From a tiny seed...

Carly and I were riding around the Puyallup, WA area, and she was remarking how big the trees were in the area. This was true- the fantastically gigantic evergreens looked like they soared up to the sky.  She asked where trees like that came from, and my response was:

"No matter how big the tree, each tree comes from a tiny little seed. Somewhere along the way, this tiny little seed was buried, nurtured, and given the space to grow, and a gigantic tree came forth."

To which she responded: "how on Earth does that happen?"

Me: "Potential.  There's an amazing amount of potential in a tiny little seed. We all have the capacity for greatness already within us. And the capacity for a tree so great starts out in a tiny little seed."


I enjoy moments like that, when it seems I am having such an existential discussion with my daughter, and when I can glean some wisdom from it as well.

Lately, I've been struggling with my purpose. More specifically, I've been looking at how I can fulfill my purpose while maintaining my roles that I fill in my everyday life.  This has honestly taken a lot of introspection, a lot of thought about what makes me tick and what makes me thrive, and the decision that I don't want to live in a fog. I want to experience the world around me, and feel that I am leading a balanced life.

This means I took a look back to my roots, and examined how I came into the career of teaching special education. I'm not going to lie: when I was in college, I wanted nothing more than to write books about social issues, about groups of people and grand experiments.  I was making so many observations about the human condition, and I wanted to write something that would inspire great change.

But then I had to be an adult, and someone had to support the family while my ex finished school and went on to grad school. So, teaching was a logical choice, and special education had the greatest need.

Don't get me wrong; I love working with the students that I have in school.  The stress level is often more than I can handle while still being healthy, but I do it because I care deeply for those children. Still, I know that given the choice, my heart is in writing and researching and exploring the world around me. I love talking with people from all walks of life, and I know there is so much wisdom in my interactions with random people.

So, while thinking about all of these things, I thought about my potential. I knew I was intelligent in school, and it seemed that I could do pretty much anything I wanted to in life. But I underestimated my potential; somewhere along the way, I convinced myself that I wasn't good enough to be a scientist, engineer, or social researcher.  Somewhere along the way I decided that my dream needed to take a back seat to practicality.  There aren't a lot of things I regret in life, but this is one of them. I wish that I had believed in myself enough.

Of course, that could have changed the rest of my past. I know that one decision can affect so many things, and I don't want to undo all of the good that came along with these decisions. I guess at this point, all I can do is acknowledge this dream, and try to make it a reality.

From the tiny seed of my spirit can come great things. With the nurturing soil of my mind and the light from my optimistic and loving heart, I am sure to blossom. Thirty-one years old is not too old to decide that I am still destined for greatness.

Graduation

I sat here tonight and stared at the computer screen.  I told myself I would be done with this project by last night, so I could give the seniors their gifts at the picnic.  Yesterday came and went, and I tried to give myself an excuse ("I'm exhausted" has been the latest one, because it's mostly true!). 

The reality is that I didn't do anything, because I didn't know what to write.  Or rather, I didn't know if I should be truthful to them.

My idea was to give them a journal to record the next year of their life, and I would write them a letter in the front.  But how do you write a touching and sentimental letter without sounding like a total sap, without making them cry, and without throwing in the "I've seen what's really important, and trust me- a lot of what you think is important isn't!!"

I want them to get out there and make their own lives, and I want them to take the chances and make the mistakes.  That's where memories come from! If life goes perfectly as planned, there aren't a lot of great stories to share with others.  Still, I was a bit guarded about what I needed to write.  I took a moment to think about my high school graduation (which took forever, because no one warned ME to write things down!).

I told my mother after remembering, that I had a frontal lobe that developed way before everyone else.  Her response: "you and your frontal lobe..."  I love my mother, and the fact that she laughs at my response.  The reality is I couldn't remember much about graduation, because I guess I knew there would be more important moments in my life. I remember that I wore my ruby slippers to the ceremony (when the rule was to wear black dress shoes). I remember that the picture of me shaking the principal and superintendent's hands while receiving my diploma feature their disdainful looks while looking down at my shoes. :-)  I remember realizing that college was a reality, because there was no more high school left for me.

