Making progress despite standing still

It’s been about a week since I restarted my juicing reboot. The good news is that I’m down about 12 pounds (I’m counting what I lost before I started blogging about it). The bad news is that I had to take a break when I caught a bad cold and just “needed” the comfort of bagels and crackers — bad, bad carbs. After about 2 days of horrible carb loading, it occurred to me that the whole point of juicing real fruits and veggies was to heal my body, so I have quickly returned to juicing.

The truth about juicing real fruits and veggies — produce in its natural state — is that once the body gets a taste of the good stuff, it craves the good stuff. My body can do so much more with the proper nutrients than it could ever hope to do with refined sugar, preservatives, and whatever else the monstrous food companies decide to allow in their factories and, subsequently, into my food. I’m happy report that just 1 day after returning to juicing, I’ve noticed my congestion has drastically diminished. I’ll take the ability to breathe over a sugar high any day!

So, I’ve been experimenting with produce combinations, and lately I’m enjoying the orange drinks best. Here’s a recipe you might want to try:

3 carrots, 1 peeled lemon, 1 peeled grapefruit, and 1 red bell pepper. Juice and serve cold. 

I do try to drink more green juices than red or orange juices, so the next time I make this recipe, I’ll probably add a couple kale leaves or green cabbage. I also bought some wheat grass to include in my drinks. My brother tells me that wheat grass is disgusting, but we’ll see. I know that wheat grass is excellent for the body, and that is, after all, what this whole endeavor is all about — getting my body to a healthy place.

Today I feel healthy, despite being on the tail end of a nasty cold. This morning I put on black pants that, when I bought them in November, were too tight — my thighs were bursting at the seams. I’m happy to report that not only do the pants now fit, but I even need a belt with them. That’s progress for me, and I look forward to much more of that.

 

Juicing, baby!

So many years, so many pounds… but I’m back. I’m back to write about the roads I’m travelling in this life. I’m back to write about what’s been going on. I’m back… to write.

In the far too many years since my last post, much about my life has changed. I married my true love, and gained 4 stepchildren and quite a bit of weight, and while each of those things are topics I could write about endlessly, for now, I’ll stick with the latter.

I have struggled with my weight since I was in college, and I’ve had varying degrees of success with my attempts at weight loss. Right before my wedding, I lost 25 pounds on the most restrictive diet I’d ever done,  only to gain it all back within a year of the honeymoon. Now, as I am almost the heaviest I’ve ever been, I’m willing to try almost anything to get to that elusive state known as healthy.

Recently, I was strongly encouraged to watch “Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead”, a documentary about Joe Cross– a once fat, sick and unhealthy man who traveled across the country doing a 60-day juice fast, and tried to educate others (specifically Phil) along the way about the benefits of juicing.   This documentary is a must-see. The idea of juicing is very appealing, that is, until you realize the amount of work involved with juicing, and how drastically different meals and mealtime become. Still, watching Joe and Phil transform their bodies and their lives gave me the impetus to believe I could do it myself.

Juicing is not for the faint of heart or will or pocketbook, and I strongly suggest that folks do as much research as possible before starting a juice only regimen. Me, well, I prepared along the way (not recommended). The first thing I did was buy the juicer. There are many juicers on the market, but because I wanted to be just like Joe and his protegé Phil, I bought what they used — the Breville Juice Fountain Plus. What I like about my juicer is that it is a) affordable, b) easy to assemble and disassemble, c) thorough, and d) the juicer that Joe and Phil used.

My initial plan was to buy the juicer, test out a few recipes for a week or two, then go on a 30-day juice fast. What actually happened was that once the juicer was in my hands, I immediately wanted to begin the juice fast, so I did. I went to the organic market and Wegman’s, and, using Joe’s recipes, bought enough food for 3 days. That may not seem like a lot of food, but 3 days worth of produce filled my refrigerator. Because I’m an organization freak, I bagged the produce for each juice separately  — there were 15 different juices in the first 3 days. I don’t recommend using 15 different juices at a time, but it did afford me the opportunity to try out a lot of different juices to see which ones, and which ingredients I liked and didn’t like.

