Never Stop Dating

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(This photo was taken in February 2006. This was our second date. On our first date,  I was too busy worrying if had bad breath, something in my nose or if I was sweating to bother taking pictures.)

Dating. I have done my share of it. I have had blind dates, almost blind dates, prom dates, awkward dates, disappearing dates, boyfriend dates and even… sigh… tried online dating.

That last one was a disaster. I would like to say it is because of them, but I cannot. People lie on their online dating profiles all the time. I would say I never lied, but I did use a picture that was about ten years old. It was a really great picture and my hair was pretty much the same. I was, however, about 5… um 10, yikes, maybe 15… pounds lighter. I showed myself in the most positive light possible. I guess you are supposed to do that, right?  At the end of the day, I don’t think anyone on a dating site is being completely forthright.

All of that said, that dating experience was before I got married. Yes, because when you get married, or even date for a number of years, you can’t really “date” anymore. At least, that is the way I guess I always thought about it. Sure, married couples go out to dinner and take in a movie, but those awkward little dating moments are gone. “Does he like Italian? I do, I mean, he suggested a Japanese steakhouse, but that heat will jack up my hair and makeup, with its accompanying greasy humidity. But, if I say no, then I will be high maintenance. I do not want that. What was I thinking about Italian? Hello? Garlic. What if I want to kiss him later? Oh, dear, I just suggested the slasher movie and his nose wrinkled. Maybe something was in his eye. Oh, he wants to see a romantic comedy? What? Is he just saying that because I am a chick and he assumes that’s what I really want to see?”

When married, you know all of these answers, right? He knows I don’t really like the steakhouse. I know he won’t touch Thai. We agree on pizza, but the toppings are different on each side. He will never watch a slasher flick or a romantic comedy. He likes the deep, thought provoking stuff. We watch a lot of sports. Then we argue about teams and coaches. It’s familiar and comfortable. Sometimes, I think those two words have a romance squashing effect on our psyches.

Here is the thing: every time I have a date with my husband, I learn something about him I never knew. We set these outings up as dates, and we treat them like dates. He inevitably, will smile that smile and the light will hit those blue-green eyes just the right way, and I am suddenly back to the first time I saw him, really saw him, and thought, “He is so hot.” We bicker, push buttons and we laugh. I have never walked away from one of our married-people-dates feeling like we wasted our time. In fact, it is all time very well spent.

Truth be told, if I wrote a book about love, it would most likely be titled “Don’t Do What I Did”. That was actually going to be the name of my one-day-to-be-published self-help book. I guess it could be called “Don’t Do What I Did, II (How to Make a Perfectly Rational Person Never Want to Date Again)”.   I do know one thing for certain, if you do not take the time to nurture a relationship, it will not grow. The bloom will be off the rose.

I know how it is. We get busy. There are things to get done around the house. There are bills and responsibilities and, for some couples, kids. The relationship, the friendship, the “this is why I love this guy” moments, are important too. Life is hard. Your spouse can be your refuge, no matter how much you may want to choke them sometimes.

Don’t just go out to dinner, see a movie or a concert. Go on a date. Set a time and pick a place- just the two of you. You do not have to spend a lot of money. Spend the time. Put down the phone, look at this person you chose to be with, and focus on them.

My husband still roots for the wrong college teams. He leaves crumbs all over the counter. He forgets to take pens, gum and sharp things out of his pockets before he puts his pants in the laundry. But, when we are together, away from the house, just the two of us, even when he is talking about the wrong team, he is my boyfriend again. We are on a date. Sometimes, I even get butterflies. Most of the time he gets a kiss goodnight. He always gets another date.

Closed, open or just a little cracked?

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From the moment I lost my job, back in May, people have said some variation of the cliché’, “When one door closes, another door opens.”  In my heart of hearts, I have not only known this to be true, I have said it to other people before.  But, to be on the receiving end of these words of comfort- that are really about the only thing you can say to a friend or loved one who has lost something they dearly loved, can make you want to lance your own eardrums.

In the moments after a job loss, there is a certain degree of numbness. It doesn’t last long, though; self-pity and fear flood through the cracks around that closed door. If you allow these two emotional cancers to overtake you, they absolutely will. Fortunately, I am surrounded by good, strong people who are not about to let me be consumed. These are people who are honest enough to say, “Hey, get up, dust off, and look around you. This will all work out.”