So I guess I felt doom.  Expectations were out there, and I wondered if I could hack it.

No one told me to LIVE THEN. They told me to get out there, set goals, reach them, and have a great life. They didn't warn me that life was happening while I was trying to REACH the goals! No one warned me that whether I went to college for one month or ten years, that life was still going to happen; and that many of the things that happened to me were chance.  And no one told me how bad regret would feel--how when I really took a good look back at that time of my life, I regretted not taking more chances.  I was too terrified of failure- that the balls I was juggling would come tumbling down if I didn't keep up the pace.

Well, guess what? They came tumbling down.  And I turned out just fine.  And then I realized that, if anything, I wanted to warn the people that came after me.  To let them know that it's ok to have big dreams, that they can achieve them, but that they need to include fun and experience along the way.

And without sounding like some downer or an overly spiritual person (in light of my current situation), I wanted to let them know that they shouldn't plan to live to be 100.  Because they might stare in the mirror at age 30, and wonder how (and if) the next year will turn out.  And then they will REALLY regret all of these chances they didn't take.  And the retirement account they tried to create, or the savings for "when I live my life" won't really matter.  And THEN, they'll wish someone told them.

So, my gift to these students? Yes, it's a journal and a letter. But really, it's a challenge.  A challenge to get out there in the world and LIVE in it.  To take risks, to make memories, and to record them.  I don't want them to fear the world around them, and I want them to get out and explore every piece of it they can.  And what happens if they fail? At least there's a story to tell.  Heck, some of my best stories were from my failures.  And I wanted them to know they don't need to be afraid to love. These really are my two big things I want to leave behind in this world, and a good start is in 30 journals to new adults.

Graduation is a cool thing in the metamorphosis of life; it symbolizes both an ending, and a new beginning. I guess everything is cyclical, but there are few great moments that are publicly celebrated as both.  For us introspective folks, we can always see this reality.  For new graduates, I imagine this duality is terrifying.  I know great change is only scary when people focus on failure.  When we see all the opportunity, and aren't afraid to fail, that is when we LIVE.

I also brought up my list I created, and how I have really lived more in the past two-three years than I did my whole life before then. I don't want them to feel the same way- I want their lives to start now.  I can't control the future, but I can inspire it.

Last night we had the picnic of the National Honor Society, and all of the attendants were seniors. One member asked me, "is your treatment after graduation?"  Earlier yesterday, I had the doctor call to try to schedule my treatment to start on graduation day. I know it sounded trivial to him, but I told him I couldn't miss graduation for treatment.  I wanted to say goodbye before I moved on.  And I have a feeling this student was feeling the same way.

I know that I have every possibility of making it through this treatment with little after-effect, and going on to live a relatively normal life.  I also know there's a possibility of recurrence, or that my body will never be the same after treatment (that's the risk I had to weigh).  And I know it was these thoughts that made it hard to write the letter. I tried not to capture the urgency of my final words, or something crazy like that. I wanted a message of hope, and something to inspire them.

Not something to remember me by.... I'll leave my manifesto for that. ;-)

An Evening with Jere

         This past Thursday, I had the pleasure of joining a good friend for an evening of dinner and schmoozing at a fancy benefit dinner.  The event was the CABIA Annual Benefit dinner, and that is the Chattanooga Area Brain Injury Association.  Suffice it to say that everyone in that room (all 150+) were in some way touched by brain injury.  If you'd like a slap in the face of the reality around you, attending a dinner such as this would be a great way to do so.

        Jere sent me a message Tuesday, asking me to attend the dinner with him.  He was worried it was too short notice, though I remembered that I was supposed to have the event on my calendar in the first place.  I arranged a babysitter, and told him I'd be there.  I remember sending a message back to him asking what the attire would be.  His response: "wear pearls and comfortable shoes."  It seems I never get a typical response from Jere.

