saying goodbye

For as long as I can remember, I've had the uncanny ability to imbue heavy significance to the most mundane things. I distinctly remember a shiny, purple plastic lobster necklace from Red Lobster that looked like it came straight from Mardi Gras hanging on my dresser for years. It had its place of honor because it represented and was received when we all went out to dinner for the first time after my dad was in a rather severe car accident. I commemorated that occasion, that feeling, my dad's continued improvement and health, by hanging onto that absurd plastic lobster.

Twenty years and many interventions later, I think I've gotten a little bit better at learning to let the things go while still keeping the memory and the meaning intact. But I still am as sappy as sap itself, and often find things sticking to my skin as I go through life. Thus, I find it rather painful to remove them and say goodbye.

When we moved to Virginia for law school, both Dusty and I made an early-on decision to treasure our time there. Sure, we knew it was temporary - but we weren't going to live that way. We were going to live with permanence. Plant our feet and produce the golden sap of loving investment and significant time. At one point, I remember a friend saying "you guys make everything fun." At the time it was a half joke, because whatever it was they were talking about was something really silly (akin to a plastic lobster) that we were holding close to our hearts. But I have thought about that comment often. If nothing else, our time in Virginia taught me that I really do want that to be true. I want to enjoy life. All aspects of it.

There was a lot of uncertainty when we moved to Virginia. Our past selves never could've imagined that our time there would be so momentous to us - that someday we'd even be moved to reflect those years in the name of our daughter, Virginia Leigh. We can easily look back now and see all of the goodness. We were so intentional with our time and our friendships. Life is messy and inconsistent, but our future selves have a much keener sense of what ends up being meaningful to us in each season of life. Even the hard parts. With the benefit of perspective and the cleansing of time, we're able to look back and see what was special, what was worth it, what was beautiful.

I endeavor to live my life as if my future self has written me a letter about today. She wrote me a letter 3 years ago when we bought this intimidating fixer upper and said,

"Don't worry. You will fix this place up. You will bring your first child home here, and drink 78 gingerbread lattes in the first few months of his life. Gingerbread will always remind you of William. 

You will love the color of your walls. You will fill those walls with music. You will open the doors countless times to people you love, and celebrate daily, big and small. You will bring your second child home here, the October baby your heart longed for, and she will be beautiful, and you will cry many tears of gratitude. Don't worry, because however fast the years may go by, you will be safe here and this place will be your home."

My sappy self is currently stuck to my favorite spot on this couch, crying over the many sunrises I have spent with my sleepless babies in this living room. Crying over the blanket draped over the piano in the next room, which has been Will's cave for the last few months, and which will be impossible for me to tear down. We'll have to tell the potential buyers that the cave comes with the property.

Thank goodness I've already learned those lessons about treasuring people and not stuff, right? Ha! 

The truth is, we had no idea how significant this house would be to us. We became parents here. We could have never imagined the joy of that transition, the all-encompassing love that our hearts now carry. But we have cherished our time in this house, and we tried to do so from the very beginning. Even the hardest of the hard work, the most tiring of the tired days. Every moment. The best part of all of this is that we get to bring the crazy kids with us. Home is now the 4 of us - wherever we go. And while it is painful to leave, it's also joyous to know that we truly lived here. Lived with permanence, the only way that time-driven beings can, while still being unable to escape the ticking clock. I think I'm kind of in this sweet middle spot of being way more sentimental than your average Josephine, but not sentimental enough to be paralyzed by change. I know that change is inevitable and it also brings the most incredible growth. I've written about moving before, and how wonderful and awful it is. Change is what wild dreams require.

I already have that metaphoric letter from my future self in my pocket, but I won't open it quite yet. I have to say goodbye first. And then, and only then, will I be able to open it - to face the future with confidence and joy. But I have a feeling we'll be back to making everything fun in no time.

mother's day for all

This Mother's Day I am observing an acute kind of revelation. For me, Mother's Day has never been anything but light, cheerful, loving and celebratory. It has been a holiday solely for my mother. To reward her, in some small way, for her time and love that she has invested in all of us throughout our lives. I have a wonderful mom. She feels deeply but doesn't often show it, she remembers all things and can find anything that's lost, she shows love through gifts of hard work and dedication, and is always loyal, funny and steadfast. I am who I am because of her constant presence in my life, which has always included stellar advice and lots of pedicures. I am thankful for her this Mother's Day and always.