I managed to juice consistently for 6 days, and lose about 8 pounds in the process. Then, due to poor planning, I stopped during a short trip. Here’s what I learned from my first juice fast.

1. Find 2-4 juice recipes that you can use consistently during your fast. It makes it easier on the wallet because you can buy in bulk, and easier for juicing because you can juice several servings at one time. I use Joe’s Mean Green and the Carrot Apple Ginger juices every day.

2. Fresh juice does not last for days, so plan to juice at least once a day. I juice every evening for the next day. I juice 1-2 servings for breakfast and mid-morning, and then I juice 2-3 servings for my remaining meals. Mean green is delish!

3. Plan to shop every 3-4 days. Produce has a limited shelf life, so buy enough to make it to 3-4 days.

4. Get new containers for your juices. We all have bottles and containers for days, but you want a reliable, LEAK-PROOF bottle designated just for your juices. The smell of spilled celery juice in the car is not appealing.

5. Clean that juicer as soon as you are finished. My juicer is easy to clean, but I can just imagine that letting the discarded fibrous produce sit would create a challenging mess to clean up.

6. Throw the produce remnants in an outdoor trash can or compost heap. I made the mistake of using the kitchen trash can once… but only once.

7. Don’t give up on a recipe without testing with different ingredients. I made one juice that required 1/2 of a red onion — never again. Now I use red cabbage instead with that juice.

8. Always follow soft produce with hard produce. Kale is a great ingredient, but you’ll get more out of the kale if you follow it with an apple.

9. Organic is best… more expensive, but it makes a difference.

10. Enjoy the juicing for as long as you can. Believe it or not, the juice tastes amazing!

Today I’m starting a 21-day juice fast. I’ll be charting my progress, to some degree, along with other stuff.  At the end of these 21 days, I hope to lose some weight, and I hope that my body will become acclimated to a plant-based diet. I also hope that I can keep up with charting…

 

Jaded… a blog

I’m starting to understand that I need to go to church more often. More to the point, I need to go to what I consider to be “my” church more often, not just for the sound preaching and the purely selfless worshiping. Those are great reasons, but what my spirit needs, is crying out for, is the reminder that God can work out any and all situations for His good no matter what the situation looks like to you or anyone else. And one of the my fondest examples of God’s faithfulness is in the life of my dear friend … let’s just call him Jay.

I love seeing how God has worked things out for Jay, and the character with which he has carried himself through it all, especially since I know, at least in part, the road that he has traveled in recent years. Though I’ve known him for over 20 years, I only got to know him in the past 4 years when we were both at Jonestown Revisited. God has absolutely gifted him with more talents than most people could ever handle, and it’s a blessing to watch his natural use of those gifts. His incredible musical talent coupled with his bizarre sense of humor and comedic timing are only out-shined by his unashamed expressive love for Christ.

It is, however, something else about my friend that has inspired my writing today.  He, like myself and far too many others, was a casualty of the madness of Jonestown Revisited. His selfless ministry was usurped by his fellow ministry team members to satisfy one talented but dreadfully insecure woman’s desperate need for accolades and attention. His talents were misused and exploited at the expense of the people sincerely trying to learn how to worship. He was lied to and about by his peers until the Lord saw fit to lead him to an actual church where his ministry could continue and expand, and his future could begin. Despite the treatment he endured, he has managed, at least from all appearances, to have moved without any sense of bitterness to a personal space where no remnants of Jonestown exist. He has managed, somehow, not to become jaded by the unpleasantness of his past experiences but instead he continues to excel in the blessings that are provided him each day. Jay is one of my favorite people on earth, and I love seeing the pure joy in his face, the freedom in his worship, the peace in his heart. Still, I am convicted every time I see him at his church because there is a part of me that’s truly envious because I am, sad to say, quite jaded when it comes to church and all that the word connotes.

