Words of Green

Official website for author Tammy Green

Love

Community

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It’s a word typically used to describe a characteristic of a group of living beings. It’s been used in many different, and quite varied, settings. “Homeless community”. “Church community”. It’s a way that people categorize themselves, identify themselves, and label themselves and others, good and bad. Some communities carry a negative connotation. Some make people appear more esteemed than what’s warranted in reality. A very simplified definition of the word “community” is a group of living things sharing the same environment. At the most simplified interpretation of that definition, it implies that every living being is in a community with another living being. We are all in. We all belong. Yet, we don’t. As humans, we instinctively try to find a pecking order where someone appears to exist at a higher tier than another, for whatever reason. A rich person feels superior to a poor person. Someone with a roof over their head is superior to a homeless person. Someone with a lighter skin color is considered by some to be superior to someone with a darker skin color.
Why? Why do we use the very thing, community, that brings us all together to separate and debase other living beings? I make up that we – all of us – are insecure about our own place in community. I submit that we have an inherent fear of not belonging, not being included, not being seen. I believe that many of us greatly curb and scale back our own individuality in order to fit into expectations and perceptions of a specific community. We are conditioned from birth to conform, fit in, modify behavior, believe so that we can belong. We teach our children to do this because it’s what we were taught. And the cycle continues.
“Be quiet.” “Use your inside voice.” “Don’t speak to me in that tone.” These are all things I personally heard during my childhood. However, it’s taken me 51 years to love the fact that my loudness walks into a room before I do. I was reminiscing with family a few days ago about the time when I was five years old on a routine Friday night sleepover at my grandfather’s home. I was already in bed, as was he, when I asked for a glass of water. Exasperated, he told me no, that it was time to go to sleep. I responded, “All I want are my rights.” Who could have known what a prophecy that would become? It’s my earliest memory of randomly pissing off family members with my words and actions. 46 years later, it’s evolved into an art form. I’ve managed to alienate a mother, a sister-in-law, a brother, innumerable aunts and uncles, and cousins by simply being loud, opinionated, and unapologetically living my truest, most authentic life. And that’s just my kinfolk. Just imagine how quickly I can piss off people who aren’t related to me.
That has most assuredly impacted my space in community. Some have thrown me away. Some have taken me in. Here’s what I’ve learned along the way about community.

  • I’ve always had a voice. I had to learn how to use it effectively, and become indifferent to how others expected me to use it.
  • I exist to pull others into community, even while I am discarded from it.
  • I don’t have to agree with others to love them, and I have the capacity to love them even while they are hurting me.
  • Family is not blood. They are relatives. Family is who stands beside you through the good, the bad, and everything in between. Pay attention to who those people are and appreciate them.
  • My pain always has a purpose.

I’ve paid close attention the last few years to the community around me. I’ve become selective about what I allow into my life. I exist in several communities today. I am part of a recovery community, activist community, female community, gay community, family community, animal parent community, empathy community, empty nester community, real estate community, medical community, writing community, and spiritual community. Not a single one of these communities defines who I am. I used to be part of a relative community, church community, soccer mom community, single parent community, student community, corporate community. Not one of those communities ever defined who I am. Most importantly, I’m hyper aware of the simplified community to which I belong.
Humans are such funny creatures. We need to belong. We need it like the very air we breathe. We seek it out in the oddest of places such as gangs, drugs, bars, recovery rooms, and other places when we are discarded from one where we thought we belonged. And we find it. Whether or not we survive it is a different story. We always find it.
I’m grateful today for community, a group of living things sharing the same environment. I’m even more grateful for those who gift it freely to others. I aspire to be someone who creates community. If you are non-residenced, non-Caucasian, non-Christian, non-affluent, non-gender identified, non-female, non-male, non-straight, non-gay, non-married, or any other thing that makes you feel like you are separate, you belong here. I encourage you to stop being “non”.
Find your voice.
Include everyone.
Love regardless.
Pay attention.
Use your pain.
Be who you are, and know that you are valued. You belong. You are my community, and you have a place here.

Who inspires you to be a better human?