I have been sending out resumes like a mad woman. I am on every job site in existence. It has been a real challenge to explain how my TV reporter and weather lady skills translate into the real business world. It is, sadly, very easy to get discouraged. I have been reading a lot of inspirational quotes, hoping for some magic words. I actually found a few. “Do what you love! Love what you do!” I like that. It got me thinking.  I write a couple of magazine columns. I love that. It doesn’t pay the bills and takes a lot of time, but it doesn’t feel like drudgery.

I also discovered I love doing wedding ceremonies. At first, it was just a thing to do for friends. I really love to write wedding ceremonies. I enjoy the whole process, and will put a lot of time into it, just because it is fun. I get to know my friend and his/her betrothed really well. I learn new love stories. I meet families and find more proof of just how alike we all really are. Now, I have done a few weddings for strangers, and find it just as rewarding. It takes a lot of effort, but it never feels like work. That is not how a career is supposed to feel- at least that is the impression I have always had. They call it “work” for a reason, you know.  Well, there really are people who do what they love and love what they do.

In the course of building this wedding officiant business, I accidentally discovered I enjoy doing funerals, after I was asked to officiate one for a friend. I know “enjoy” and “funeral” are not typically in the same sentence. I do not relish the pain and heartache of death, but I do consider it a privilege to celebrate a person’s life, to help their families say goodbye. I get to know more about people- their life stories- and come to appreciate them even more.

Planning ceremonies brought out another passion: helping people. I have coached couples on a few of those pesky little issues that are easy enough to remedy, with just a little objective perspective. I am not afraid to tell it like it is, which is why this sort of “coaching” has always come easily to me with my friends. Just as I was wondering if I should really consider life coaching, came another little ray of light from that slowly opening “other” door. I was asked to do quality of life classes with cancer patients. I am teaching them about journaling and getting to the heart of their feelings. They are teaching me more about living than I may ever be able to completely absorb.

The “other door” is opening. Maybe it is just a window; or, maybe this whole doors and windows closing and opening isn’t right either. It is still quite early in my journey. I do not know where exactly I am heading. Each day, it seems, another puzzle piece falls in my path. I have been pocketing them for weeks; now, it is time to find a picnic table, where I can stop for a moment and start putting the pieces together and see the emerging picture.

What I am discovering is a “calling”. I am, for the first time, truly hearing it. I think those voices have been audible for a long time, but I tuned them out. I have been giving “should” and “practical” and “you can’t do that” my full attention- they have been blaring in my headphones for years. Well, another internet quote has inspired me to change the station, if you will, “Whatever you focus on gets bigger”, or, in this case, louder. I am cranking up the volume on the voice of purpose, listening for that door to crack, or that puzzle piece to land. If I focus there, the sound will get louder and life will get bigger.

The Day of the Black Dog

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The beautiful black Labrador Retriever, pictured here, was my Taurus. He gave the world seven years of unconditional love.

Taurus was the first dog love of my life. I did not really grow up with dogs. My mom has severe allergies. So, when I moved in with my boyfriend- when I was about 24- his dog, Taurus, was part of the package.

I could not understand why this guy let A DOG sleep on the bed. I could not understand a lot of things about the bond this man had with his pet. Then, one day, I was lying in bed, crying and very down and Taurus hopped up beside me and laid his head next to mine. I started to spoon him and love on him, and some of the sadness started to fade away. When I got home from work, late at night, this big lug would greet me happily- almost as if he had been worrying he would never see me again.

When I moved to Detroit, to take a job at a TV station, Taurus and my then-husband stayed behind in Wyoming. I searched high and low for a place I could afford to rent, that would allow me to have a dog. That was back in 1995, and dog-friendly rentals were harder to come by than they seem to be these days. I found a place. The decor was not great, but the neighborhood was safe, and Taurus was allowed.

My sweet boy never made it to Michigan. Back in Wyoming, while my ex-husband was at work one day, a neighbor, with whom we had never had any interaction, slithered into our yard and shot Taurus. He took Tar’s lifeless body back to some vacant land behind our neighborhood and dumped Taurus like garbage. After searching high and low, my ex-husband learned the awful truth and we were devastated. The “man” was fined $600 and went on with his life, suffering no real punishment.