Webster’s Dictionary defines jaded  as “made dull or insensitive as by excess…” and “cynically callous”, and let me assure you, that’s an unfortunate space in which to live. I used to love going to church, serving weekly and seeing people who I considered to be my extended family and friends for life. Now, getting to church, even one I like, is quite a chore and personal struggle for me.  And make no mistake, I know in my heart that the only one suffering in this jaded state is yours truly. That’s the trouble with being jaded. It only hurts you.

I carry all the memories of the wrongs I’ve experienced at the hands of church folk, and given what I experienced, I think I’m justified.

–My closest friend in the church turned out to be a missionary in training who was sleeping with several married men in the church and was using my home as the rendezvous spot while I was at work. Why would I ever want to make friends again at church?

–The tithe money was used to fund iPhones and studio time to record personal R&B CDs and, of course, to pay  legal fees for the philandering pastor who was sleeping around and making passes at married women who came to him for counseling. Why would I ever write another tithe check to a church?

–A womanizing man who hit his girlfriend and impregnated several single women in the church was made the sole male ministry leader of a single women’s group after his violent behavior was reported. Why would I ever trust church leadership to appoint godly men and women over ministries?

–The broken, bruised, disgraced loyal parishioners and leaders were left to fend for themselves after being slandered for not supporting the rampant infidelity and mismanagement of funds and spiritual gifts. Why should I ever want to be a part of a church again?

This is what I know from church. My recent past has taught me that church is a dangerous place that rejects truth, blurs the lines, condemns values, encourages moral compromise, and disregards the word of God in favor of assimilation and popularity. Jonestown Revisited taught me that people were expendable and the godly leaders were unimportant, but the truth I’m learning through Jay is that what I think I know about church is not the end of the story. With faith and submission to God, old things pass away.

Jay didn’t carry what I carried away from that place, and God has shown much favor to him. Shortly after he relocated to his new church, he met the woman that he has since married. She is selfless and funny and kind and supportive and everything I would have ever hoped my friend would find, and none of it would have happened had he let himself become jaded. They recently had a beautiful baby (who, whether he likes it or not, now has a chocolate Auntie) and a ministry that is thriving and drawing people to God.

The lesson here, and forgive me for stating the painfully obvious, is that the only ones who lose are those who choose to be jaded. Those of us who choose to believe that the evil we have seen is all that’s available to be seen are missing a world of beautiful possibilities and opportunities. We limit our experiences, we stunt our growth, we reduce our opportunities to witness the truly awesome power of God and what He can do through circumstance.

I often hear about the idea of second chances, and it’s easy to digest the cliché as nothing more than just that, a trite expression that has lost originality, ingenuity, and impact by long overuse. But there is a need for second chances, and not necessarily just for the benefit of those who’ve wrong us, but also for the benefit of ourselves, which is equally as important.  The story does not have to end with what went wrong; it doesn’t have to end with the hurt and the pain; it doesn’t have to leave one jaded.

In truth, when I think about things, my time at Jonestown R brought me many wonderful things, including a great hat that makes me look clever, a virtually free trip to the most beautiful country on earth, 3 years with the most precious little boy I’ve ever known (and miss terribly) and a Hottie nickname to boot,  the opportunity to meet the man of the dreams I never even knew I could dream, and a handful of rich friendly relationships, none more supportive of my writing than Laura and none more entertained by my writing than Jay himself.  With all of these wonderful gifts, I have to question the advantage of allowing myself to be jaded at all.

Perhaps it’s time to open up to what a good church might actually be like. Perhaps it’s time for all of us who are jaded for whatever reasons, however valid, to take a chance, a second chance and let ourselves be surprised by the possibilities.

 

So you think…

I cry when I watch So You Think You Can Dance. I cry when I hear the stories of struggle. I cry when I watch their feet point and curl, their legs stretch and jump. I cry as their movements draw me in to their creative spirits and the power of their passion.  I cry when they are told they will have to dance for their lives, and they do. I cry watching their colleagues and their critics go with them into the world of unexplored and unexpected exposure. I cry watching them pour out their hearts, exhausting every ounce of their energy for a chance to achieve their dreams. And my tears are real…

Tears come fairly easily to me, though I must admit tonight they were free-falling for more reasons than I expected. I love watching the creative process, and I love watching people pursue their dreams, and it breaks my heart when, despite their best efforts, their most sincere desires, their hard work, their emotional sacrifices, and their exhausted strength, they learn that they will have to wait even longer for their dreams to be realized, they learn that they are not good enough to continue even though they are still so much better than most. I am a kindred spirit.

