The Worst Thing?

Have you ever absently thought to yourself “Ugh, that’s the worst thing ever” over something fairly trivial?

For instance, yesterday I was snacking on a mandarin orange. I laboriously pulled off the stubborn peel and remarked inwardly that it was a pain. Then after all that work, I bit into the first piece and crunched down on a seed. End of the world. I hate seeds in mandarin oranges. I muttered darkly under my breath and began to fish the pesky seeds out. I even said, with exasperation, “Seeds in mandarins are the worst thing ever.” It only took me about two minutes of eating delicious, fragrant sections of mandarin to realize what a monumentally stupid thing I’d just said.

In some parts of the world, I imagine that people would fight over even the seeds of the mandarin. They’d probably eat the peel as well. I see those pictures of starving children and I know the worst things in my life wouldn’t even register on the scale of what they deal with every day. I have disappointments in my life; frustration, pain, sadness, concerns, etc. But I have an overabundance of blessings in my life as well.

I have never missed a meal because there was no food available. If I get hungry, I can walk across the street to the fancy grocery store and buy almost any food I can imagine. If I’m too lazy to walk, there is plenty of food to sustain me in my pantry and fridge. If I got sick in any way, there are two Urgent Care/Clinic’s just across the street. If I had an emergency, I could get to a hospital in about 5 minutes. I live in a beautiful apartment, with hot water readily available, a washer/dryer to clean my clothes, and a closet overfull of garments to choose from. I have a sturdy lock on my door and security that drives around the complex at night. I never have to fear for my safety. I have my own car to transport myself places. I have a very secure job that enables me to provide for myself. I have a loving family that checks in with me on a very regular basis. I have wonderful friends that love and support me. I have a church family that welcomes and includes me. I have a God who never, ever leaves me.

I have everything.

Our thoughts are powerful things. They have the ability to control our emotions and outlook on life. All too often, I allow my thoughts to lead me to a place of pettiness and discontent. I allow greed, jealousy, and apathy to take over.

I don’t want to be that person, and I believe we can find the strength to control our thoughts. I believe in a God who can help me to focus on the blessings in my life.

So during the holidays this year, I’m going to challenge myself to focus on the good and let it outweigh any negative. If we find ourselves focusing on the gift we didn’t get, the family crisis we’re in the middle of, the exhaustion of all the events, the shrinking bank account, the loneliness and the frustrations, how will we have time to focus on all the beauty and joy in life?

Solitude

Some people can't be alone. They thrive on the presence of others, the interaction with people. They crave daily connection. Without the near constant closeness of other people, they become depressed and horribly lonely.

I am not one of those people.

Over the past 4 years, I've slowly realized that I crave solitude. After going through a period of time where I did very little to nurture myself, I was suddenly struck by an overwhelming need to burrow inward and become reacquainted with myself. What developed over the 4 years was about 2 years of soul-searching and a realization of a lot of flaws. A lot of flaws. I spent much of my time in a personal daze, going over my mistakes and the things about myself that I didn't like. When you spend most of your time by yourself, you find plenty of things that could use improvement. Of course, all of this self-reflection could have ended in poor self-esteem and depression . . . and it was leaning that way for awhile.

But then, at a certain point, I realized that I could change. I was not stuck being the person that I'd become. My flaws were not permanent. I could change. Not everything of course, no one is perfect and chasing perfection is ridiculous. But I could improve. I could become a better, happier person. A stronger person.

So, for the past two years, I've made a lot of changes. I wanted to be healthier. I wanted to find a place that felt like home. I wanted to become a better friend. I wanted to become a kinder, more compassionate person. I wanted to seek an honest relationship with God. I wanted to become the sort of person that the right someone could fall in love with someday. I wanted to seek out genuine people and be more genuine myself. I wanted to find adventure in my life.

As far as goals go, these are all pretty ambitious. I've made leaps and bounds in improving some, and struggled desperately with others. But throughout it all, my greatest tool and greatest weakness has been the solitude.