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Who inspires you to be a better human? Is it your pastor? Your partner? A relative? Superhero? Your mom?
It’s not an easy thing to find in today’s culture in America. Inspiration? Hope? Every where we look, we see polarity. Arguments. Bullying. People who profit from and support the suffering of others. How deeply do we have to dig to find something that reminds us of the goodness of humanity in our everyday lives?
Let me tell you a story of inspiration. The story photo shown is actually a wall of canvas prints of animals. Dogs, specifically, and spirits now. They are memorialized by two people that I am privileged to know and love. I am privileged because I get to love them, and I get to learn from them each day what real love, values, morals, caring, and action looks like. All the things that most of us would like to attribute to our own religion or spirituality, these people just live every day.
The dogs include Wesley, the old man with bangs, and Patsy, the boxer with cancer, and Tater, whose back legs and hips wouldn’t let him move very far without help. There is Pops, whose tongue is perpetually dry because the lower half of his jaw is gone, and Gus Gus, whose heart wasn’t expected to function for very long. Not pictured are some of the current crew consisting of Kevin, the five legged pittie whose ears were cut too short by someone more interested in his fighting skills instead of his health, and Poo, the blind and deaf poodle dropped off because he required too much care. Also not pictured are the fur kids adopted throughout the years. There’s Jake, black lab extraordinaire; Kaya, dope on a rope who enjoys a good bag of mulch occasionally; Pepper, the gazelle disguised as a dog; Nola, the soul mate adopted during a rescue during Hurricane Katrina; Biscuit, the dog training cat; Butter, the cat who morphs into whatever you need at the moment, and countless other ferrets, snakes, mice, and rabbits.
Deb and Dave provide hospice care to elderly, sick animals that need a soft place to land on their way out of this world. For some, these people are the only soft place ever known to these animals. For all of these animals, these people give generously and lovingly from their hearts and their bank accounts. How unselfish does one have to be to fully fund, without assistance, expensive medications, food, and medical care for animals who have been thrown away essentially? How loving does one have to be to offer a home, a heart, and time to another living creature unable to fend for itself? At any given time, they nurture a minimum of three hospice animals in addition to their brood.
In addition to this, what they consider to be their life’s work, they volunteer weekly at the Humane Society loving animals that don’t have a soft place to land. They regularly transport animals from not so great situations to homes where they have a chance to be loved and cared for. Deb volunteers regularly for rescue missions with organizations, and sees situations that would break most people and render them catatonic. People like me.
I love animals. Many of us have pets that we consider family members. Our own Cora Belle, Rumi, and Bit are the family that brings constant joy to our lives on a daily basis. I know how to care for animals. I am filled with compassion, and a desire to end pain for any living creature.
But I can’t do what my better humans do. I do not have what it takes to witness the outcome of human cruelty with my own eyes, and not let it break me. I do not have what it takes to quietly take on the suffering of multiple living creatures, and emerge whole. Maybe they don’t either. Maybe they each give pieces of life from themselves to every life they touch. You won’t find a person alive who has met them, worked alongside them, or volunteered with them who doesn’t love them. There are many more out there who do what they do, quietly, willingly, without us ever knowing the cost to them. What about the people who can’t do what they do? The people like me, who just can’t. Maybe our job is to say “thank you”. Maybe our job is to hug them, and love them, and cry with them, and lift them up. Maybe we can pour into them a tiny portion of the love that they so freely give to the ones that we can’t.
Who inspires you to be a better human? Find them and say “thank you”.

Home

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“We may act sophisticated and worldly but I believe we feel safest when we go inside ourselves and find home, a place where we belong and maybe the only place we really do.” ~Maya Angelou

Home – /hōm/ noun

Definition: The place where one lives, especially as a member of a household or family.


There are as many descriptions of home as there are people.  Many think of a childhood house as home. Some think of a location. Some find it in religion. I have lived in many houses, in many geographical locations. I’ve explored various religions, and been to countless churches. The place where I live is not a bricks and sticks building, a location, or religion. I have found home in the people on my journeys that choose to participate in my life. Some refer to these people as family of choice.  Some are fortunate enough to find home in family of origin.


All sorts of sensory experiences remind us of what we experience in the place we remember as home. Seeing the green pine trees when I’m driving makes me think of my hometown. The sound of a lawn mower, the scent of cornbread baking – these things take me back.

 
As a child, there were several points of light that represented home to me. My grandmother, my grandfather, and my godmother were all influential in establishing my foundation. However, the one who completed the circle was my aunt. Her door was always open, and I knew that I belonged there. Today, she is what embodies the vision of my childhood home.