This year, possibly for the first time, my eyes have been more personally opened to a much more complex Mother's Day. Emotions that are both bitter and difficult. Empathies that reach out to a much larger audience of people in the world that may view Mother's Day with something other than lighthearted, celebratory vibes.

I miss Poppy today. My heart and mind is filled with thoughts and pangs for the other women I know (and the many thousands that I do not) that have lost children through miscarriage as well. I fight against the overwhelming sorrow for so many lost dreams and shattered hopes, for the families that should have been. For the broken women that feel so alone, even though there are so many of us that have experienced this loss. My eyes fill with tears as I type, because we often don't get to be celebrated as mothers. We dare to feel like mothers, to miss our children and to grieve their loss daily, but we are the silent moms of children destined to surpass this earth before they even have the chance to breathe in its air. It's the one comfort, really, that they are in heaven before us. But while we wait here without them, today can be a very lonely day.

source

I have begun to see, and perhaps better understand, the complexities of Mother's Day for so many of us. For hearts that yearn to be mothers, but have been unable to have that dream realized. For those who have lost their mothers, whose grief is magnified on this day meant to honor them. For children who were abused or abandoned by their mothers. For mothers whose children have passed away, or whose children are far away from them in other ways. For stepmoms and foster moms and adoptive moms. Complexities.

Many of these thoughts were prompted by an email from my cousin, who wrote me the most thoughtful and tender message to let me know that she was thinking of me this Mother's Day. She wanted me to know that my feelings matter, my lost baby matters, I matter. And as I write out all of these thoughts that echo or respond to her message, I feel a strange sense of camaraderie with the world. I feel less alone. We all have mothers, and it's a relationship that defines us all forever. It's a relationship that matters immensely, and whether this day brings joy or pain it is a day that we all feel. Those feelings matter. You are not alone.

Even those of us who have been hurt by mothers or motherhood in some way or another have also been blessed by it. Motherhood is one of the strongest strands of our existence, whether it's directly related to our DNA or not. We observe motherhood daily and see its effects on people, ourselves included. I wrote a post once about us all being velveteen people, made real by love. I suppose that means I am a velveteen mother. It is embedded in my identity now. I am defined not by my loss but by my love.

To the velveteen mothers in my life and beyond, I am thinking of you and your little ones today. I am missing them and looking forward to holding them. If I get to heaven before you, I promise to cover them in kisses. For those who are hurting or remembering or grieving anew, know that your feelings matter, your heart matters, and you are not alone. There is hope and there is healing. I long for you to have the beauty of joy on this Mother's Day. For those that are celebrating mothers and motherhood in all of its forms this morning, God bless you and your beautiful moms, both here and in heaven. We are so blessed to have mothers that have enriched our lives in so many ways.

(I love you mama dearest, you are the most supreme blessing. Happy Mother's Day). 

Happy Mother's Day for all.

wanderlust wednesday

Snapshots from Grand Cayman, The Cayman Islands. July, 2012. 

The summer of 2012 was one of immense victory. We went on our first cruise together, which led us to a stop in the Cayman Islands. As you can see from the photos above, traveling to Cayman is an experience entirely made of shades of vivid blue. One of our dear friends happens to live there, so we were able to meet up with him and get a personal tour of his home and the best local food and activities. And then the victory: I willfully and knowingly accepted a proposition to get into the water with real, giant, horrible monsters of the deep. And I lived.

I'm terrified of the ocean. I was born and raised in Arizona so perhaps my fear of giant masses of water came from a lack of experience with it, but I'm inclined to say my fear just comes from wisdom because the ocean is expansively, undeniably horrible and scary. Even with this knowledge and practiced avoidance of water (my chances of dying via shark jaws decrease enormously if I stay the heck away from all bodies of water forever), we had this opportunity three summers ago to test our limits, face our fears and shake hands with sweet, slimy, docile sting rays. Who also happen to be the murderers of the great Steve Irwin. Yes, I might have respectfully brought that up a few times in between my bobbing shrieks while visiting Sting Ray City.

