YOU ARE MY SUNSHINE

LASDI ©

It’s a celebration, a love song, a lament, a lullaby, a singalong, a weeping, a rejoicing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking all at the same time. It is a song written in the 1930s long before I was born and has been timeless ever since, and much like its name, it continues to shine.

I first heard it when I was a child and my grandfather would strum his guitar and sing it to me, smiling. He was so handsome; his skin was soft, his hair white and slicked into a pompadour, and he smelled like Old Spice. When he sang that song to me, I truly felt like I WAS his sunshine.

In elementary school, it was the first time I experienced singing in a choir. The auditorium we practiced in allowed my small class to sound as though we were a thousand voices and also created a much tighter harmony in my ears somehow.

As I grew up, I heard it in movies. Most of those flicks were the kind set in the 30s or 40s in the back woods of some southern town with a pretty, barefoot, and scraggly-haired girl walking away down a dirt road toward a woven overhang of oak trees in the distance. Her cream-colored dress would be sprayed with little yellow daisies, blowing in the warm breeze and emphasizing that they didn’t wear slips back then. There would be a film that had a pie cooling on the windowsill of an old farmhouse, or one with a group of sisters sitting on the front porch swing and cascading down the porch steps as the sun was setting, sounding like an ensemble of songbirds as they crooned the song together to the sound of an old banjo.

Many times during my childhood - and up to this very day - I loved to sit outside on a sunny day, hearing the trees rustle and perhaps the sound of a droning airplane far into the sky, looking at the clouds and hearing that very tune ring in my mind. There is something about it that brings an intrinsic peace and internal joy, but also a melancholy feel and grave consciousness; a juxtaposition much like the song itself.

To impress The Hubster with my gifts and talents and prove I was a songstress, I would sing it from time to time when we were courting. It wasn’t often, but it was during specific times of camping or at the lake, or maybe just a forlorn, rainy day that I would impress upon him that he was, indeed, My Sunshine and that he made me extremely happy; especially when skies were grey.

When my children were babies, I would rock them in my arms and quietly sing it to them, professing my maternal love verse after verse, chorus after chorus, until their eyelids would slowly blink, and they closed in slumber. I would still lightly hum it as I transferred them from my arms to their crib so as not to wake them. I would hum it as I tiptoed backward out of the room, making my voice do the old-fashioned fade out, shutting off the light with a soft smile.

As The DAUGHTS grew and we realized she had the gift of song, we would often harmonize it at family events, with everyone gathered around to hear us sing to-and-with each other. As we reached the end they would burst into applause as my heart burst with delight.

It was the song I sang in agony the day The Middle Little was curled on his side in a hospital bed, his back to me and his knees lifted to his tummy as the needle went into his spine over and over again for the lumbar puncture. I stroked his curls and sang with intention so he wouldn’t hear in my voice the tears that were flowing down my cheeks.

The Kid would hear it when he was watching me cook. He would ask questions about what meal I was creating, tell me I was such a “good cooker”, and ask me to sing that song about the sun shining. I was impressed at his request nearly every time and would love to watch him lay his arms from his elbows to his hands on the counter, intertwine his fingers and rest his head on them, close his eyes, and rock his head back and forth as I sang. It made me feel somewhat nostalgic and sorrowful, even in those moments of happiness, knowing he was the baby of the bunch, and we were watching them all grow into adults so quickly it made our hearts spin.

Now The Grittles hear the song all the time. Not only from me but from their Momma, who remembers HER Momma singing it when she was a child. The song makes them feel a bit of wonderment, listening to the rich sound of her serenading them and then sharing the memories of how SheShe would sing it to her, and with her when she was their age.

It’s a warming sound of lyrics set to a sweet melody that is imaginable and akin to life itself: it’s a celebration, a love song, a lament, a lullaby, a singalong, a weeping, a rejoicing, heartwarming, and heartbreaking all at the same time. It is a song written in my heart and kept in the vault of my existence. It’s a part of my legacy that has been timeless in my life, and much like its name…

…it continues to shine.

DON'T BE SCARED

LASDI©

Love is a many splendid thing, some say.  But love can also be a very scary thing.  Allow me to tell you a story about splendid love…and facing fear.

Once upon a time, there was a knight that came to a damsel in order for them to rescue one another.  He was tall, dark, and handsome, such as the fairy tales go. 

Let me start again.  A guy walks into a bar, and the girl ordering a drink says, “Why the cute face?”

No, no.  That’s not right. 