Solitude is a strength and a crutch. If you know yourself well, you are stronger and more capable of handling the pressures of life. But if you isolate yourself from others in an attempt at self-preservation, you can't grow. It is a fine line, and one I find myself struggling with lately. The calmest points in my life are when I am alone; it's how I recharge and center myself. But we were not created to spend all of our time alone. Even the most solitary of individuals craves connection with others. I'm certainly no exception and there are many times that the solitude becomes more of a burden than a reprieve. I'm not complaining; being alone has brought me to a better place in my life than I've been in a long time.

I suppose tonight I'm wondering about other perspectives on solitude. I'm wondering if my friends/family who read my blog have any insight on the part that solitude has played in their lives. Or maybe tonight I'm simply seeking connection.

The Ebb and the Flow

Have you ever stood on the beach, with your bare feet planted in the water? The waves rush toward you, and then inexorably pull back away, while you stay put, watching the movement going on around you. You can feel the sand giving way underneath the sides of your feet, feel the water streaming away from your toes. Sometimes my life feels like that, the ebb and the flow. Sometimes life rushes at me, overwhelming me with all the beauty and intensity that it brings. And then there are times when I stand planted, and life rushes back past me. I see life taking place around me, but I'm rooted in one spot.

Have you ever been stuck in a rut before? You're living life and maybe even living it well, but you aren't living it deeply and bravely. You don't even realize that you're in a rut until something wakes you up and throws you off track. All it takes is a moment, a song, an experience, a conversation, a feeling, a prayer, a breaking point, a realization that you've been a little adrift . . . and a little fragile. Suddenly the patterns in your life seem small. You can't just fall back into the routine, because now you're awake and aware of yourself again.

I've had this awakening experience over and over in my life. I'm a creature of habit. I find a comfort zone and nestle into it, patting myself on the back for navigating the rough waters of life so safely. But I don't look back on the drifting moments of my life with clarity. I remember the times when I woke up and lived my life; scary, complicated, glorious, ugly, frustrating, intense, loving, beautiful, and frenetic. Some of the best moments of my life were also nerve-wracking and complicated . . . but I lived them.

God doesn't want me to live a lukewarm, safe, complacent life. He doesn't want me to stand in the waves of life and let experiences rush past me. I believe that He wants me to trust Him and leap. This isn't the first time He's had to wake me up and tell me so, and I imagine it won't be the last. Life can be an incredibly beautiful adventure when God is at your side.

The magic of Christmas

Today I was sitting at my desk, working on a complicated spreadsheet, feeling frustrated by my self-perceived ineptitude, and basically just wrestling with an overall sense of grumpiness. Not my usual attitude (or at least I hope not!). In an attempt to banish my irritated mood, I decided to listen to some music. But nothing seemed right, it was all either too happy, too spirited, too depressing, etc. Nothing fit.

A lightbulb suddenly went off. Christmas music. I could listen to Christmas music. It's a whole six days after Thanksgiving, way past the acceptable Christmas music deadline. And yet there's been no Christmas music for me yet. No tree, no decorating, no . . . nothing.

This is very, very (very!!) unusual for me. I've always been a bit of a Christmas nut. My parents once bought me tons of Christmas lights for my birthday and I was ecstatic to decorate the outside of our house with them. I was always the first to beg to get the decorations out of storage and put them up. I pester my family about being scrooges and putting off getting a tree. I always push the envelope of the Christmas season, wanting it to start a little earlier. To me, Christmas has always been a bit of a magical time . . . the music, the lights, the luminescent ornaments, the scent of the tree, the spirit of giving, the anticipation, the time with family . . . it all added up to my favorite time of year. A time for magic.