Of course, the reason why the rays were so incredibly friendly (read: tried to swallow us whole) was because our dear friend kept throwing little squids in the water around us and tucking them into my husband's swim shorts. We didn't find this out until later. Explains a lot. We'll get our revenge.

All of that psycho babble aside, the Cayman Islands were breathtaking. The food was delicious. Seaside smoothies are nothing to scoff at. The water was turquoise. And truly, I always swell with pride when I think of the feat we accomplished by swimming with the rays. That swell quickly deflates when I remember all of the aforementioned shrieking, but I like to focus on my initial bravery and not how I handled the fear later on.

luck of the irish

2011: Dublin, Ireland | 2012: Lynchburg, Virginia | 2013: Paris, France | 2014: Rome, Italy

Happy, happy St. Patrick's Day.

This day is stirring up some mighty lucky and lovely memories of my marriage. Travels and parties and smiles fill my mind like shamrock confetti. This day has been very good to us. I have always adored St. Patrick's Day, because growing up as an O'Neil it was a rather fun and celebratory part of my heritage. My dad would always capitalize on our surname, and we'd all eat corned beef and cabbage and wear way too much green. It was the best.

Dusty came into my life in high school, and he was brought into the Irish fold. He would come over and enjoy our over-the-top celebrations. One year we had Irish soda bread, Irish cream coffee, Scottish eggs, Guinness stew... we made the Dublin population jealous with our enthusiasm.

2009: home sweet Arizona.

I find myself feeling incredibly nostalgic today. Every St. Patrick's Day so far in our 4 years of marriage has been a magical mystery tour of new places and experiences. 2015 has been a year of change and heartache and adjustment, reacquainting ourselves with adulthood and life in Arizona. So it's fitting that we're here, calmly celebrating with family. It's a great time to wear green and look forward, to cherish each other and share confetti-filled dreams.

P.S. Some Irish music/bands to listen to today: 

New: Bear's Den | Kodaline | Needtobreathe

Favorites: P.S. I Love You soundtrack | The Corrs | Enya | Flogging Molly

Or you can go full Celtic and listen to songs like I'll Tell My Ma, Black Is The Colour, Drunken Sailor, Scarborough Fair, Molly Malone (Cockles and Muscles).

beautiful things

post: why we camp,

This has quite possibly been one of the darkest weeks of my life.

It's difficult because it's almost entirely internal. I can write about it and try to express it, but I place a mask on my face every single day as I go to work and interact with others. I focus on small things and make jokes to my friends and watch comedy shows and movies constantly. It's a very lonely feeling, a very personal struggle. I tend to cry on my way home from work and before I go to sleep. Those are the moments when I have time to myself to grieve. To be quite honest, I have been listening almost exclusively to Enya (a sure sign of brokenness) at work and hardly getting anything done. These days are very blurry and strange. I feel very tired. But I also know that life must go on and time is passing by whether I want it to or not. I realize I'm taking this very hard, and I must pull myself out of it somehow. 

Grief, prayer, acceptance, tribute, hope, love. 

Back in November I wrote a blog post called Stamps of Life. Something led me to reread that piece this morning, and I am now a puddle. Oh, my little November self, if only you knew. Thank goodness you didn't, because you were able to write something that your February self needed very, very badly. 

Here are some of my stamps of life. 

Beautiful moments, scenes of love, colorful pictures of memories that last and transform. 

Oh, Lord, you make beautiful things. Beautiful things out of the dust.

chapel hill

post: wanderlust wednesday

fall in virginia

bazille and camille by claude monet

parliament building in london, england

spring in virginia

ceiling details in florence, italy

smokey the cat

post: cypress gardens

epcot center, disney world

bike in paris, france

blowing rock, north carolina

the cayman islands

post: to be a writer

animal kingdom, disney world

dalkey, ireland

kilkenny, ireland

long distance blows

It's a crazy part of friendship that for any amount of time, there are people in your life who ARE your life. You count on them for absolutely everything. You wonder how often you can spend time with them before it gets weird. You have actual, sit-down conversations with your spouse (or sometimes even just yourself) about the need to slow down and give them some space. Don't be needy. Don't be too intense. Don't be that guy. 