There once was a guy from Lake Jackson, who met a girl that gave his heart a reaction.

Uh, no.  This story is not a fairy tale, or a joke, or even a limerick.  This story is about crossing your fears to get to the other side.  Well, that part may sound like a play on the chicken-and-the-road thing but read on and you’ll understand.

As a small child, I didn’t have many examples of real love, but I faced fear in a sweet way.  “I simply remember my favorite things, and then I don’t feel so bad.”  Those lyrics from one of the songs from the movie The Sound of Music were a repeated refrain for me.  I lived in poor and meager conditions, so “raindrops on roses” or “whiskers on kittens’” was not the typical go-to for me.

The song, though, helped to remind me to think of things that I liked during scary times, like Frankenstein-foot ice cream pops with a grape gumball on his big toe; or like dancing in front of the television when it was turned off so that I could see my bouncing reflection and dream of becoming a big star someday. 

When I was a teenager, true love was something I read about in books, so I ditched the song for a more rapid and practical approach to face my fears:  I would simply tell myself to not  be afraid.  Whether I was verbose about it, making it my mantra, or it was an internalized dialogue that couldn’t be heard by others, that was my way of alleviating and facing my fears.

For the majority of my adulthood, I have had my faith to lean on when it comes to facing things that scare me. I know my God loves me, goes before me, behind me, and beside me, even though there are things in this crazy world that tend to build fear and anxiety in all of us.  But faith hasn’t always been the way as a ‘grown up’. There were the times I turned to the things of this world to distract me from my fear. But as I grew in my faith, “don’t be afraid” or “don’t be frightened” just took on a different and deeper meaning.

I was at an early point in that part of my journey when I met him.  We had a mutual friend who had set up after-work billiards and cocktails.  Well, not exactly.  For the sake of the heart, allow me to stay transparent.  We were at a pool hall / bar / grill, with the least of the three being a grill.  The group was supposed to be the mutual friend, a guy he had grown up with, and a friend of mine.  My friend ended up sick and in bed, so it wound up being three of us headed to Rowdy’s Pool Hall Bar & Grill.  As I sat in the hard, wooden chair near the pool tables, the front door of the grill (um, bar) door opened.

Picture this: “Let’s Get It On” or even “I’m Too Sexy” playing in the background, intense wind in the air briskly blowing through his hair, and him with a slow-motion walk that would stop a clock.  Of course in reality, there was clanking and clattering of pool balls, drinks being clinked, and Hank Williams, Jr. playing too loudly on the jukebox.  Also in real life, I had no idea he was there as part of the group because I had never met him before.  But I sure saw him.  Everyone saw him.  He was stunning.  He was gorgeous.  He was HAWT.   HE WAS HEADED MY WAY!

Very suddenly, there was a strange voice coming from inside my spirit.  “Meet your husband.”  NO THANK YOU, Voice.  As I heard it again, he strolled right up to the table.  The mutual friend introduced us and as Prince Charming’s hand was extended in a greeting, I found myself thinking, “Oh, no.  This guy gets all the girls.  Let’s not be foolish.”  And my wrist went limp in the air as I offered the sort of hand that a Queen does when she expects to be curtsied to; like in a kiss-my-ring kind of way.  There was a bevy of butterflies in my tummy as his hand touched mine.

As he sat down, I heard the voice again. “This is your husband.”    Memories started to smoke within me.  I had such a sordid history of toxic relationships within all categories of people in my life.  I had already decided no more.  I had also vowed that not one more person would be able to penetrate the guarded walls I had so solidly built.  Certainly not this guy, who probably had a multitude of paramours to pull from whenever he wanted!  And the apprehension began.

We played a few games of pool, to which I put the smack-down upon him - though to this day he smirks and insists he “let me win” - and I continued to hear that confounded voice telling me I had met the man I would marry.  The louder the voice became, the more the fear factor intensified.

It grew late and the mutual friend decided to leave.  “Stay here with your future husband” I heard from deep within.  I started the inner conciliation of olde, telling myself there was nothing to be afraid of, but it wasn’t working.  I even began singing the great song of yore internally to remember my favorite things!  But he was already my favorite thing.

As the night wore on, I grew fonder of this stunning cavalier.  His inward charms were working, and his outward beauty didn’t hurt, either.  We decided to leave the bar, grab a snack of tortillas chips, ranch, and salsa at my suggestion, and find a spot for a nighttime tailgate picnic. And as the night expanded, we spent hours talking, getting to know one another, into the wee hours of the early morn.