 
As a young adult, I tried earnestly to create a home of my own. I did my best to adult properly. I saw a problem area in my life, and I addressed it by getting sober. I got an adult job and bought an adult house. It lacked soul. Fortunately, that’s about the time I met my soul sister for life. She is the home of my young adulthood. She has walked beside me for more than half my life through fire, tears, laughter, mind-numbing fear, and tidal wave joy. She opened her heart and her door, and I knew I belonged. She extended the invitation of home to my daughter in the hospital delivery room where she cut the umbilical cord. Today, we laugh about the story of when I was led, blindfolded, to her house for a surprise party in my honor. Before I removed the blindfold, I said, “We’re at Deb’s house.” Later she asked me how I knew. I responded, “It smells like home.”

 
In my 30’s, my daughter defined home in my heart. I hope that she knows that I will always be home to her, regardless of the location where either of us live. 

 
Now, in my middle years, I can see the tapestry of the path required of me. I knocked on many strange doors. I crossed moats only to arrive at vacant homes. I climbed mountains and swam oceans for homes not meant for me. It takes what it takes. I’m so grateful for the people along my path that showed me how to belong, and for those who showed me I would never belong. I would never have recognized home had it not been for them. 

 
I have found the home where I belong by travelling along meandering paths, overcoming insurmountable obstacles, and turning around on dead end roads. I have learned to respect and trust my own intuition. I have learned to not force a house to become a home, when it’s not meant for me.  All of the experiences that led me home have taught me my home’s value. I have found a home that allows me to breathe and to bask in the sun. I have found a home that provides shelter from the storm. I am free to laugh and to cry.  I am free to grow inside myself where I’ve found home.

 
How do I know? It smells like home.

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW SHITTY THIS IS?”

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That was the question written on his sign as he stood on the side of the road at the exit ramp. The temperature was a frigid 28 degrees. In the South, anything below 40 degrees is freezing. He was in his mid-thirties, age wise, with dark hair and a beard. His waist-length jacket covered as much as he could shrink into it, and his toboggan hat didn’t do much to hide the dirt on his face. His four-legged, furry companion sat stoically next to him wearing his own strategically ripped sweater, one size too small. 

 

I never knew his name, but he stuck with me in my mind for the rest of the day. I made up stories in my head about the path that led him to that exit ramp. How does it happen? Maybe he lost a job where he was only one paycheck away from being broke. Maybe his wife and children left him to move in with her parents. Maybe he was an addict and drugs took over his life. Maybe he tried as hard as he could, and it wasn’t enough. 

 

Could he turn it around now? How would he manage to interview for a job with no clean clothes and no transportation? How could he think about interviewing for a job when the greatest challenge ahead of him today is surviving hunger and freezing temperatures? How could he sustain a job with no place to sleep, shower, or clean his clothes? A million scenarios flutter past my eyes, but I can only feel the pain of my own experiences. Could I even imagine his? 

 

Although I don’t carry cash, I always have an assorted compilation of random things in my car. I have things like wool socks that I’ve picked up at a store, running gloves from a running expo, the occasional toboggan hat on sale, or random coats or shoes awaiting a goodwill drop off. 

 

I smiled and looked him in the eye as I rolled my window down. “Hey, Mister, are you interested in some warm socks?” 

 

He moved quickly to my car as his pup watched keenly without moving. “Yes, ma’am, I sure am.”

 

As I handed him four pair of wool socks, he smiled back at me and said, “Thank you so much. God bless you, ma’am.” 

 

The light turned green. I rolled up my window and adjusted the heat in my car. It was hard to see the road for a few minutes as my heart leaked out of my eyes. I’ve been to the place where I tried as hard as I could, and it wasn’t enough.  I’ve felt the hopelessness that comes with not having a safety net.  I made a mental note to carry one extra granola bar in my car all the time, more than one pair of running gloves, a few extra pair of wool socks, and some $5 gift cards for fast food. These are such small things, but they are strings in someone else’s safety net. Such small acts that say to another human being “I see you.” 

 

“DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW SHITTY THIS IS?”

 

No, sir, I don’t, but I don’t want you to know it alone.