But for some reason, this year, I haven't felt it. The wonderment . . . the anticipation . . . the magic. Part of me wonders if I've outgrown it. If, at the advanced age of 29, part of my child-like joy in Christmas has faded to a recognition that it's just another time of year, and a busy/expensive one at that. It made me feel a bit sad, like I'd grown up and grown past my love of Christmas. Goodbye happy-go-lucky, Christmas fanatic, fanciful Dacia . . . Hello grown-up, prosaic, Scroogy Dacia. Well, that just won't do!

So, on went the Christmas music. Two songs in, I started to feel like maybe it wasn't such an impractical decision to put up a tree for 3 weeks. Then I thought it might be fun to take a drive some evening and look at Christmas lights with some peppermint hot chocolate. And, oh, I should really put my Christmas playlist back on my phone so I can listen to the songs I like in the car . . .

And just like that, mood uplifted . . . I suppose there is something rather magical about Christmas after all, isn't there?

Take a walk

This morning I went for a walk, in spite of the fact that it was crazy, bone-chillingly cold outside and I spent the first 10 minutes hacking up a lung breathing in the cold air. But the day was clear and it's getting very close to that time of year when you forget what color the sky should be. As I dragged myself up the icy, mossy hill, I had a whirl of thoughts going through my mind. This is usually part of why I take walks, because from the time I leave to the time I return, whatever I had spinning around in my head has usually centered itself and I feel calm. I know a lot of people exercise to enjoy those endorphins, but I seem to be the odd duck that goes for long walks in an attempt to find a place of peace. But it wasn't always that way.


The walking for me only began about a year and a half ago, and at the time, I was so out of shape that I had to make frequent stops mid-hill, desperately wheezing, searching for air, and certain I was going to die of a heart-attack. But I was determined, always, to make it to the top. There were a lot of days that I almost gave up. I was tired, it was raining, my body hurt, I wanted to go back, I wanted to quit. I don't remember the exact days when the breathing got easier, and the stops became less frequent, but I do remember the day when I realized I'd made it to the top of the hill without stopping once, and that I wasn't breathing hard at all. It was a windy day, I remember this, because the tears that sprang to my eyes at the realization were getting whipped across my face in the wind. It wasn't the proudest moment of my life, but it was very profound. It made me realize that I was truly strong enough to accomplish something, if I made the decision to do it. No one had helped me get up the hill, no one had ordered me to do so, no one was with me at all. Well, maybe not no one.


I remember getting to a place in my life of feeling entirely alone, and then, at the lowest, darkest moment, crying out to God that I had nothing. I can only imagine how He must have felt when He replied "You've always had Me." It's easy to get caught up in what you don't have and forget that you have the greatest gift of all; perfect love.


I believe that God gave me the gift of walking in my life. It may sound a bit silly to say so, but I truly know it's what I needed, and I didn't come up with the idea on my own, that's for sure. Every day, I had just enough energy to force myself to change after work, head out the door, and start the walk. And once you start, it becomes exactly what you need. I would stick my headphones in and head out to the tunes of my favorite Christian artists. I know that seems a bit monotonous to listen to every day, but it was all part of my motivation. And on that day when I finally was able to reach the top without stopping, these were the lyrics I heard, "I lift my eyes unto the hills, where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of Heaven and Earth". It wasn't an accomplishment of mine alone, God knew I needed a triumph in my life and He helped me to find it.


This morning I reached the top of the hill and stared out at the perfectly clear day, my mind clear and my doubts and worries back where they belong . . . in God's hands.

Missing the music

My mom is a piano teacher. 


Let me rephrase that. My mom is a phenomenal piano teacher. She works a lot with special needs children. She teaches students that other people can't, and she doesn't have formal training. I think God gifted her with the ability to reach children through music, to work with each individual student to find the way they can learn best. I admire her hugely.


She also taught me, ungrateful wretch that I was! I took lessons from her from 1st grade till a little after I graduated from 8th. It was a fairly frustrating experience for both of us:) My poor mother, after a full day of listening to her students butcher and blunder their way through their lessons, she had to listen to my brother and I practice in the evenings. And poor us, we had to listen to her clap out the rhythm upstairs in the kitchen and yell down at us when we were doing it wrong. It was a frustrating experience for everyone.