I’m starting to realize that there are two kinds of people in the world — that’s right, just two –  those who are led by their hearts and those who are not, and without both kinds of people, life just wouldn’t work. Sure, everyone probably has elements of both “sides”, but one side is without a doubt more dominant. I am clearly and unashamedly, I might add, a person who is led by my heart. (And before anyone pulls out their WWJD card, I am a Christ follower, and I am guided by Him. He’s wired me with a sensitive heart.)  I am not making any judgments about people who are not led by their hearts, as I truly believe what they bring to a situation, relationship, etc. is necessary and beneficial.  I only mean to express my heart. But I digress…

I believe that the creative spirit functions most effectively, most purely in people who are led by their hearts. Whether it’s dance, music, writing, painting, sculpting, drawing, planning, or any other creative outlet a person might be drawn to, the heart must be open and exposed, or it should remain silent. One of my creative outlets is writing, though the months of silence on this blog belie that fact. I pour what is in my heart out on the screen, and I leave it there for all that it is worth, which to me is a lot. I do not lightly open my heart, I do not carelessly share my heart, even though I know that what I offer may not be received as I intend, may not be understood as I need, may not be accepted as I hope. Still, you know what you get from me, what you will always get from me.

I will always care more about people than I do about things or ideas or policies or whatever else might be thrown my way, and that’s not always a good thing because I get burned an awful lot. Still, it is one of the things I like most about myself. When I open up, the best of me surfaces and it’s like a fresh wind putting things in motion, and I go with whatever my heart commands. For so much of my life, I thought that was solely writing, but I have learned that it is my care and concern for the well-being of those around me that most often defines my heart, my true purpose.

So instead of putting fingers to the keyboard for the past several months, my heart has led me to pour out all that is in me to those around me, and even though that has been exhausting and overwhelming at times, I understand that to dismiss the heart’s direction would only detract from the beauty that has come from this creative flow. And make no mistake, some absolutely beautiful experiences have come to me and others in these past few months, and I don’t regret listening to my heart. I have pursued my dream with everything that is in me, I have put in the time learning the steps, I have used all of the strength I could muster, I have endured the voices of both the critics and the colleagues, and have managed to stand, knees wobbly, sweat dripping, eyes glistening with weighty tears, waiting, in fact, to see if the work, if my work will ever pay off, if my dreams will come true.

That, my friends, is my heart.

 

Not another day

It’s been, for sure, one of those weeks for me. One of those weeks that I wouldn’t have guessed would go the way it did. One of those weeks that probably shouldn’t have happened. One of those weeks that I can’t take back, straighten out, do over, let go or break free from.  This week sucked, and I hope I don’t have to deal with another day like the past few.

When my heart is heavy, as it’s been for a few days, it seems I move in slow motion. It seems that I exist in a bubble from which I can’t break free, a bubble in which I have been placed because of the unfortunate decision to allow vulnerability to surface beyond the wall that had come down, the wall I carefully constructed, the wall that was slowly torn apart, the wall that is now at a stage somewhere between complete destruction and potential reconstruction. I guess I’m not suited for vulnerability outside of wordpress, anyway.

The Psalms are good for times like these. I’m always struck by David’s vulnerability, whether he’s broken and feeling defeated or unashamedly praising his God or even angrily bemoaning his feelings about life’s challenges, he is authentic in his expression, pure in his emotion, passionate in his love and trust in his God. David had enemies, real and perceived, but he always knew that his God was present as his refuge. David loved his God, and he poured out his praise with such detail and such candor that his motives were clear, enviable, and emulated by those who have taken the time to read the Psalms.