       I realized I hadn't worn a dress in ages.  I guess the last time I wore one was graduation night, and that was only briefly enough to get to the event and back home.  I am not a dress person, but it seemed that the evening would be a reason to delve into something new.  Tuesday evening, after class, I hit the clothing stores looking for a dress.

       The other task was interesting: I did ask my boyfriend if it was ok that I attended a swanky dinner with another man.  This seemed to be a strange question, because it was an all-around weird situation.  Jere was "another man," but it was definitely different with him.  He was a good friend, a kindred spirit, and it was a different type of relationship from the normal "other men" that are out there.  Travis said he could have me for twenty bucks...  I am thankful I am dating an understanding man. :-)

       On Thursday, I finished work and took off down the interstate.  I remember curling my hair and changing clothes between classes!  I knew that even if I left at 3pm, I would barely make it to the dinner in time.  I pulled up to the location, The Mill in Chattanooga, and saw Jere wandering around the parking lot.

      Jere looked whimsically dapper.  He was cleaned up, with a dress shirt, tie, and coat.  I was entertained with how the colors did not match, but complemented each other so well.  It gave him the look of an absent-minded professor, but made him absolutely charming at the same time.  He gave me the once over, and told me I looked splendid.  We went inside to check in and find our table.

       Through the evening, we talked with many people who have themselves dealt with brain injury.  The whole experience made me realize how little I talk about the subject.  I guess even though I have wanted to interview people and write about it, the whole experience to me is just something I need to suck up and deal with.  I guess I feel like rehashing all of my feelings over and over again will just waste time.  I do know better of this now, and realize there is a tremendous amount of support around me, if I am willing to ask.  I met a woman that has almost no short-term memory, and always meets someone new (even when she has met you twenty times before).  I met a few people that shared physical disabilities along with their brain injuries.  We sat with a couple that actually met, dated and married AFTER the brain injury had occurred (which gave me hope).  All in all, it was an absolutely wonderful evening.

       The speaker was a lawyer from Atlanta that had suffered a brain injury in 2004, after a car accident.  He talked about reach out to those around you, and to spreading knowledge of brain injury.  Everyone knows what concussions are, but very few people understand the effects of brain injury, and that the recovery is life-long.  There are so many people that are so very lucky to be alive, but that doesn't mean they aren't still pushing and clawing their way through life.  Recovery is never meant to be easy, and a life-long recovery can be grueling.

      After hearing him speak, we said our goodbyes to those around us.  Jere and I made small talk all the way to the parking lot, where he asked me if I would be able to drive home.  I told him I should be ok, as I let out a yawn.  He told me I needed coffee, and that we would grab a quick cup of coffee before I hit the road.  I got in my car to follow him, and we drove through the streets of Chattanooga, in search of liquid energy.

      Following Jere through the streets of Chattanooga is like following him in any conversation.  He is incredibly intelligent and quick-witted, but he also makes connections and turns that most people don't see.  Trying to keep up with him leaves me mentally exhausted.  I was relieved when we pulled into the parking spots at the Bluff Art District.  We would be visiting Rembrandt's, the coffee shop where we first met and talked.

      I did a quick mental calculation, and realized it was just about one year ago that we made our first trek to the coffee shop.  I didn't say a word, because I knew that this tidbit was probably irrelevant.  We got out of the cars and walked to the shop.  I am always entertained by the glances and fake smiles we receive when walking about town together--it must look strange to see a white-haired sixty-one year-old with a young, thirty year-old brunette.  I chuckled to myself, because those people didn't realize that this wasn't some strange relationship they read about in the tabloids.  This was the meeting of good friends, ready to connect and share their life experiences over coffee.

      Inside, I ordered a cup of coffee and a dessert, and he did the same.  We sat down at the table and began to chat while our order was being prepared.  I could tell by the look in his eyes that he was ready to get down to the real conversation.  It's hard to be ourselves in front of all of those people.  As much as we make sense to each other, I believe our conversation would seem odd in front of an audience.

