simple little things

Having just returned from volunteering at Comfort Zone Camp, which is designed for children who have lost a parent, sibling, or primary caretaker, I am overwhelmed with emotions.  I have just spent the weekend in the presence of 60 of the strongest, bravest teenagers you can imagine, and am struggling to organize my thoughts.

The whole weekend was designed to mirror life – some times are fun and you forget about your loss, and some times are serious, and you feel the burden of your pain resting squarely on your shoulders.  One night, we sang silly songs and roasted marshmallows over a fire to make s’mores.  A few moments later, one by one, the campers placed written messages to lost loved ones into the same fire, and spoke their names out loud.  For many, this was the first time they got to participate in a ritual to say goodbye, as funerals are designed for adults.   

There were small groups who met throughout the weekend to allow the campers to discuss their stories, their grief, and their challenges.  Some stories were so heartbreaking, it was all I could do to just cry and not sob while listening.  How humbling to have them trust us with this pain, and to be allowed to participate in their healing process.  I was filled with pride and awe as I listened to my little buddy describe what she had been through, and how she thought others could learn from her grief journey.  The magic about Comfort Zone Camp is that for the first time in their lives, the campers are surrounded other teens who know so well what it feels like to think you are the only one who has this pain.  And they are surrounded by adults who provide comfort and support, and model for them that it is ok to laugh, ok to cry, ok to work through your loss in whatever way you need to.

I can’t put into words the things I experienced at camp, or the ways it changed me.  You simply cannot imagine, and would not believe what can happen in a grieving child’s heart in such a short period of time.  It revealed to me that this is truly the only thing I can imagine dedicating my time, energy, and life to.  I went to camp hoping to change a child’s life, and left having been changed myself.

What Comfot Zone Camp does helps to heal the world, one child at a time.

Please take a moment to visit www.comfortzonecamp.org.

Do you ever get the feeling that you are always waiting?  Waiting for the end of a workday? The beginning of a movie? The moment the other person feels the same way you do? The moment you stop feeling the way you are feeling? 

The day you realize this is indeed your real life?

I have so many reasons I am not doing what I want to be doing with my time right now, and all of those reasons have to do with waiting.  I am waiting for the month that I make a little more money, so I will feel a little more secure.  Even though I have ample vacation time, I am waiting for a time when I feel it is ok to take more than one week off of work and explore  faraway places I’ve always wanted to visit.  I am waiting for the day when I feel enough time has passed since Mom left that I can focus on the things I need to change in the life I have now.

What exactly am I waiting for?

Somewhere along the way, I got this idea in my head that I would “sense” the moment when it was ok to take chances, and throw myself into my passions with no thought of failure or embarrassment.  I felt that when I had wrapped up all of my little loose ends, then I would be free to break out of my mold and explore the things that would shape the person I wanted so badly to become.  But this is me.  This is who I am.  And if I keep waiting for the perfect moment, I’m going to miss out on everything I have always wanted to be.

It is never too late to become what you might have been.

I’ve been thinking about deadlines in my life – the ones I impose on myself versus the ones work imposes on me.  If I have a deadline at work, I may stall, or wait until the last minute, but damn if I don’t get it done every time.  Because I have to.  Because it’s my JOB.  But I have personal deadlines too, and most of the time I don’t meet them.  Sometimes I give up on the projects all together, citing lack of time.  Why do I always find time to do things for work (other people) but not for pleasure (me)? 

 I made a pact with myself a few months ago that I would set up this blog, and write in it at least once a week to express myself and have a creative outlet.  But here we are, months later, and this is only my third post.  I devote so many hours to work, that I rationalize that I don’t have time to blog, or to craft, or to call friends I haven’t spoken to in months.  I find myself frustrated at the end of each weekend, because I feel that I didn’t “accomplish” enough fun things in the time I had.  Everything is a deadline.  I feel off-kilter if I have unscheduled time.

This is not normal or healthy.

I need to be ok with the idea of spending time working on my own personal deadlines.  I have so many things that I want to do “someday,” but feel I don’t have the time to do now.  When exactly does this time appear?  When do I finish everything on my official to-do list, and allow myself the freedom of finding out what I truly want to spend my time and energy doing?

I would never ever spend half of my money on things that left me unfulfilled.  Why in God’s name am I spending half of my time that way now?

Tonight, one of my good friends asked his wife, (also my good friend,) how many saved voicemails she had in her cell phone.  Apparently, he has only 4 or 5.  At any given moment, I have between 11 and 19.  Right now, I have fifteen.  Each time my Dad, or my husband, or a close friend leaves a voicemail, I save it.  I’ll continue to re-save it until that person leaves another voicemail.  I need to know I have at least one message saved from each person I love. 

After my Mom died last year, it took me a while to recognize all of the things that I lost when I lost her.  There are the obvious things, like not having someone to send a card to on Mother’s Day.  There were the less obvious things, like no longer having someone who would always understand and empathize with the fact that it wasn’t fair that I could still get pimples when I was starting to get wrinkles around my eyes.  And then there’s the things no one can possibly tell you.  Like the fact that no one will ever care as much as she would have how pretty my hair looked on my wedding day.  And the fact that no matter how many photos I had (a lot) or how many pieces of her clothing I wore to work each week (more than reasonable) there were things that were just gone forever.  I don’t have one single recording of Mom’s voice.  Not a single poor-quality video tape of her singing Happy Birthday to me or my brother.  Nothing.  I would give anything to hear her say my name, or ask for a glass of water, or yell at the cat for knocking something over.  No one ever tells you how much value a voice holds, and that there is nothing that will fill the void that it leaves. 

So I save too many voicemails now.  They are my security blanket.  Because if I have them, those people can’t leave me entirely, no matter what.  I will always have a little tiny something to hold onto.   And sometimes a little tiny something can be the thing that keeps you sane.

I am not a runner.  Never have been.  But I started running a few years ago to impress a guy I had just started dating.  That guy is now my husband, and seems to be sufficiently impressed with me, but I still like to run every once in a while anyway, just to prove to myself that I can.  Yesterday, as I was getting ready to leave for the gym around 6am, I stepped out onto the porch.  It was perfect outside.  The air felt exactly the same temperature as my skin.  So I put my things down, grabbed a house key, and went for a run.  I should mention that I’m not a very good runner.  I get winded pretty quickly, and my face gets redder than I can really explain.  Knowing this, deciding to go for a run is never an easy decision – the gym is always a more reliable option.

I ran a zig-zag course through my neighborhood, which I am slowly learning my way around.   A few blocks into my trip, I heard a wild ruckus coming from a big tree up ahead.  As I got closer, I could see two squirrels chasing each other around the trunk of the tree, up and down, faster and faster.  It was like a Looney Tunes episode come to life.  Probably one of the funnier things I’d seen all week. 

I ran for about a half hour, then stopped to walk, thinking it was about time to head back home.  I got to my house, had a drink of water, and realized I had a little something left in me.  So I went back out, and ran some more.  I ran under a beautiful mimosa tree, and was amazed by how much it scented the air around it.  Being all sweaty and gross, a scent like that was pretty awesome.  I ran back the same way I had come the first time, and passed the tree with the squirrels again.  And there they were, still chasing, still fighting for the rights to whose tree it would be, flexing their little squirrel muscles.

I always thought that the reward for making a good or healthy decision would be something big and tangible.  But when I chose to go for a run (challenging,) over going to the gym (predictable,) my reward was the smell of a blossoming tree, and the bragging rights of being the sole witness to hot squirrel fight action. 

In the end, it’s the simple little things that make this life so good.