I think of the idea that God is our refuge, my refuge, and I am so grateful that I can rest in Him. I know He hears without judgment my heart’s deepest thoughts, my soul’s deepest desires, and that He doesn’t label me because of my vulnerability. He knows my heart even though I have done almost nothing for Him, and what I have done, I’ve done so poorly at times. Still, He is my safe haven… He catches me when I fall, He holds me when I’m falling.

In Psalm 31, David writes

⁹ Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am in distress.
      Tears blur my eyes.
      My body and soul are withering away.
 ¹⁰ I am dying from grief;
      my years are shortened by sadness.
   Sin has drained my strength;
      I am wasting away from within.
 ¹¹ I am scorned by all my enemies
      and despised by my neighbors—
      even my friends are afraid to come near me.
   When they see me on the street,
      they run the other way.

It’s not often you see a man pour out his soul like this, admitting the intensity of his tears, the severity of his sadness, the perception of his surroundings.  We read his words, and assume that his perception is spot on, that he regularly had enemies against him, that his friends were fairweather at times, that he was understood by no one. Recently, though, I’ve been wondering if the weight that he carried — spiritually, emotionally, socially, etc. — clouded his perception, at times, leading him to feel things more deeply than others, than even he himself might ordinarily feel.

Regardless of the way he expressed his feelings, maybe, perhaps, in spite of it, he was always secure in his relationship with his God, he knew that he had the freedom to speak and that his God would love him the same. His vulnerability didn’t define him as weak, or unlovable, or as a problem child, or just not worth the effort. It seems to me that his vulnerability was a demonstration of his absolute faith that his God would hear him and love him anyway.

I, without an ounce of shame, envy David’s freedom to be vulnerable, and his God’s ability to care for the heart of his child. To this day, David is a cherished saint of the Father in the hearts and minds of Christians. Despite his infidelity, poor decisions, and his seemingly self-pitying rants, he is still known, accurately so, as a man after God’s own heart. 

I, too, have made some poor decisions. I have trusted the wrong people. I have given time, love, attention, cash, and energy to people of all ilks that took and took and enjoyed my spirit and generosity until the moment I let even a glimpse of my vulnerable side appear. I have believed the words “I love you” from friends, lovers, family members only to find that the words were temporary and conditional, when what they really meant was, “I love you until you show me you might need me even a little bit, that I might have to show you the care, concern and love that you have so often and so selflessly shown me.” And then I started construction on the wall.

When we are vulnerable, we expose our flaws, allow others to see that we are susceptible to emotional injury, and all we want to know is that we are loved in spite of because of even though we have flaws, and that the mere expression of vulnerability doesn’t negate all the good and strong and generous parts of us that are regularly present, and it doesn’t intend to isolate. Vulnerability cries out,

“I trust you with my heart, with my deepest fears, with my most intense desires. I trust you to protect me even when I’m wrong, even when I’m right. I trust you even though I’m still a little scared. I trust you because I know you want to know the entirity of me. I trust you to hold me up when I don’t think I can stand. I trust you to protect what is precious. I trust that you can see me, fully exposed, and choose not to condemn and walk away, but instead, choose to love me even more because it’s all part of who I am. I trust that you want me to be able to trust you, wholly and completely.  I trust  you because I love you, and I know I can.”

This week is nearing its end, thank God. Did I mention that it sucked?! I hope to spend at least part of it near the water, in the water even, where I can sit…  susceptible to the wild waves of the Chesapeake, with my arms outstretched and the breeze in my hair, secure in the knowledge that I do not need to rebuild the wall.

 

Yellow elephants

There’s a yellow elephant in the room, and despite my best efforts to the contrary, I see it in all of its current incarnation.  The room was once filled with such beautifully necessary things. Laughter, solace, counsel, truth, and other very precious, precious things lit every corner, every space in the room, that is, of course, until the elephant entered the room.  The room, it turns out, has always been rather small, but it is shrinking more and more each day that the elephant is permitted to stay.

