of faith. Sometimes we simply have to trust that a decision is the right one for us in the moment.
As a planner, I struggle with staying calm when things unexpectedly change. But now, when they do, I think back to that spring, Carissa and I laughing in the car, and my instinct leading me the right way. There’s nothing wrong with recalculating. Even if you traveled a long way to do it.
Now, if I could only go whale watching in Atlanta:)
I’ve Fallen – But I Can Get Up!
I’ve just returned from my first ever – Gulp! – ski trip.
Experienced skiers – prepare to chuckle.
I was nervous yet excited for the trip. I was looking forward to time in the mountains (always a favorite of mine) and some quality time with my man. The nerves? Those were because I knew that I would have to face my nemesis – downhills.
As we drove the last few miles to Sugar Mountain in Banner Elk, North Carolina, winter suddenly appeared. The temperature plummeted as our elevation climbed and clear skies were replaced by a steady snowfall. The slopes were obscured by the snow and haze. This was probably a good thing since I was unable to see the full extent of the hills!
Loaded down with gear, I made my way over to the ski school while my fiance went off on his own to tackle the blue slopes. There were 15 of us in the lesson, lined up like dominoes along the gentle slopes of the school area. After learning the basics of the equipment, we were instructed to slide down the hill, one at a time, to practice the “pizza” pose (they’re used to teaching kids!) used to slow down your descent. I was the fifth one in line. Each time the instructor skied back up to the top of the line, I clarified a piece of his directions. I wanted to make sure that I understood what to do. Of course, knowledge is only the beginning – I then had to apply it. When it was my turn, I scooted out of the line and pointed my skis down the hill. With a slight push of the poles, I was off and moving. I was so focused on the placement of my feet, I neglected to be aware of my center of gravity. I overcompensated and started to fall backwards as my feet kept moving forwards. The instructor grabbed my hands and I slid between his legs. If this was a swing dancing lesson, I would have earned a gold star!
It was comforting to be in the presence of other beginners. We were all (way) out of our comfort zones. We were all scared of the skis on the slick snow. We all tried to control our speed and trajectory, some with more success than others. Some gave up. Others were cautious yet continued. And some threw themselves down the hill with reckless abandon. As for me? I’ll let you guess:)
I only had three opportunities to slide down the hill under the watchful eye of the instructor. Each time, I required his help. At the conclusion of the one hour lesson, I was exhausted. Not physically, but mentally. I kept my fears in check and relaxed into the experience but this took more out of me than I could have imagined. After a brief reunion with Brock, I elected to rest for awhile and then return to the school area to practice some by myself. I was very cautious while I was practicing. There were new skiers and young children everywhere. I didn’t trust my ability to avoid them, so I spent much of my time patiently waiting for a clear path. I did discover a strength of mine during that session – I may stink at going down the hills, but I was the best in the bunch at walking uphill in skis:) New sport, maybe?
At our next meeting, Brock encouraged me to tackle the green slope with him. Now, at this point, I had done maybe ten “runs” down very mild hills that were each about ten yards long. Not exactly a lot of practice! I was hesitant. I am way more cautious than he is and I was concerned that he was trying to push me further than I was ready to go. But I trusted him and it turned out he was right.
Now, this green slope in question is a real run. It takes several minutes on a lift to get the top. Surprisingly, I was okay on that first trip to the top. I was slightly nervous, but okay. Brock was coaching me on the way, telling me what to expect and giving me encouragement. Even with the coaching, I still slid into a crumbled mess as I left the lift.
That was my first real fall with no swing dancing moves to keep me off the snow. Much to my surprise, I was overtaken with laughter. It turns out that falling is fun. It’s just the getting up that sucks!
After much shifting and pushing and pulling, I managed to stand upright on the level surface at the top of the slope. I took a deep breath, pointed my skis down the hill, and took off. I made it about twenty feet before I fell again, a pile of Lisa shaking with laughter. That first trip down took forever. Sometimes I fell and sometimes I panicked due to speed or the proximity of others and I bailed by sitting down. But I made it and I never panicked. And, I had LOTS of practice in learning how to stand up again!
As I sat in the snow at the base of the run, I realized that I had carried expectations into this trip. I thought I would be in the “classroom” the entire time. I didn’t think I would be able to complete a “real” run. I thought I would freeze in fear. It felt so good to prove myself wrong.
The next day, I tackled that same run three more times. The first one of the day held a surprise. We were on the lift, about halfway to the top, when I started to violently shake, panic moving through my body. Why was this happening? I knew the course now and I knew I could make it. I guess I had enough experience to be scared but not enough to be comfortable yet. Brock helped me refocus and breathe and the moment my skis (okay, butt – I fell immediately again!) hit the snow, I was fine.
Each run was better than the last. By the end, I didn’t fall at all and I only bailed twice – once soon after the lift and again midway down the steepest slope. Brock followed behind me shouting, “My baby’s a skier!”
And, I guess I am.
I love those experiences that cause me to revise my view of myself. I always said that I could not go down hills, run a race, cook a meal or write a book. I used to say I could not live without my husband. I like proving myself wrong.
It felt so amazing fully submitting to the experience, letting go and leaning forward into the ride. I found freedom in the downhills which once only held fear. Brock’s support and encouragement added to my trust fund for him. But even more importantly, I learned how to to trust in myself and in my abilities. And, I learned that I when I fall, I can get up again.
Thanks to my new friend, Paulette, author of The Persecution of Mildred Dunlap, I am up and running (okay, maybe walking:) ) on Goodreads. I’m doing a giveaway to celebrate. If you’re interested in winning a free copy of Lessons From the End of a Marriage, visit my book page!
Dulling the Knife’s Edge
This was one of my first posts on this site (back when I had all of 4 followers, I think). I put it on Facebook today and it’s been generating some interesting feedback so I thought I would repost it again here. Enjoy:)
When I first felt the raw, unwashed trauma of my divorce, I would direct anger and indignation towards anyone who blithely told me that time heals all wounds. How foolish they must be, I thought. They must have never been through any challenges. How could the mere rotation of a clock hand soften the shock and pain of being utterly betrayed from the inside out? I scoffed at the notion.
Luckily for me, time continued on, ignorant of my harsh view of it.
The changes were so subtle at first, I did not notice them. The improvement from one hour to the next too small to be measured. But it was there nonetheless.
As time continued its relentless linear path, my pain followed suit in an inverse relationship, although in a much more randomized pattern. I became accustomed to the things causing my discomfort, and so I was not as aware of them. The pain, once so alien, became familiar and no longer needed attention. Anniversaries came and went and I survived. I layered memories, replacing painful ones with fresher happier ones. The hardest times occurred with diminishing frequency and lessening intensity.
I still dismiss the notion that time will heal all wounds; time is no surgeon, ready to excise the malignant past. However, time does dull the knife’s edge of past traumas, lessening their ability to cause that searing pain, that sharp intake of breath when the blade pierces your heart. The pain becomes duller, more distant, more manageable. It’s as though its initial razor edge is dulled by time dragging it through the rocks lining the river of life, new experiences whittling away the once-sharp edge.
While waiting for the blade of your trauma to dull, carry lots of bandages and always be wary of the edge.
Lessons From the End of a Marriage 