This is National Black Dog Day. There is a good reason for it, as quoted here:
“According to the official National Black Dog Day website, the day was started because “too often, black dogs are overlooked because of many stigmas such as; the color black is evil (the same stigma that cats have), black dogs do not show up as well in photographs as muti-colored or light colored dogs and black dogs look scary and intimidating because you cannot see their facial expressions as easily … This special day is devoted to creating public awareness about these beautiful, shiny fur babies that offer just as much unconditional love as any other dog and deserve just as much love back. … Please adopt a black dog and show the world how much light they have inside and out!”

It is getting close to Halloween. The sickos are out. They like to hunt down black cats and dogs and do- I don’t even want to know what- with them. Please, keep your pets safe, close, and inside when you are not home.

There was not a lick of evil in Taurus. Sure, he may have eaten a cassette tape, a couple of hampsters, an entire case of cinnamon buns, and a box of Valentine’s chocolates (on my white couch)- but who hasn’t?  He made me fall in love with dogs. He made me understand the bond. Black dogs and cats are no different from the rest. It has been a long time since I last kissed those silky black ears and looked into those big brown eyes. I will never forget him. He truly changed my life and made me a better person.

They were not just “the two American journalists”

Second American Journalist murdered by ISIS- Steven Sotloff, just two weeks after they beheaded James Foley. While the headlines spark political debates and finger pointing, all I can think about are the parents of these two young men. To lose a child in such a horrifying way, even after pleading for his life, in Shirley Sotloff’s case, is unfathomable.
To the world Sotloff and Foley are “the two beheaded American Journalists”. But, at the end of the day, these were two women’s babies. They carried them, gave birth to them, saved their first teeth and locks of hair. They snapped pictures of them going off to prom, watched them graduate from college. I wonder if all of these moments keep flashing through their minds, or if all they can think of are the inescapable images taken from their sons’ final moments.
Be angry at whomever you want. Blame Obama. I am sure the Westboro Baptist Church has found a way to blame homosexuals. None of that can possibly matter to the parents of Steven and James. These were two men who had whole lives, filled up with memories and experiences, just like the rest of us.
My heart hurts each time I see Steven or James’ parents on the TV or internet. No parent should out-live their child, but I do not even want to imagine how destroyed my mother and father would be if one of us were slaughtered. I spoke with my own mother once about a TV character’s last words before she died a horrible death, “tell my mother it didn’t hurt.” My mother got teary eyed and said she could not bear to think of one of her children suffering in their final moments- or any moment.
There is no way to lie to James or Steven’s mothers and tell them that “it didn’t hurt”. They know, graphically, how their babies’ lives ended. Yes, we have to “do something”, certainly try to stop this brutality, but while the bickering ensues, my heart and my thoughts are with the parents of Steven and James right now.

(I am not posting a link to any article, because they all take you to a page with some still shot of the final moments of one of these two men. I refuse to endorse that.)

Meditation and Squirrles

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I have taken to meditating on a daily basis. There are about a zillion ways to do it: guided imagery, closing your eyes and drifting off with some “yoga class” music in the background. I have tried those. Lately, though, I just sit comfortably, eyes closed and try to empty my mind of my own thoughts- “quieting the mind” they call it. It is how some people say they hear God or whatever sort of higher power they are into- even Carl Sagan.

When I first started doing this, I heard my own voice, making a grocery list, remembering something I was pissed off about or wondering how long I had been sitting with my eyes closed. I sometimes ended up making some impossible to-do list in my brain, then starting to freak out about how I would never get it done. I can tell you, I am certainly no expert, but I am fairly certain, this is not the purpose. It sure isn’t “quieting the mind”.

It actually takes practice to clear your mind. I was taught to come up with a word to bring me back to that quiet place, when thoughts started flooding my mind. The word can be anything- love, God, mustard; I don’t think it matters. Since I started, some very cool things have happened.

Yesterday, I sat on my front porch to meditate. We live surrounded by trees. I could hear birds chatting and a squirrel building a nest. When my mind drifted, the word “be” is what brought me back. Kind of funny because that is what those little creatures were doing. They were not comparing themselves to one another. They were not wondering who had the bigger nest. They were just doing what they were made to do. They were just “being”. They each had a purpose, and seemed content. I didn’t ask them how they were feeling, so I am making assumptions; but work with me here.