Yet somewhere in the midst of all that, I found myself enjoying the music I was playing. Probably right around the time I could sit down and play an actual song. It was . . . relaxing. It helped me release my emotions.


I grew up with the sound of the piano almost continually in the house. It was either horrific (the little beginners), wince-inducing (intermediate), or fun (advanced students). And then there was the music when my mom practiced. I remember snickering when I'd hear her shriek in frustration over a section that wasn't coming together. I remember smiling faintly in the back of my mind when she played a song I particularly liked. But I especially remember her practicing on Sabbath morning as I dreamily woke up. It almost felt like she was welcoming the Sabbath into our home with beautiful music. I still love it when she's playing on Sabbath morning when I visit home, it feels like I've stepped back in time.


I play the piano only rarely nowadays. I don't own a piano and really only get the opportunity when I visit my mom (and her 3 piano's!). But every time my fingertips touch the keys of the piano I learned to play on, I feel transported. My fingers move in a way I can't explain, they pick up the muscle memory without complaint. I'm not particularly good, but there are certain songs I can play with ease that fill me with beauty and memories.


Tonight I'm missing the music. I wish I could sit down at the piano and get lost for awhile. I'm listening to some beautiful music and typing, but it's not quite the same. It's a gift that I'll always appreciate though, the gift of music that my mom gave me.

Vacation Blog #1

Confession time: I actually think vacation blogs can be a little dull generally, but I find myself in a writing mood this evening, so I'll try to make this succinct and punchy.


I'm taking my first week long vacation in . . . many, many years. Generally my vacations revolve around holidays, long weekends, and family visits. Technically, this is a holiday weekend/long weekend and I'm with family . . . so what's the difference? 


It's a road trip.


Good gravy, I despise road trips.


Maybe despise is a harsh word. Road trips are not on the top of the list of vacations I would choose to do. I don't enjoy spending the majority of my day sitting in a car and watching the world pass me by. Also, I get carsick if I try to read in the car, which seems like a great, cosmic joke if you ask me. So yeah, road trips, not really my cup of tea.


Which is why it's ironic that my first long vacation in many moons is involving a road trip. However, there is a pot of gold at the end of this long rainbow, and it was day one of our trip  . . . Ashland.


Last night we got to go see Pirates of Penzance and it was amazing! It was at the Elizabethan Theatre in Ashland, which is their largest and it's an open-roofed structure. It was an epic production, I was blown away. And it was especially wonderful because I didn't think we'd be able to go, I'd checked on tickets and it was sold out. But serendipity in the form of a guy with extra tickets ($80 tickets that he sold for $35) struck and suddenly we had amazing seats on a gorgeous evening. All in all, it put this reluctant road tripper into a very happy mood.


Family fun is all about democracy, which is why I remind myself that this vacation is not all about me, which means that when everyone else wants to stop and look at a museum in a ghost town in the middle of the desert . . . I stop and politely ooh and aah over the glorious fascination of it all. Growing up and considering other people's wants/needs is such hard work;)


House boating is coming up soon . . . more on that later, if the writing mood is still upon me.

Read, and read again

Most people who know me well, know at least this one, obvious truth about me: I’m obsessed with reading. It’s not really that I flaunt it (aside from my “I heart my Library” bumper sticker), it’s just that it’s part of who I am, like my brown eyes, the scar on my cheek, and the strange way I laugh at times when I’m not mindful of it. It’s just me.

I can’t remember my life before books. It started off with my mom reading to my brother and I every evening when we were little, graduated into hours and hours spent at the library growing up, and culminated into the present day where I will make emergency runs to Barnes and Noble at 10 pm when I find out a favorite author released a new book. Love makes you do crazy things.