Elephants are the largest land mammals in the world. They are creatures of habit, who wear paths in the ground as they travel the same routes back and forth in the jungle for water. They love rolling in the mud for relief. Elephants are usually the most popular attractions at the circus and the zoo. Still, entertaining an elephant in a room is more than most would ever volunteer for, but we do all the time.  We allow these big creatures to take up residence in our personal and precious spaces, and we eventually become visitors in our own rooms, all the while wondering, how did this happen? How did I let a big yellow elephant get in?

I never really enjoyed the elephants at the zoo. To be fair, I never enjoyed the idea of the zoo. I loved getting a day off school to visit the zoo, but it always seemed strange to me that in the middle of the city, all these animals that we were taught could only be found in Africa or Asia, somehow were caged for our amusement in the nation’s capitol. What I learned about animals I learned in books or from documentaries, not the zoo, so I personally don’t see the educational value of the caged animal, but maybe some folks do learn about animals that way.  I’ll always believe that animals should be studied in their natural habitat, instead of forcing them to perform in cheap imitations of their natural habitat with the cheers and jeers of little children and teenagers and parents who just want to rest their feet. But I digress…

It’s so easy to think that the cute, lovable elephant will somehow fit in with the decor of our rooms, that we will somehow manage to maneuver, however delicately, around the room so as not to disturb the elephant or disrupt the room, but elephants aren’t made to be still — unless, of course, they’re sleeping; and they aren’t meant to be caged, unless they’re in the a major U.S. city. Elephants often roam for hours on end at a slow, methodical pace, covering more ground and destroying the terrain below their massive feet. And the destruction occurs by chance, you know, not deliberately, because of the weight atop their huge legs. Each time we let the elephants into the room, we invite confusion and destruction, and those are the reasons, by the way, that we allow the elephants in the rooms in the first place. Whether we want to admit it or not, there are certainly times when a part of all of us feels at least a little unsettled when confusion and/or possible destruction are missing.

I’ve always been good at noticing the elephant in the room, but I haven’t a clue how to remove it. Well, that’s not entirely true. Actually, I find that in most cases, I’m one of the few people who can see the elephant in the room, so when I acknowledge its existence, well, folks seem to think it’s just me.  Too often, the potential destruction of the elephant is underestimated, and sometimes, just sometimes, I get tired of dealing with the elephant, so I leave the elephant where it is, and I find another room… one without an elephant. I cannot coexist with the elephant for a host of reasons, not the least of which is my utter lack of desire.

At any rate, I liked the rooms better when the elephants were elsewhere. There’s a part of me that believes that removing the elephants from rooms, any rooms, is a necessary evil to build personal strength and to set personal and social boundaries. When I started writing this blog (days ago… harumph!!), I had one specific elephant in mind. But as the words have poured out of me, I’ve come to realize that there are several rooms with these annoying elephants that need tending to, and the time is rapidly approaching when I have to determine whether I’ll learn to live with the elephant, banish the elephant, or relinquish my claim to the room. It’s all a matter of worth, really. What are the rooms worth to me? What value do they currently (holla!) have in my life? Can I live with the elephant(s)?

I had the unexpected treat today to spend some quality time with a neighbor of mine. We talked about the elephants, and she gave the best advice… to no one’s surprise, I’m sure. She said to give it to God and remove my claws (my nails really have grown too long). She said to sit back and listen for His direction, so that’s where I stand — me, God, and the yellow elephants.

Pass the peanuts!

 

Why ask why?

I detoured from my normal route to work to stop for a decaf jolt and a relatively harmless carb start to my day… don’t judge me. As I was making a left turn at the intersection, a commercial truck casually ran the  red light and cut me off in the middle of the intersection. I reluctantly pressed on my car’s horn … the horn is supposed to be a warning tool, not notification of disgust… , and was rather annoyed that the rogue driver appeared oblivious to both his error and my annoyance… don’t you hate when folks don’t care when they annoy you??