Later that day, it occurred to me, that I compare myself, my life, my house, my fill-in-the blank to others’ all of the time. In fact, I think comparing and judging are almost an unconscious, constant thing a lot of humans do. The funny thing is, that kind of, often self-defeating comparison is ridiculous, and potentially damaging to our spirits. We all have a purpose, a place in this world. It is not like I looked up at the squirrel’s nest later and thought, “Man, he really rocked that. The other squirrels have been out-shined.”

I also didn’t start feeling less-than because I was not capable of scaling a tree and building a nest like that. Honestly, I do not think my comparing myself to a squirrel is much more logical than my comparing myself to my neighbor, Jessica Simpson, or the kid who makes my coffee at Tim Horton’s every morning. (He does a fantastic job, by the way.) This, for me, has become the purpose of meditation: getting a better understanding of who I am meant to be.

There are a whole bunch of people who want to tell you the right way and the wrong way to meditate, too. That is just more fuel for comparison. How about the way that works for you? That would be your way.

We were each designed for something different. There is no better or worse. The sooner we get off of that mindset, I bet, the happier most of us will be. I know it is helping me.

Now, I am off to see which mama bird made the best nest this year. They are having a contest, you know.

My Best Race Ever

Warning: some of the information contained in this post will be considered TMI by some readers. But, this is me… what else would you expect?
Today was my 5th running of the mile Crim in Flint. It is I really where, why and how my running life began at the age of 41. I think I am far more tortoise than hare, to begin with, but today’s finish was by far my slowest. It was also the best damn Crim I’ve run.
I waited at the start line with my running posse. Susan and I stuck together until about mile 4. I told her I needed to do the earbuds- and “focus”, instead of talking because this was going to be my year to not come in LAST place in my age group. I had big dreams of a personal record.
At mile 4.5, I had the mortifying sensation that I was going to pee my cute little running skirt. I carefully “pulled over” and sat on someone’s lawn, as if taking a little break and just peed. What are you going to do? It’s one of the many things that happens in your 40’s that NO ONE warns you about. (You can thank me later).
At about mile six- heck yes, I kept going- the sensation hit again. I was right by a frat house and straight up told the guy, who looked like the life of the party, about my imminent crisis. He brought me inside and let me have at least a shred of dignity in their facilities.
At this point, I knew I was probably out of contention for the top three finishers in my age group- I was actually never in contention for that, but I built up my expectations. After two full marathons and nearly a dozen half’s, I had to bang out a big finish at some point, right? The most likely result of most of our expectations is disappointment. There are some things we just can’t predict or plan for.
Suddenly, at mile 7, I stopped sweating and was covered in goosebumps. I felt really dizzy. There were some paramedics. They invited me to sit down and they checked out my vitals. They were calling over an EKG cart. All I could think was, “oh, hell no. I am finishing this thing. Just about then, my friend, a nurse, named Debbie, appeared out of nowhere. We walked the rest of the race. According to my Garmin, I finished in 2:24. I haven’t looked up my official Crim time because, who cares, really?
At the end of the race, all that mattered was all that ever has truly mattered I finished. Things did not go the way I wanted them to. I did not break a personal record. I did not finish with a dry running skirt. I did finish.
I think the biggest mistake I make in life is building up expectations. I don’t want to bum out the Dale Carnegie crowd- setting goals and achieving dreams are important to our growth. But, I’ve come to find that it’s often the things that don’t quite go as planned or hoped bring about the greatest rewards. Sometimes, you are going to pee your pants and plans change, but that will only ruin the experience if you let it.
My spirit expands every time I accept that I really don’t have control over the universe, life- and sometimes now, not even my bladder.

Thanks to all of the 11,000 plus participants in the Crim today. Each of you inspire me, every single year.

If You Want to be a Writer… Write

 

So simple, yet I can make it so complicated. I don’t just do this with writing, I do it with any “dare to dream” venture that comes into my head. The moment I think “I can do this,”  that negative voice will start to argue. I have to remember that is the same voice that chirped things like, “you are not an athlete. You can’t run,” while I struggled to finish my first marathon. I finished anyway.

I wanted to run, so I ran. I actually sort of meandered my way to the finish line- but I finished.  When I think, “I want to be a writer,” I could always just remind myself that I already am a writer. If I can convince myself, while I am taking a lengthy walk break that I am a runner, I can certainly trust the inner voice that tells me I am a writer. We are all writers and runners, if we say we are. We will not all win a Peabody, nor will we all qualify for the Boston Marathon.