Reading has taught me about other cultures, other places, strange and wonderful people, both real and imaginary, and opened my mind to ideas and concepts I had never considered. Books that I love lead me to even more books, and sometimes I’m saddened by the idea of how many books I will never get to experience . . . which is a little odd, I will admit.

But one of the things I love especially about reading is re-reading. People tell me all the time that they never re-read a book, even if it’s one they really enjoyed, because they’re bored with reading it again. That is a completely foreign concept to me! I have always re-read my books, especially the ones I loved. Every time I do, it’s like visiting a place that I loved, immersing myself in a story that’s both familiar and newly exciting. The words on the pages don’t change, but I have changed since I read it last. Parts of it will resonate with me in a different way than they did the first time. I have read books that I really disliked the first time and put them away for awhile. Then I re-read them a few years later and found that the problem wasn’t the book, the problem was I wasn’t ready to read it yet.

One of my favorite books, by my favorite author, I have read far too many times to count. It’s an old paperback and it’s literally falling apart at the seams. I can remember with clarity the first time I read it and felt like the author was speaking in my own, personal language. Every chapter was a gift and I loved it from beginning to end. I must have been 12 the first time I read it, and 12-year-old Dacia and 28-year-old Dacia are two very different individuals. But when I read it again this weekend, I felt the same joy in my favorite parts, and found a few new things to enjoy that I hadn’t grown into before. Books are a gift in this life, and re-reading them is a gift that grows each time.

“A truly great book should be read in youth, again in maturity and once more in old age, as a fine building should be seen by morning light, at noon and by moonlight.”

- Robertson Davies

Blink and you'll miss it . . .

I have been negligent. A month in between blogs wasn't really the plan when I started this, I'd hoped it would be a weekly thing. Oh intentions, they are such slippery things, aren't they?

Did you know we're nearing the end of August, about to slide into September? Well, I just realized that today, and it came as a big slap in the face. Summer is almost over!! I had plans, things I wanted to accomplish. This summer I was going to:

1. Work more on my book (I'm starting to wonder if it's writer's block or if I'm starting to dread deep-down that it's unadulterated drivel).

2. Develop actual abdominal muscles (These may be an urban legend, I'm unconvinced of their existence)

3. Explore hiking trails in the area (This always sounds like a peaceful thing to do on my own, but then I'm beset by paranoia of ax murderers attacking me while I'm blithely enjoying nature)

4. Attempt to take up jogging again (This time I won't get shin splints, right?)

5. Cultivate my devotional life (MUCH more Jesus in my life would be a very good thing)

6. Invite people over for dinner (I'm allowing laziness to get in the way of a social life)

7. Have a beach day (Is there anything better than a Sabbath at the Oregon Coast?)

8. Explore new areas of Portland (I'm absolutely positive that there are myriad adventures to be had if I can find them:)

9. Clean out my pantry (There are cereal boxes in there from when I first moved in. Two years ago.)

10.Work on my budgeting skills (Numbers are not my friends)

11. Develop a crush (You know, someone I can admire from a distance but never work up the courage to speak to . . . )

12. Plant flowers on my balcony (I am determined to lose my reputation for having a black thumb)

I'll just admit right now, none of the above really ended up happening. I found one new hike, have occasionally remembered to read more in my new devotional book, have had one person over for dinner, and took baby steps toward exploring Portland. In general though, big, huge FAIL on my summer list.

I always think I'm going to have so much time. And then life interferes and re-directs and suddenly it's almost September and you start making a list for autumn.

Camp meeting = crazy, fun, CRAZY

Camp meeting means different things to different generations. Little kids love singing at the top of their lungs in their tents, listening to the stories, and gorging themselves at the snackbar. The teenagers are entirely too awesome to be here but have no choice since they're not quite awesome enough to have their own cars. They stand around looking annoyed, but at the same time it's the Adventist social event of the summer, so they can't hide in their parents RV. They're here to see and be seen. People my age have full-time jobs and can barely make it to the evening meetings. And by the time they do, they see someone they know and end up spending the whole time catching up on life since college. Then there is the older generation. Those sweet little older people who show up in their walkers and wheelchairs, fighting for the best seat in the main tent, attempting to get the same spot that they've sat in for the past 50 years. Dwight Nelson is speaking this year and he is an Adventist celebrity. They stand in line to get a picture with him.