      He asked me about my experience in court earlier that day.  I told him about the drudgery of dealing with child support court, and he commented that he expected sparks to fly and fire to come from my eyes when I spoke of my ex-husband.  I told him that honestly, he wasn't worth that much energy anymore.  There are bigger and better things ahead of me, and those thoughts would only hold me back.

       We moved on to talk about brain injury.  I couldn't tell if my thoughts were coherent at that point, but he seemed to understand.  He always seems to understand what I am saying, even when I am not quite sure I am saying real words.  I tell him how frustrating it is to deal with the recovery, how I have great days where I feel like I am the "old me," and then many other days where I can't even remember who the "old me" was.  My frustrations are with my processing speed, my memory, and my indifference to the people around me on any given day.  I know that all of these are valid complaints for someone with a traumatic brain injury, but I still don't like it.  I know the biggest part of me that hasn't recovered is my spirit, because I am still grieving the person I thought I was before the accident.

      I say that because sometimes I become confused.  Sometimes I wonder if I am remembering who I once was, or if I am having thoughts of who I always wanted to be.  And since everyone around me seems to want to cut me a lot of slack, I have to depend on myself to remember what life was like before.  And Jere, bless his heart, worries I don't get enough sleep and give my body enough time to heal.  I know he's right, but I still feel like I am making up for lost time.  Every day, I wake up and go to bed feeling that way.  Sometimes I take it in stride, and sometimes it terrifies me.

      Toward the end of our conversation, we talk about writing together again.  The whole reason we ever came together was because I was writing, and he was someone I needed to interview.  This evolved into him helping me write, then a joint effort.  Through the year we have both gone through peaks and valleys, and our writing effort has suffered.  This evening was a time that we could make plans to write, and to make a commitment to finally doing something about it.  

      Eventually, the coffee and dessert were gone, and I realized I had an almost-two hour drive home.  We walked out of the shop, and down the street.  He told me about how his house was going on the market, and he would be moving to North Carolina.  I could feel my heart stop, because I wasn't liking the idea of him moving so far away.  It's not like we see each other even weekly, but I like knowing he's only a few hours away anytime I've needed to chat.

     We walked to our cars, parked on top of the bridge, and turned to say our goodbyes.  He grabbed me and pulled me close to hug me, and I felt the stress of the day fade away.  He told me how much he leaned on me, and I almost cried when I thought about how much I have leaned on him over the past year.  I honestly owed much of my success in this past year to how grounded he has made me feel.  Having someone who has been to hell and back, for just about the same reason, can make the world of difference.  Being able to say whatever I want, whenever I want, and knowing he has felt the same way makes a big difference in dealing with issues.  And knowing that whenever I try to convince myself of something, he will be there to call me out on my BS and push me to find the truth. THAT is the mark of a special relationship.  Whatever happens from here on out, I know that this has been a truly magical time for me.

     I also had a brief moment where I wondered if the people driving below had looked up to see us.  I wondered what they saw while driving--a man with silvery hair, holding a young woman for dear life, on top of a moonlit bridge.  I wondered if anyone questioned the peculiarity of our pairing.  I know I've questioned it often, but have always remained grateful for divine intervention.  

     And Lisa Morgan.  You see, Lisa Morgan is the woman that introduced us a year ago in Siskin Rehabilitation Hospital.  I can remember it like it was yesterday... Jere walked through the door, and Lisa told us we could go sit in the cafeteria and talk.  His response: "cafeteria food sucks!" He then looked at me, a stranger, and said "Let's go somewhere else and eat. I'm driving."

    I looked at him, and gave an immediate response of "sure!"  I hadn't thought through the fact that I didn't know the extent of his brain injury.  I only knew that this would be someone interesting, and I was determined to find some adventure.  I remember Lisa's final words as we walked out the door together:

"Don't let me see you two on the news!!!"