If my only point in doing anything is proving I am the best, I might not start anything. All I have to be is the best me. I am the best runner I can be. I am the best writer I can be. At then end of the day- at the end of my life- I want to know I was the best me I could be.

Doubt is really the voice of laziness. It is the voice that says “don’t bother”, because the energy required to start seems so impossible to muster. I have a meditation book called “Start Where You Are”. That title always sort of irritated me. Anything that I can make terrifyingly complicated merely because it is profoundly simple is irritating to me. Now, I think I get it. If I start with “I am”, instead of  “I want to be”, my odds of just doing whatever “it” is are much higher.

Be what you want to be- I mean that quite literally. Decide what you are and be that. Be the best whatever-it-is you can be. Do not worry about how anyone else is doing it. Just be your best.

So, here I am… writing. I am a writer. 

The Choice is Ours

two-choices-panic-crush-itIf you had the chance to do it all over again, would you choose the same career? If not, what would you do instead?

I find myself at one of those times in life when I am faced with either the opportunity or the necessity to re-invent myself. Which of those positions I am in is contingent on whether I am in glass-half-empty or half-full mode at any given moment.

Losing a job is certainly life-altering. Since I just lost mine, I have had a lot of people tell me about their own experiences with this great curveball of life. What I am learning is that whether you see it coming, are laid-off, “not renewed” or just plain fired, it does not feel good. It is really an assault on every aspect of your life. Your finances take a hit, as do your sense of security and your ego. Oh, much of the time, the ego stings the most.

With all of that said, I am learning that if I can choose to see it as a blessing or an opportunity, I am not only going to survive, I will thrive. The trick is keeping myself in that enlightened state. So, here I am, returning to my safest form of release- my keyboard.

I have been fired before. Burger King and I parted ways at the end of a rather stressful shift at the drive thru window. It was hardly my dream job, but it paid for cute tops and nights out with my high school girlfriends, so I wanted to keep the gig. Alas, the drive thru is not a job for the faint of heart. If you crack under pressure, especially on short-turn around shifts, the drive-thru at any fast food restaurant, and its built-in requirement of a customer-friendly disposition, are not for you. Let’s just say I was not customer friendly, and leave it at that for now.

I was 16 when I lost my drive thru crown. I am 46 now. Sure, a small percentage of my current pay check went to buying cute tops, but that is not the really hard part here. The hard part is that it is kind of scary to be middle-aged, and let go from a job in a career you have had for 24 years. Sure, I can look for another job in my field, but what if I want to change gears? Isn’t this the perfect time? There is one key thing standing between me and this “when one door closes, another opens” mentality: fear.

So, as fear attempts to slither its way into this situation, faith is whispering in my ear that this is all going to work out. As much as I want to tell myself that I can not help being fearful or emotional, I have to remember that I do get to choose how I respond here. I can lean into my faith or be overcome by fear. Faith is actually easier, once you get past the whole “trusting the universe will see you through” thing.

Just as I was about to let fear take me down, something pretty amazing happened. While reading many posts on my facebook newsfeed about the passing of the great Maya Angelou, I came across a quote of hers, “we may encounter many defeats, but we must not be defeated.” I can be overcome or overcome. It is a choice we all get to make every minute of every day.

God… I Think, and I Thank

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I know a lot of people have a tough time during the Thanksgiving/Christmas season because they lost loved ones. This is my holiday, I suppose. Easter week is usually tough for me. I lost my Grandfather Cam the day after Easter, after spending that entire week watching him slowly devoured by the final stages of cancer. Taurus, THE dog who sparked my passion for the entire, amazing canine species, was shot and killed by my crazy neighbor, just days before Easter.  My robustly healthy, vibrant, smart, sassy Grandmother Edith lost her battle with cancer just days before Easter. This year, while the hurt is still there,  the season is different for me.

My failed attempt at sticking to a self-inflicted Lent kind of had me feeling down on myself.  In fact, a friend asked me today how my Lent has been. She wondered if I had any sort of epiphany. I said no, and beat up on myself a little, using some of my traditional snarky, self-defeating lingo, “I suck…” blah, blah, blah. It is so easy to just say, “I suck”, and throw this Lent experiment into the “failed attempts” junk drawer- er, closet- in my psyche. How convenient. I could even pull a, “well, this is the saddest time of the year” card out of my back pocket. I could. I will not.