The Importance Of Picking A Damn Good Baby Daddy

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Dysfunction in my family of origin went unnoticed by me until I started college. Silence in my childhood home was only interrupted by the most mundane of conversations – “what’s for dinner?”, “Unload the dishwasher before I get home.”, “Get your shoes before you miss the bus.” My mother had a new arts and crafts hobby each week. My daddy found as much as possible to do outside to get out of the house. I read books…a lot. Country music played on the radio in the background. The only thing I ever remember us doing as a family was square dancing. (True story. It was a small town. It’s part of my past just like braces.) Even that involved couples, so really we only rode in the same car to the event.
We didn’t take family vacations. We didn’t attend sporting events together. We didn’t attend church together. We didn’t play board games around the dinner table. We existed as individual islands within four walls. I had no idea that families actually did things together until I was invited to the homes of different friends, and I witnessed family discussions, planning, devotions, etc.
When my ex-husband and I met, we discovered that we both had similar stories of broken homes, disappointment, and addiction in our families. Both newly sober, we were determined to break the cycle of brokenness. And we did, for a time. We created a home and a family for his two children, and planned a future for us, them, and possibly more children. We worked hard on ourselves individually so that we could be as emotionally healthy as possible in a family of our own. We made mistakes. We made amends.
More than ever before, the dysfunction in each of our families of origin was prominent. As our recovery taught us, we learned to accept, take what we needed from it, and leave the rest. Some of the time, old ways overrode new ways. We made an effort, and we didn’t quit when we stumbled.
Somewhere along the way, we lost the “why” of us among the living of us as a family. Our time on the path together was ending. We were sad, disappointed, and confused about the situation in which we found ourselves. As most wounded people do, we took a few emotional shots at each other. We tried to blame, and finally accepted. We realized that it was time for us to move on individually. After watching my own parents go through a horrible, ten year battle of a divorce, I was determined that was not going to be our fate. He didn’t want to recreate the divorce of his parents either. So we found a place in the middle, and we went about the business of unbecoming a family.
We were a couple for 15 years, married for 14 of them. Each of us struggled to learn who we were without a spouse again. He now had three children, all of whom I considered mine. I had loved the older two for most of their lives, and I birthed the youngest. They were never my “stepchildren”; they were simply my oldest two. Trying to imagine myself as a single mother of one instead of a family was the hardest part. He struggled financially as the economy was in a recession. So did I.
His mother was still my mother. My dad was still his. Family of origin related to a divorce is awkward. Holidays are hard. We celebrated separately. Sometimes I celebrated with friends.
Life goes on. He met someone new, and wanted to introduce her to our daughter. I wanted to tell him I was dating women. Outside forces tried to create chaos between us, but we eventually remembered who we really are. We yelled a few times over the phone at each other. We calmly discussed the children at other times. He asked about my dad. I took his mother to dinner. He created a beautiful life with his girlfriend. I dug deeper and deeper trying to learn who I was. The children grew.
In 2013, he was involved in a serious accident that almost took his life. He was crushed from the waist down and in critical care at the hospital near my home. As I told my daughter, I could see fear take over her eyes. When I asked if she wanted me to go with her to the hospital, all she could do was nod.
And then I knew. I knew what family was. I knew I needed to be there for her, for him, for our older two children, for his mother, his father, his stepmother, his girlfriend, and his siblings. I knew, in that one split second, that family isn’t made with marriage certificates, divorce decrees, custody agreements, or even DNA. Family is made when you care more about someone’s well being, and the well being of those they love, than you do about yourself.
Love is so many different things at any given time on the planet. Romantic, young, exciting, new love is the easiest, most addictive love. Married, bill-paying, mowing the lawn love is a little harder. Strange, awkward, after the divorce, caring, not romantic love is virtually nonexistent. And I knew. I knew this family is the legacy we are leaving our children. This non-traditional, outside the box, crazy, loyal, suit up and show up family is the gift that we gave to our children.
His accident brought all of us back together for what is real. My older daughter spent weeks sleeping at my house so she could spend days with her dad in the hospital nearby. His mother and I went to dinner more often. Since then, each of our lives has taken twists and turns-sometimes hairpin curves unforeseen.
He has taken steps to fulfill his lifelong dream of living on a mountain. His girlfriend has recently beaten stage IV cancer. His parents have both passed on, along with one beloved nephew. I have earned a second degree, loved and learned, watched some of my own family of origin walk away, and married again. He and his girlfriend, together with my wife and I, have attended college graduations, weddings, and other family events with our children. All four of us have survived our youngest daughter’s teen angst and torture together. We have cried over the phone together, and we have celebrated joy together. He sends a text every year on my recovery anniversary, and on Mother’s Day. I try hard to be diligent about doing the same. I am grateful for the friendship and care that he and I have forged through the years. We most assuredly did it better than our parents.
Recently, my wife was diagnosed with cancer. I reeled, swinging hard from one emotion to another. The phone rang. I answered from the sofa sitting next to my wife. He said, “I saw she was at the cancer walk today. What’s going on?” I spoke haltingly, with false courage, about her diagnosis. And he knew. He knew about family, about caring for someone else’s well-being. He knew about the legacy.
My entire life is littered with the remains of the mistakes I’ve made. I’ve chosen things, people, and places for all the wrong reasons at various times in my life. But the time that it really mattered, the time that it meant family, I picked a damn good baby daddy.