I see children running around, laughing and screaming. I see teenagers flirting and sipping on slushies. I see older people wandering around, commenting on all the changes. I see pastors, exhausted, putting their energy into their assignments. I see people sitting on benches praying.


For the past two camp meetings, I've been working for the Oregon Conference. Before that I avoided camp meeting, mostly because camp meeting =  people, and I'm not entirely comfortable with large groups. But the past week has been nothing but people, people, people and it's been CRAZY!! There's no way you can have an event with approximately 15,000 people and not deal with a little crazy. But it's also Adventist crazy, which I have a love/hate relationship with. I love my church, but it's hard to love absolutely everyone in my church, especially during camp meeting. The saints complain, whine, ask crazy questions, and pester the life out of the staff here (remind anyone of the children of Israel?), but we are here to serve them, because we want them to see Christ. And if I have an angry reaction when someone comes in to complain about the unfairness of their life, they're not going to see Christ. So surprisingly for me this year, camp meeting is turning into a religious experience. It's teaching me how to be a servant.


I try to remind myself that the pushy lady who keeps coming in, determined to hand out literature, is incredibly loved by the same God who cherishes me. I remind myself that the obnoxious kids who run around screaming throughout the day are beautiful in the sight of God. I remember that each kind, wonderful, frustrating, mean, rude, sweet, friendly, stubborn, joyful person I meet is especially important to God . . . just as I am.

On how I conquered my vast and overwhelming fear of babies

I have always been terrified of babies.


Yes, babies.


Those sweet, adorable, cuddly, perfect, innocent darlings that no creature with even a tinge of human emotion could resist.


They terrified me.


It's not that I thought they were dangerous or evil, not at all. It's mostly that they're so . . . squishy. And breakable. And they cry a lot. And they're breakable. Like, really breakable. Like, you hold them the wrong way without supporting their little heads and they could die breakable. Like, you could bounce them on your hip too hard and hurt their brains, breakable. Who can handle that kind of pressure???? Not me. So up until approximately 9 months ago, I avoided holding babies. 


It wasn't too difficult to avoid. I didn't do any babysitting of infants growing up. I was little enough when my cousins were babies to have avoided most of the responsibilities of caring for them. We didn't have a lot of family friends with babies. And then there was the simple fact that whenever I held a baby (that some ridiculously careless parent just placed willy-nilly in my unsuspecting, untrained arms) it burst into tears of outraged confusion at this obvious show of parental neglect. Without fail. Every single time I held an infant, it recognized in me an obvious inability to protect it and began to wail. So yes, I became a little gun-shy when it came to holding babies. I literally went out of my way to avoid it.


So when I found out that I was going to be an aunt, mingled in with the overwhelming feeling of joy and excitement was this tiny little portion of my brain screaming "You're unworthy!!! You have no training!! You're not responsible enough to even hold a baby, much less be an aunt!!" Not helpful.


But there I was, a few months later with not one, but TWO little babies in my life. That's right, twins:) I couldn't get over the fact that there were two of them. The concept of twins had never been such an astonishing phenomenon to me before, but when faced with the reality, my mind seemed unable to take it in. Two babies. Two little girls nonetheless. Terrifying . . .


Kate Audrey and Ava Kay. Arguably two of my favorite little people in the universe. I will never forget the first time I held them. It just so happened that Ava was the first (Kate was having a snack at the time). I remember being overwhelmed with pure terror that I would hold her wrong, or drop her, and yet wanting to hold her so much I could hardly wait another second. And then there she was, quiet, staring, tiny (they were preemies) and beautiful. I loved her right away and it was the same with Kate. And even though I was nervous, I wasn't scared. It turns out, when you love someone that much, the panic goes away. 

