choices

Certain words and concepts sometimes cause me to trip over them, like the countless number and types of male footwear all over my house. The word "choice" is one of these. There was a time, not so long ago, when someone would ask me, "Which one do you choose?" and life as I knew it would stop dead in its tracks. Why does this person think that it is up to me to decide? I would wonder. The choice was simple. I would choose whatever was on sale.

This method of thinking served me well over the years as the majority of my belongings were once owned by someone else. It only became problematic when people like Oprah challenge us women-in-search-of-ourselves to compile notebooks containing styles that speak to us and define us, colors that represent us, and unending ways to show the world who we really are based on our choices. And yet, my problem is not solved.

What invariably happens is what always happens: exceptions to the rule. My choice to persevere in the face of great odds becomes undone when tears welling up in my eyes let the other person know he or she has gotten to me, in spite of my best efforts to remain strong. My choice to seek out something that I truly want is circumvented as I start to realize that I don't care enough to obtain it, even though I am told repeatedly through the role models of our time that my self esteem depends upon it. The real challenge is not letting someone think less of me because I am a thrift store queen. What are the chances of something-someone-may-have-died-in holding up against brighter, shinier new things certain to offer one a far more favorable entree into polite society? I "choose" not to care. But sometimes I do anyway.

My choices have been questioned more than once and for good reason. Some of them have altered the course of my life. And yet we are told that we are free to choose. We are somehow given this idea that we are in charge of our own destinies and if we but walk through the correct door, all will fall into place and we will live happily ever after. As long as we maintain this self-possessing strength of character that allows us to know what is best for us, well, we've got it made. Truth is, most of the time I don't have a clue.

I don't know what this day holds in store for me. I have no idea whether or not I will lose my temper at my loved ones even though I would choose to only love them. I would like to choose something more exciting for dinner but with a big pot of beans in the refrigerator I can already tell you what we will be eating. I choose good health and will be running down the road with the dog in a few minutes trying to accomplish that goal, all the while knowing that conditions have limited me that have had nothing to do with my choices.

Rebellious to the core, I have always struggled with authority. But when I think there is a Spirit who knows more than I do, can guide me in ways that are far more brilliant than my very best plan, and can speak truth to my heart so that I can understand it, I am strangely relieved. I'm willing to admit the gig is up and I do not know what I am doing. It makes going into a thrift store more of a treasure hunt when I discover amazing items seemingly waiting for me that I actually really like. It makes my whole life a lot more exciting when I am led on this grand adventure by One capable of setting into motion all sorts of scenarios--some I would choose and others, not so much.

known

Years pass and memories fade. And then comes a lunch invitation with the hope of reconnecting with someone I once knew. I wonder if our friendship will take up where it left off, wherever that was. Does my friend regard me the same way that I think of her? We have each undoubtedly moved on to other friends that fulfill our needs. Can we still make room for each other?

It brings me comfort to think that I am known by someone. And yet it is a misleading notion since we are not images in frames on a wall, frozen in time. We live. We breathe. We move into our ever-changing beings, becoming at times even unrecognizable to ourselves.

Sometimes I will think back to how I first met someone and reflect on my initial impression. I retrace our shared journey on a well-worn map in my mind. Spending time at someone's home reveals more about the person than his or her favorite colors or the ability to purchase quality furnishings. There are tell-tale signs of children--toys that have not found their way back to the toy box, muddy soccer cleats by the door, clothes en route to the laundry room--or the equally apparent lack of children, quietly filling a room with the emptiness of a woman's longing to turn the office into a nursery.

A weekend trip to the beach in which each woman is encouraged to share her story can launch a friendship into an intimate place with lightning speed. An invitation into someone's deepest heartaches opens a door that does not close easily. Celebrations open all of the windows. And with each opening of space into someone's life comes the knowing that something mystical is at work, forging a relationship in a way that requires more than human will.

Given all of that, I promised myself to hold it together and wait until my friend responded to me so I would know how to respond to her. Joy spread across our faces as we exited our vehicles and walked toward each other in a restaurant parking lot. There we embraced and openly wept in each other's arms. We could have pretended that it was not that big of a deal. We are grown women, after all, and each have active lives in which we are counted on to show leadership ability and professional conduct. But we chose instead to live, for that moment, in a very sacred space.

day old popcorn

Making my way through the devotional I've been reading for the past several months has left me grateful for the experience, yet longing for more. The words of Ann Voskamp, the author of One Thousand Gifts, has spoken to me in ways I had not previously been reached. I think it has been her honesty. She writes what others are thinking but do not dare say out loud.

The point of this book are the forty lined pages at the back. Each numbered line waits for me to come up with a word or phrase representing a blessing--a reason to feel loved. Feeling loved can also have to do with what I love. Rediscovering a list I made in a journal I still have near my rocking chair (from 2005!) I am reminded of how making this sort of a list helps one become present to life and find joy in the simple things.

coffee with cream
dark chocolate
the smell of rain
the sound of waves
singing together
flute music
quiet
eating garden-ripened tomatoes
laughing so hard I can't breathe
making someone else laugh
words spelled correctly
Birkenstock sandals
Just For Redheads cosmetics
conversations that have meaning
no laundry to do
pecan pie
handmade gifts
antique toys
Thanksgiving food
campfires
a well-told story
sunscreen protection
a good pillow
the possibility of angels
Mexican food
dark beer
red wine
no cavities
the scale going down
wearing black
being alone
being included
getting published
crying in a healing way
being united with others in the Spirit
hearing the birds before dawn
mint chocolate chip ice cream

Another thing that makes me profoundly happy is day old popcorn. Most people would probably say it is stale and throw it away, but I actually enjoy the chewy, salty, buttery goodness of it. I will make popcorn when I don't really want some just to leave it for the next day. Makes no sense at all.