Hope

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A beautiful spring day when the sky is an endless, cerulean blue with big fluffy, marshmallow clouds.
A hug so warm it seeps into your spirit, sometimes a fire that burns your fingers.
The sunlight glinting on the lake throwing diamonds in your eyes with every ripple.
A murmuration of starlings flying in a glorious pattern, weaving heaven and earth into one being.
Coffee every morning, just the way you like it – two cups exactly.
The color blue – soft, kind, and soothing as a baby’s blanket.
A day in the woods, walking slowly among the trees, marveling at every vein and tributary in a leaf.

Iced tea, unsweetened, thirst quenching in the fiery summer sun.
Belonging, right where you are, just as you are.
A swim in crystal clear water on a night so warm it feels like a cozy hug with every stroke.
The ocean in darkness with a night sky bedazzled with stars shining like beacons calling you home.
The full moon over the water illuminating trails that lead to her glow.
The sound of waves gently rolling onto shore, rocking you like an angel’s lullaby.

Fall, when the sun is a giant orange ball on the horizon sinking into the lake.
A soft place to crash, and a cannon launching you back into the world.
Belly laughter from a baby, the kind that makes you laugh so hard you cry.
The brightest light, the kind you imagine Heaven uses as a welcome mat.
Laundry, and mail, and mowing the lawn – the thing that makes a life, daily.
The thing that makes it a life uncommon.

Winter, sharing a blanket together, watching the flames in the fireplace reflect in blue eyes.
A cloak when the world has peeled you raw, and you have no skin.
Quirky – cucumber green tea bath soap, toothpaste that stands up, and wiping dog paws every time.
A campfire, drawing everyone into the circle, encouraging connection, braiding hearts together.
A single tear, leaving a trail down a face, throat constricted, unable to speak.
Drinking chocolate, savory, dark, rich, something to be sipped.

Soul food.

What’s The Number?

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What’s the number?
How much does integrity cost?
Jesus loves the little children.
What number does the GDP reflect when it becomes acceptable to mock a disabled human publicly?
The insidious implication that protectors of a nation are suspicious.
The blatant introduction of national enemies into infrastructure.
All the children of the world.
Boys will be boys, #metoo, school shootings, fake news.
Politics masquerading as Religion. Power wearing a God costume.
What decreased percentage does the national unemployment rate hit when a large crowd of people and a leader publicly humiliate and laugh at another woman’s trauma?
The celebration of clique and hierarchy among humans.
Red, brown, yellow, black, and white.
What kind of trade deficit is appropriate when we just overlook a self-proclaimed evangelical’s famous quote “grabbed her by the pussy”?
What’s the bottom line for deregulation when the selling off of our national parks and public lands get a thumbs up?
Is there a 1:1 exchange ratio for the number of dead Syrian children to each dollar increase in the S&P500?
They are precious in His sight.
Kids in cages in exchange for good growth on those retirement accounts?
The manipulation of a nation to discredit what one can see with their eyes, and to ignore what one can hear with their ears.
A daily insertion of a dystopian environment into a great nation, creating doubts of who is good and who is evil.
Worst of all, the division of a nation. The slow rot from the inside, the disintegration of families, the infectious disease of people against people.
The obliteration of human compassion, the death of respect for humankind, the elimination of kindness.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.
What’s the price tag exactly for it to become acceptable for a human being to be inhumane?
What’s the number?