Kate and Ava don't know it yet, but they've given me a gift. Well, besides the gift of just being themselves and filling me with love and pride in pretty much every thing they do. I mean seriously, they're pretty much the most adorable twins ever born into this world:)

Seriously. Ridiculously cute.

The gift they've given me is that I'm no longer terrified of babies. Babies are still breakable and they still cry. It's still a lot of responsibility to hold one. But I love my nieces and would do anything for them. And most importantly, I love them too much to be scared of them:) Blessedly, this has translated over to other babies (which is a relief, since I think there's something in the water, babies are cropping up everywhere)! I can now hold Koen and Sophie with complete and utter enjoyment. I'm anticipating the arrival of people's babies (Melissa (girl!), Gena (waiting!) and Shannon (girl!)). 

Basically, I've caught on to what everyone else already knew. Babies are a blessing and a gift. Always.

p.s. I am still on the fence about wanting to raise one of my own, however. But that is an entirely separate blog:)

Darn you, Rapunzel

I find myself taking a lot for granted. For instance, I have ten fingers and ten toes. This is something that others are lacking, but I generally disregard them, except in terms of ‘to polish or not to polish’ (those are the kind of decisions that could haunt you forever). I also have all my teeth and they are fairly straight, due to the generous nature of my parents’ orthodontic gifts. I still tend to under appreciate my teeth though, because the front two are chipped (tragic, yes?).

Another thing I’ve always disregarded is my hair. I have fairly unremarkable hair. My brother has always lovingly referred to it as “dishwater blonde, the kind with floaties in it.” Charming. It is also very fine, and has absolutely none of what those lucky few refer to as “body”. My hair has no body, oomph, or zest. Without extreme amounts of coaxing and desperate pleading, it is the general consistency of straw.

However, it’s my hair and I’m not one to obsess over the things I can’t change, so my hair has always been on the back-burner of my self-esteem issues. Until last summer, that is.

Last summer my mom was visiting and casually (kindly) mentioned that I was losing a lot of hair. I will admit to staring at her in blank shock. I had never noticed, just assuming my hair was its usual, body-less self. After some frantic self-evaluation I realized that yes, indeed, my hair was thinning.

PANIC!!

I may not be the vain type, but the notion of going through life bald was enough to make me hyperventilate. I could only imagine how complicated it would be to find a date. Who would be interested in “that bald woman”? A trip to a hair loss specialist here in Portland confirmed that I have genetic hair loss. Gulp. I will admit to having a meltdown, right then and there. There was some ugly crying going on after the doctor left the room. Her PA came in the room and asked if I was okay. I choked out my diagnosis to her. And then she gave me the words that snapped me back to reality.

“You don’t need hair to be healthy.”

Sniff, sniff, blowing nose, blank stare. “What?”

She smiled at me kindly and sat down. “Your hair loss is genetic; all your tests results have come back pretty clean. You’re healthy, in good shape, and don’t have any other overwhelming health issues. We have people coming in all the time that have lost their hair due to cancer and other really debilitating diseases. We have little girls that come in with hair loss and are wearing wigs. You are 27 years old and your hair loss is only mildly noticeable at this point. We can treat it and it will probably improve. This isn’t the end of everything.”

Oh.

I’m healthy. I don’t have cancer, thyroid issues, an autoimmune disease, PCOS, or any other of the host of issues that can cause hair loss. Hair is mostly cosmetic. I can live a full and healthy life without it. I don’t really want to, but I can.

Thankfully, the treatments that they’ve put me on have reversed the damage and it’s now very hard to tell that I have hair loss. Some creative styling, a little mousse, and a deep breath usually do the trick. I have recovered from the imagined indignity of having to buy Rogaine (only old men use Rogaine!!! Oh, and me), and have learned through research that LOTS of women my age suffer from androgenetic alopecia (that’s what I have). It’s almost as common in women as it is in men, but we find endless and desperate ways to hide it.