I followed him… okay, we happened to be heading in the same direction… and I wondered what would make him risk his life and mine like that.  I wondered if it was possible that he didn’t realize that the red light for the cars beside him was also meant for his vehicle. I scanned his vehicle for a “How’s my driving” number so that I could call and let someone know that this man’s driving was, in fact, careless and dangerous. Meanwhile, he continued driving like he hadn’t a care in the world. Was that possible, really, that he actually could appear not have a care at all in his mind about his blatant lawbreaking and Reese-annoying behavior? Well, he had no care, or at least not one I could figure out from all the way back in my lil’ honda hot rod. I, however, had way too much care, and that is the problem.

I have spent ungodly amounts of time wondering why people do crappy, silly, dangerous, hurtful and/or annoying  things. Seriously, my mind analyzes things to their most minute detail, and despite my best and terribly time-consuming efforts, nothing that I discover ends up making a bit of difference in the long run. Not much if anything changes, and I eventually figure out ways to acknowledge and move on. I would simply prefer that the moving on part come a bit faster than it has in the past.

I don’t know if I was the kind of child that constantly asked why, but I do know that I am wired to dig until I find a solution or resolution. In fact, that’s what I get paid to do — look at a situation or problem and analyze what’s going on, why it’s going on, and what to do to change it.  And the truth of the matter is that I’m good it. I’m good at figuring out the issues at the office and I’m good at figuring out things with people… of course, I’m much better and quicker at the office.  The key, really, is to look at each situation on its own, each person as an individual, and not rely solely, though certainly in part,  on the similarities of prior experiences with situations and people.  It’s also important not to inject my own beliefs on a situation when presented with conflicting facts, but instead to try to see things through the eyes of the other person no matter how challenging that might be.

Last week I had the opportunity to ask one of the Jonestown Revisited followers why she treated me in a brilliantly cruel manner after (what I thought) a very tight friendship had been cultivated. Sadly, my mind cannot seem to fully understand how things can change without any warning in such a drastic fashion with people who at one point claimed to value my presence in their lives and reaped more than a few benefits in the process.  It has never been acceptable for me to believe that a change has happened. Instead, my mind tells me the truth — that the other person was lying and using me from the start.  She told me, nay, texted me that she knew there was a problem but she didn’t care enough about the friendship to address it.  That may sound a little harsh, it certainly read harsh, but believe it or not, that’s exactly what I thought was the case. It’s not what I thought she’d say, nay text… whatever, but with the words finally out there, a couple of tears shed, a quick trip to the mall, and a heart to heart with my sweetheart, I can close the door on that situation completely.  It’s not lost on me, though, that I learned nothing new by asking the question 8 months later.

I asked my love when this sort of hurtful madness would stop happening to me, and he said “When you stop asking why.” Folks tend not to ask me why, likely because they know I’ll tell them the honest to God truth, have mercy. I think the answer can be helpful, cathartic even, but sometimes people don’t want to hear that. People want what I wanted from the former and not so lovely KW. They want something deeper, more intense, more sinister, more thoughtful, more… whatever! I recently tried to answer someone’s why question… harumph, and what was a simple though silly answer was interpreted as something so far from the truth that I’m convinced answering the why was the worst thing I could have done.  It made nothing better, believe me, and now, well, it is what it is.

The truth is, most of the time we already know the answer to the why question. Why are people cruel… because they can be. Why are people funny… because they can be. Why do people lie… because they can. Why do people cheat… because they can. Why do friendships die… because they can. Why do people make the decisions they make… because they can. Why do people ignore the words… because they can. Why do things get so far out of whack… because they can. Why do people risk a good thing… because they can. Why do people run red lights… because they can.

Eleanor Roosevelt is credited with saying, “No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.”  I absolutely agree with that, and would add that you can’ t determine what other people will do or how they will act or react. I have seen a host of bad results, silly choices, sad endings, and as hard as it is to accept, the only one whose actions I can control are my own. The rest is up to absolutely not me.

Spring is the time for growing new things, new ideas. I’m still on the quest to becoming the best Reese I can be, the Reese I’m meant to be, and today I’m remembering to trust my instincts and to make the changes necessary to maintain peace and order to my life. I’m probably going to keep asking why… for some things, though far less frequently than I have in the past. But for most things, I am (finally!!!) content with what my heart has already told me. Why? Because I trust me, after all.