To The Stranger I Once Called Mama

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The only one who had a plan and a purpose for me was God.
My destiny was to never be enough.
I entered your journey as a mistake – my life a burden to yours.
You wanted me to become your real-life doll. Dolls were never my playthings. My playground was the ball field, the barn, a gravel road that I could explore.
You wanted to bend me to your will. My brain was too inquisitive, asking “why” too often for your comfort.
The lace dresses and ribbon bows in which you draped me were chains. I couldn’t breathe sitting still, being quiet, looking pretty. Outside, the sun and dirt begged me to come play. Barefoot in jeans, scraped knees, dirty fingernails – my lungs gasped for air.
I’m sorry I couldn’t accept the God you pushed toward me. It wasn’t big enough to hold me. I needed a whole Universe to teach me where to find a higher power.
Get out of your hair. Obey without question. You wanted me to need you. I did, for all the things you could never give.
Trust you. Believe you. Fit into your life only where it’s convenient. You wanted me to validate you, but I was just a child.
You wanted me to love you unconditionally, but you are thorny and drew blood when I came near. You were a perfect study in “Go away, Come here.”
You wanted me to respect you, but you could never teach me how.
When I became an adult, I wanted to blame your youth, immaturity. Now, you know better. You still choose pride and ego over a relationship with me.
Now, you want to be proud of me, but you are unable to see the heart in me that is good.
You are aging and your mortality grows nearer. I imagine you want to see yourself in me – an instinctive pull to reflect on the genetic contribution you made to the world.
You are sold on the picture in your mind of who you think I should be. Your limited vision is a chrysalis, but I am already a butterfly as multi-faceted as sunlight on a dew drop.
The only one with a plan and purpose for me was God.
Until
I gave birth to my own daughter.
I didn’t know how to be a mother.  Thanks to you, I knew how not to.
Do the opposite of what you did.
Love her without reason.
Celebrate her just because she exists.
Tell her that being present in her life is pure joy.
That’s how I learned to be a mother.
I know the thrill of participating in her world.
She knows without doubt that she’s every dream I’ve ever had.
I know the absolute bliss in watching her walk into her destiny.
The life from you to me to her is as different as night and day.
Seeing the light in my daughter’s eyes makes me understand the depth of the void in your life. Seeing her fulfill her own purpose and plan is a promise from the Universe.
Do you grieve? Do you even understand your casualty?
I’m sorry that the box you live inside locks out the light of your daughter. I’m sorry you can’t see the magic and divinity that I am.
It’s not a loss to me anymore. It’s a loss to you, knowing you chose to let me go.
The only one whose plan and purpose mattered for me was God.
My destiny was to be so much more than enough.

Happy Holidays From The Cheap Seats

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Holiday season is here.  Break out the turkeys, casseroles, Christmas carols, gifts, and family.  We all picture the cozy family gatherings viewed through a frozen, candlelit window pane amidst snow softly falling. We don’t ever imagine the actual train wreck it is for many of us. The reality is, for those among us in recovery, those among us who are LGBT, those of us who are desperately trying to establish our own truths about our identities as adults, that family ends up being a place where we don’t belong. Aunt Edith is going to whisper (loudly) all the latest gossip about cousin Ned’s latest stint in rehab so that everyone within a 50 mile radius can hear it. Another relative is going to ask gay cousin Jim what happened to his last “friend”. Granny is going to get pissed because the rolls are burning and no one can be bothered with helping. And God knows that someone is going to bring up politics. 

My approach was always to laugh it all off. It’s an interesting approach considering that *I’m* the gay, recovering alcoholic in my own family. I’ve turned Aunt Edith’s comments into humor. I’ve distracted the conversation away from the pain of a recent breakup with a joke. I’ve responded to Granny’s ire with a suggestion of happy pills for everyone. What I’ve learned is that my humor keeps me popular in my family. I’m able to stay safe within the role assigned to me early on. I’ve also learned that my soul dies a little more when I cover up my authenticity with humor. 

I’m sure that I’ve never fit into the role in which I was assigned within my family. I tried hard for a very long time. I did the next indicated, expected thing throughout my youth and young adulthood. I made good grades in school, did my assigned chores at home, went to college, pledged a sorority, dated guys, graduated, got a job, bought a house, got married, started a family. 

I discovered that around age 26, I didn’t drink like others around me. I drank to fill a hole inside me, and alcohol worked. Until it didn’t. When I got sober, I remember a family member saying to me “Don’t mention that you’re sober around these people we’re going to meet.” As if it was something that was shameful. I was conflicted because my heart and soul felt clear and right, but my family didn’t know what authenticity looked like on me. Later, at around age 40, I suffered an economic setback when the housing bubble burst. It left me broke, unhealthy, divorced, and confused. I didn’t know who I was without everything I’d built to that point. I literally went to AA meetings for 3 years crying and trying to stay sober and parent my daughter single handedly. I felt embarrassed to tell my family that I had failed at life. It ended up not really mattering because no one asked. I found support, love, and nurturing in my sober recovery group when my family was absent. Later, at around age 44, I discovered why past relationships felt confusing to me when I learned that I was gay. Interestingly enough, the people I was most afraid to tell were my family. It took a year and a half for me to come out to the three people in my family to which I felt closest. There are a few who love me without reason. There are some who still feel the need to tell me they disagree with my lifestyle. There are some who are just more comfortable when we don’t discuss it. Even after that, expressing and living my personal values from a political viewpoint has further alienated loved ones from me. I’ve accepted that I’m not for everyone. The  difference for me is that I don’t pretend to be something I’m not anymore. I am flawed, honest, real, strong, loved, human, and authentic. I am proud of who I am today, and I have nothing to hide. I have a 100% survival rate from the pain I’ve suffered, and I’m a better person for it.