I guess I have had my epiphany. I decided, on a whim, to take a crack at Lent. I had perfect fodder for a few blog posts, to get me back in the habit of posting regularly. It was to be yet another start in my revolving door of fits and starts with this thing, followed by another, “what the heck happened” post, riddled with chippy, one-liners. I am not going to do it this time. If it seems like I am doing it, I am not.

I guess I have had my epiphany. What the heck happened was, I started yet another “thing” with great intentions, but zero drive and no honest desire. More than that, I started without a real plan. This was not really about giving up my favorite snacks to show some contrived empathy for  what Jesus suffered. At least, I know that can’t really be what this whole thing is about. Right? While not eating white bread and chocolate cake, etc. may feel like I am being tortured, it is hardly a crucifixion. Perhaps that is the real story here. We make these things- things that are not even really good for us- so important in our lives, when they really aren’t. The whole torture of giving them up is all in our minds. This stuff is important because we make it that way.

Life is what is really important. How did I live my life? How did I love? Did I give? Was I selfish? I think of the three significant lives that were snuffed out of my own, personal universe during this season, and I know that whether they were able to give up cupcakes or Milk Bones, for that matter, were not really what was on my mind after they were gone. Today I still remember them for how they lived. 

So, my dear friend Mary, in answer to your question: I guess I have had a moment of clarity. How am I living my life? I hope my only legacy will not be that I was not able to resist the divine temptations of simple carbohydrates during Lent. What is my life about? It seems like more of a question than an epiphany. For me it is still growth. It is a more enlightened question than, “does this bag of Dove chocolates make my butt look big?”

Thank God for small stuff- and it is all really small stuff. (I stole that last line)

Lent, Week 1 Down, Down…

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Yes, I titled this with “down, down”. Yes I am hearing “Rock Lobster” in my head, right at the part where Fred Schneider is singing “down, down” and picturing people at one of my high school dances sinking to the floor.
How? Why? What? Yes, well, perhaps it has something to do a certain Nutella and pretzel scoops incident this week. Yes, I cheated on Lent. I made a promise to God and broke it. Does it really get much worse?
Actually, yes, it does. It does get worse. It happened more than once. But, it also gets worse than cheating on God. In fact, I did not cheat on God. I did not cheat on Lent. I simply cheated myself. I broke a promise. I am not hurting God. I hurt me.
While I explore all of the underlying meanings of this violation, I can laugh at myself.
Suddenly, it all makes sense to me.
My first thought was to pretend I never even started this stupid blog and just quit updating it.
“No,” I thought, “you have done that a bunch of times. You always come back to this, so some part of you wants to do this.”
Having established that I would, in fact, update this thing, I had to figure out how to finesse this whole “cheating” thing. My knee-jerk solution: just leave it out. Yes, a nice lie by omission. Nothing screams, “spiritual growth” like dishonesty.
So, here I am, telling on myself. I am getting back on the bike and pedaling. It is not exactly the first time in my life that I have started something, and gone off course, and simply swerved back on.
Something about not doing it perfectly makes it all sort of dirty in my mind- like a dress with a spot right in the middle of it. My first reaction is that my Lent is ruined.
Actually, it is not ruined at all. It is better because I get to look at why I went there- to Nutellaville. This is a time of renewal and growth. If everything moves along placidly until Easter Sunday, then I pound down an industrial sized jar of Nutella, what have I gained?
If I find out why I tend to listen to the voice that says, “c’mon, it’s just one time. It’s Nutella, it’s like a nut-butter really”, then what have I really lost?
I will take the counsel of that self-defeating voice, even when my higher inspiration is screaming to my psyche, “hey, what are you doing? You are just going to feel bad about this right after it happens- probably even while it is happening.”
Meanwhile, I am sticking to and thriving with the “spending time with God” part of my Lenten journey. I kind of think this Nutella incident is just part of my spiritual growth.
It made its point. Now, I am here, telling the truth. I am not little Miss Lent 2014, Chaste Princess of Virtue. I am just a chick, trying to connect to God, and to grow. That is all still happening.
Until next time.