Why am I sharing this? Because it’s only hard to deal with when I feel like I’m hiding it and someone may discover it. I can finally speak of it with almost nonchalance to friends and family now. I can joke about finding myself the perfect, bald man someday (and let me just say, I have a whole newfound sympathy for guys who are losing their hair, it sucks!). I have allowed myself to be okay with the fact that the treatments will probably not work forever, and someday it will be a reality to deal with. I have yet to speak to one person who will admit to liking me less if my hair all falls out.

We all have physical flaws. But are they really flaws if the people who care about us don’t see them?

Breathless Anticipation

I'm not entirely sure if this is a wide-spread problem, but I'm going to assume it is. I can at least say for myself, with certainty, that I anticipate things too much. I want things, hope for things, look forward to things with almost painful intensity. It can be something as small as lunch or as random as a new book. Sometimes it involves another person, and sometimes it's an event. 


But almost without fail, if there's something that I'm intensely anticipating, it crushes me when it doesn't happen. The small things not so much, just enough to throw off the day. But those larger disappointments can feel like a hole punched in my chest, like a weight sinking down on me. I was wanting it so much, hoping for it so much, imagining how amazing it could be . . . and then suddenly it's over, done, didn't happen. 


I consider myself, for the most part, a fairly practical, rational person, but in this one particular area of life, I can't seem to control the way that disappointment hits me. I tell myself that I shouldn't look forward to things so much, or want certain things so much. I have this little conversation in my head "Don't set your heart on this, Dacia. Because if you do, and it doesn't happen, think how bummed you'll be." And every time, I ignore that little voice. How do you go through life without hoping for something? I don't think I want to be the sort of person that hopes and expects nothing, simply so they don't have to deal with disappointment. A happy medium, though, would be a good place to find.


Today in church our pastor gave a really thoughtful sermon, and it gave me pause. He talked about how much God offers us; how He gives us love, forgiveness, grace, and eternal life. And then he asked us, what do we give God in return? Like any relationship, both sides have to give for it to flourish. How crushing must His despair be when we don't reciprocate His love? And knowing how disappointment makes me feel, can I really choose to turn away from His love? I hope I don't.

The fine and delicate art of whining (and why you shouldn't overabuse the privilege).

Everyone whines.


I feel very safe making that blanket statement.


Whining is like comfort food; it's enjoyable to indulge in upon occasion. It's like choosing to curl up on the couch with a bowl of macaronni and cheese and watch So You Think You Can Dance, instead of going to the gym (watching people exercise doesn't count???). It's cozy, cathartic, and builds camaraderie between fellow whiners. It's fun for the whole family!


Except for when it makes someone else want to grab that bowl of mac and cheese and dump it on top of your head to make you "please for the love of all that's holy STOP WHINING!!!".


Whining is a fine and delicate art . . . a balancing act. When you whine internally, you're slowly but truly convincing yourself that life is unfair and out to get you. This generally results in deep dissatisfaction and leads to . . . you guessed it, more whining! All the fun of a revolving door with no way out! The best part of internal whining is that it only makes you feel bad (well, and all the people who spend their time in your general vicinity, but whatever, it's all about you anyway!).


The tricky part is communal whining; when two or more individuals get together and enjoy the addictive pleasure of bemoaning all the unfair and annoying things that they must deal with. It's all okay as long as everyone wants to whine the whole time. The trouble comes when everyone else has resolved their whining and moved on with life, and one person is still not getting the clue that life isn't fair. This is right around the time that you get the reputation for being a whiner . . . and nobody likes a whiner.


Moral of the story kids? You can't get healthy by eating mac and cheese and watching other people dance. And you can't find long-lasting contentment through whining. The result will probably be that other people avoid you and you sometimes wish you could just avoid yourself.