Since then, I look back over the last 50 years of my life, and I compare the person I was as a child to the woman I am now. I hold up a magnifying glass to myself daily and I inspect myself carefully for the nuggets of truth about me that feel right and clear. I pay attention to my intuition and I choose to live in my truth today. My history of not choosing that path has proven that my heart and soul depends upon my own authenticity. I don’t cover my pain with humor, and I speak up, even to family, when something is done or said that contradicts my personal “clear and right”. 

The fallout of speaking up for one’s own authenticity is that sometimes it distances one from family. In all fairness, they simply don’t know how to respond when the space where I used to fit is now empty and a new person stands before them. Some of them still see my heart as they’ve seen it all along. Some walked away. I walked away from some who intentionally choose not to see me. I didn’t realize, in some cases, that the last time I spent with some of them was, indeed, the last time I would spend with them. 

Today, every day means something to me. Every person to which I give my time is important to me. I choose to give my time and attention to those who want to give their time and attention to me. I choose to live as authentically as I know how to be in this moment, holidays and every day. 

I am most assuredly non-traditional. There is no snow falling softly outside my window. There are no unloving, hurtful comments at my holiday celebrations. We did not have turkey and stuffing at our family holiday gathering. My daughter, at age 18, has learned to be bold in expressing her own authenticity, and I couldn’t be more proud of her. Holidays feel clear and right. Happy Holidays from my family to yours.

How My Dog Taught Me Yoga

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“Ahdo Mukha Shvanasana”. I can’t even say it. Which is probably a good indicator that I can’t even do it. At least not properly. 

But my dog can. 

Without even practicing.

Or even thinking about it.

Downward dog. Downward facing dog. Observing a 115 pound Great Dane do this truly makes one respect the art form. Large (but not too large) and graceful, this girl puts her big bucket head flat to the ground and gets the full stretch from her harlequin hued hamstrings. This is usually followed by a massive yawn and a groan that makes me laugh out loud. We’re talking about her groans, not mine. Mine aren’t that funny.

I’m training to run my first full marathon-26.2 miles of hellfire and brimstone to my feet, legs, and body. I do long runs on the weekends because I don’t have half a day during the week to voluntarily torture myself, not to mention another day and a half to recover from it. My masseuse suggested yoga to help stretch the muscles and keep my total body limber. Enter Downward Dog. Imagine lying flat on the ground in prone position. That was my first attempt at Downward Dog. Enter MY groans. Not funny at all.

How do dogs know this? How does living a simple, joyful life come so easy to them? Are they mystical creatures sent from another dimension to teach us how to live as better humans? Is that a rhetorical question? Here are 10 truths my dog has taught me about how to live.

1. Sleeping is everything. Take every opportunity you can to sleep. It works best when you can find a nice, shady spot in which to dig a hole and form your whole body into a ball that’s hole-sized. Utilize Downward Dog stretching upon awakening.

2. Enjoy food. Once you’ve found something you like, stick with it. Don’t eat the diet stuff. Just sniff it and walk away.

3. Treats are the best! Celebrate as often as possible for as many reasons as possible. Go pee outside. Come when you’re called. Sit occasionally. Bring the ball back. Sometimes lying down gets two!

4. Let people know what you’re feeling. Don’t wait to be asked if you need to go potty. Just go put your wet nose into someone’s hand. It doesn’t matter if it’s 2:00 a.m. 

5. Do what you want. If dragging trash from the bathroom can is your thing, do it repeatedly and with passion. Don’t let the naysayers bring you down.

6. Be enthusiastic. Going for a walk? Get into it. 

7. Keep your emotions in check until the timing is appropriate. No need to display shock at the turn of events in your life until the pizza delivery guy rings the doorbell. 

8. Stay in shape. Run like the wind after the ball when it’s thrown so you can let your person know exactly where it is while you wait for her to come pick it up, or, if you’re feeling festive, FETCH it! (See # 3.)