All I can say is that I'm glad it got weird, even though being apart is now the living worst.

It got weird and that's when things get truly extraordinary. Snowpocalypse sleepovers and Fresh Market picnics, birthday surprises and Mario Party marathons and never-ending group text messages. Weekend trips and late-night stories and new adventures.

It's now officially December which means I'm feeling the feels. The holiday feels. A lot of memories are returning to me of days gone by. Christmas memories from our tiny apartment in Virginia, and of the friends we so dearly miss.

Our friendship with Colinoria (our affectionate nickname for our couple-soulmates Colin and Victoria) was rare. It was fostered under the strangest conditions: living in tiny apartments less than a mile apart while the boys finished up law school. Pre-kids, pre-adulthood, pre-complications. We were in extended college life land. There was work, for sure, and lots of studying. But there was also a lot of play. And through that we were cemented together. Even more so by our uncanny resemblances to one another (me to Colin and Dustin to Victoria). It was straight-up crazy at times, and I think we were all dumbfounded at various points by our great luck at somehow finding each other in this mad world.

Long distance is one of those sucky situations that is often most lamented when it involves romantic couples. But the struggle is real for everyone. Family, friends, loved ones. The world is filled with beautiful people and if you happen to meet kindred spirits on the other side of the country (or world), you're going to have to prepare yourself for the lifelong ache that is long distance. 

Here are my grandiose ideas for surviving a long-distance best friendship:

1. Contact.
This is what group messages are for. Also, these new voice texts have been a life-saver for me because I hate the telephone. But calling is good too. So is FaceTime or Skype. Stay in touch!
(Duh-doy).

2. Gifts.
Maybe you don't have money, but you actually do. You have enough to send something, anything, in the mail. It's important. Maybe more so for a person like me whose love language involves gifts, but it's important nonetheless. Find silly things to send and it maintains those fun little surprises that you were able to create when you lived in the same city. Instead of stopping by with cupcakes, you can send them a letter or a Starbucks card when they're having a rough week. It's a sweet gesture that's inexpensive and incredibly thoughtful, especially when the dominant means of communication today is a never-ending group text (which, as I've already demonstrated, I fully support). Think outside the box.

3. Don't forget the little things.
You lose a lot when you lose the little things. The little things are the tiny threads that begin to pull apart the entire knit sweater of a relationship. They're the ways you used to connect in person because you saw each other almost every day so you shared even the silliest stories with one another. Bring them into your jokes and daily interactions that make you laugh and cry. Tell them about your boss's weird laugh or that super embarrassing doctor visit. Be vulnerable, be real.

4. Reminisce, but not too much.
One of the greatest detriments of long distance is that it naturally prevents growth. Unless you work hard to keep moving forward. Long distance keeps you apart and living in the past, because that's when you were last together. Talking about favorite memories is a wonderful way to connect, but make sure the focus is staying connected to where your lives are going. Walk with them from afar.

5. Have a shared interest.
This summer it was Way of Kings by Brandon Sanderson. All four of us read it (and the sequel) and talked about it incessantly. It was such a fun way to participate in something as a group. We used to have weekly TV nights for shows like New Girl and Sleepy Hollow, so having something we can still do "together" is really nice.

6. Visit each other. 
This is the hardest part, because now that we're all working and paying off our student loans, money is tight and time off is sparse. But just like anything else, you make it a priority. You save and you make it happen. It has been six months and two weeks since the four of us were together, and we're beginning to plan the first of many visits! It's probably the most crucial part of a long distance relationship, because you put your money where your priorities are. For a while that top priority will be paying off our debt - but we'll keep fitting money between the cracks to keep this friendship alive.

Because it got weird, and it got great, and it's worth everything.

Long distance blows. (But it's worth it).