9. Size doesn’t matter. A friend’s Chihuahua will eat your head while my Great Dane hides from butterflies.

10. Be happy. Recognize how lucky you are to have people in your life who love you unconditionally.

It’s never easy balancing health living with responsibility. So often, we are pulled in so many different directions each day with work, family, socializing, and technology. Seriously, who can find the time to train for a marathon? Finding basic joyfulness in living can be a challenge at best, and can result in health issues at worst. Whether it’s exercising, spirituality, relationships, or mindfulness, dogs can teach us so much about living our best lives. Volunteer with a local pet rescue or Humane Society to walk dogs for an hour weekly, and learn Downward Dog for life.

Dog live about 12 years, and that’s why they discovered this brilliant philosophy. Because time is limited, there is no time to be unhappy. ~Mehmet Murat  

How Your DNA Can Change The World

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I light up her dark eyes. I contribute to the worry lines on her weathered forehead, and to the laugh lines near her soft eyes and soft cheeks. I make her proud just because I exist. I made her a grandmother when she was 43 years young. I was born into a family in which I never fit. Most who share my DNA are strangers who have always spoken a different language than me, figuratively. I was an accident, an unplanned pregnancy. My father, her son, did the honorable thing and married my mother. In the way of her life, she turned lemons into lemonade. I am her first grand.

She put herself through nursing school with four small children at home during a time when women didn’t have “careers”. True to her calling, she cared for me. I’m really not sure that she ever realized she also had a calling for teaching. She taught her children and grandchildren so many things that enriched all of our lives. Mostly, she taught me, with her life, a love of learning. She showed me that one possesses life when she possesses a love of learning something previously unknown. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word Empath. She just knew I felt things more deeply than others. She taught me to read when I was 3 years old, and with that knowledge, she gave me the gift of recognizing the importance of words. Along with that gift, she opened the door to a world that was safe for a sensitive soul. She showed me how to look at the world around me, and describe it in vivid color as I saw it. She practiced writing with me with the patience that only a grandmother can possess. She taught me that details are important in grammar, spelling, and, well, everything. When I was frustrated at my lack of skill, she gently told me over and over to “sound it out”.

Later, when I was old enough to be an awkward middle schooler, she would check me out of school to take me shopping. While I heard “It’s ridiculous to spend that kind of money on designer clothes,” from my mother, my grandmother would buy me the first pair of Nike shoes I ever owned. I remember every detail-white leather with the blue swoosh. I felt like I was on top of the world wearing them to school. She was the first one to point me to my own self-worth. She practiced words with me for spelling bees, and cheered as I won the state championship with the word “lobotomy”.

In high school, she was always up for an adventure with me anytime! She packed up my younger brother and my younger cousin, and loaded them into the backseat of a rebuilt Camaro. She navigated the map while I drove us to a dance event hours away where I would perform with my team. She and the boys cheered and cheered and we all sang at the top of our voices to the radio on the trip home.

Ever the nurse, she came to stay with me for the weekend at the rental house where I lived when I was sick, hours from home at my first job after college. When I moved into an apartment even further away, she drove there so she could take me grocery shopping. She was with me when I bought my first car on my own, and she beamed with pride when she sat at the negotiating table with me and watched me haggle with the salesman at the price.

Today I am 50 years old, and she is 94. I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to have her present in my life today. My own life has woven into an interesting, if not celebrated, tapestry. I am a recovering alcoholic with 24 years sobriety, a divorced mother of one who figured out I am gay at age 44, a runner, a business owner, and an intricately designed human being. She doesn’t understand all of the things I am because her life experiences are not my life experiences, yet she loves me without condition. At 94 years old, she is willing to learn what she doesn’t know. So while we sit together on her front porch rocking, she asks me, “How’s Hope doing? I really like her.” And with one simple phrase, I am reduced to tears by a loving gesture.

She taught me things that cannot be learned from books-intelligence, and how to use it to my advantage; the importance of speaking up, even when its not popular; courage to recognize and come to terms with my own shortcomings; and how to live my truth unapologetically. She has been an elegant warrior her whole life. Her stoic and fierce spirit permeates every cell in my body. Love like this cannot be contained in heritage. I imagine that pieces of her heart ripple through every patient entrusted to her care, and every person she has ever touched with her life. I can take it from here. Every time I touch another with my own life, I am reminded of her legacy. She is an amazing human being. She is a live picture of living life out loud, unapologetically. I can sprinkle her spirit with my own touch because I  know how good it feels to be loved with just a few simple words while rocking on a front porch.