Now Folks, this next part may sound like I’m right back to the fairy tale makeover, but I promise it’s all true: the moon was full and round in a black, clear-of-clouds sky, the air was thick with the steamy humidity only a Texas night in June can bring, but still, there was a warm, mild breeze blowing, and there was some soft music playing from the radio inside the cab of his truck.  As we sat on the tailgate with all of those stars aligning, I found his angel face staring at me. 

I knew it.  I could feel what he was feeling.  He wanted to kiss me!  As we gazed into each other’s eyes, my heart began to pound.  I could hear it in my ears.  Did I look all right in the moonlight?  Was I giving too many encouraging vibes??  DID I HAVE SALSA IN MY TEETH???

And then I said it.  I said it all right.  Out loud.  I said the words that still ring loudly to me to this day.  I said it with a wry little smile on my face.  I SAID IT.  Those three…little…words.

“DON’T BE SCARED.”

Looking back, I think I may have been talking to myself, actually.  Knowing what I felt in my soul, knowing what lay ahead, especially after what I had put behind me.  And for whatever was happening in that moment that made me afraid, I would feel a little better if I just SAID IT. 

And he smiled.  And he leaned in.  And he put his husband-to-be lips on mine.  And I thought I would cry.  Effectively, he did not try to be the guy who thought this would lead to anything more than a gentle touch of our lips together.  He was reverent and considerate of my dignity.  And as swiftly as he had leaned in, he pulled away with such ease, stared directly into my eyes, and smiled a smile that he has beamed at me every day that we’ve been together since. 

I loved him.  Immediately.  And he loved me, too.  Though it would be months of friendship and a few months more of dating before either of us would say so.  But it wasn’t because we were “scared”, as it were.  It was because we wanted to be wise; for this to be right.  We had both been through the wringer and wanted to make certain we understood the mutual respect we deserved, had earned, and wanted to continue to forge together.  We wanted to make better decisions…without fear.

He repeats those words I spoke to him that night as he tells The Kiddos and The Grittles the story.  And he tells it all the time.  We raise our glasses any time we hear the phrase spoken out loud whether stranger, relative, or friend alike, and we always kind of giggle about it together.  The Kiddos tease me about it, often saying, “Mom, don’t be scared!” to remind me playfully of that precious-but-powerful statement.  I tend to turn a little red in the face and hot behind the ears in surprising embarrassment, but it still brings a grin to my face and joy to my heart.  Mostly because I’m NOT scared.  There is nothing to be afraid of.

Do you sometimes feel fear creeping up no matter the stage of life you’re in?  Do you hear thoughts of fearful possibilities that polarize you?  Have you been in situations that have the potential to bring love and joy, but your fears drown them like quicksand? 

You could sing a little song, or say a little mantra.  You can try to shield the fearful thoughts by reminding yourself of things you like.  You could turn to the things of this world that will only distract you.  Or you could know YOU ARE LOVED.  Whether it’s your partner, your children, your siblings, your friends, or God Himself.  YOU ARE LOVED. 

Make the decision to learn from the history your past has brought you.  Allow it to make you stronger, wiser; BETTER.  Know you deserve and have earned respect, so long as you give it mutually.  Forge on with a solemn vow to make healthy decisions without fear.  In fact, you must cross your fears to get to the other side.

The story of your life will never be a fairy tale, nor is it a joke or a limerick.  It’s the culmination of the joy you choose, decisions you make, and the legacy you create.  We have this one life we’ve been given.  Pursue things that will create a peaceful mind, body, and spirit for the sake of It.

Don’t be scared.

BABY YOU'RE A FIREWORK

LASDI ©

Photo credit: PxHere

I have a scar. I have many scars, as I’m sure we all do, but there is one scar in particular that makes me think of freedom. It sounds silly, I’m sure, but it truly is a symbolic scar that gives me liberty every time I look at it.

As a little girl, I did not have much in the way of riches or possessions. I certainly do remember lots of liver and onions for dinner (which is scarring in and of itself), and plenty of hand-me-downs to wear, but certainly not “lots of” and “plenty of” much else. So when someone invited me to a barbecue, campfire, and fireworks display one July, I jumped at the chance.

It was a marvelous evening. I was a spindly being, very tiny in stature and weight. I was not used to the incredible smell of sausages and hamburgers cooking on a grill, nor was I used to eating them. The extreme delight of feeling ten pounds heavier was the first of many moments that would create a euphoria I had never experienced. We sat near a fire in those old, webbed aluminum folding chairs that were so popular in the 70s and watched fireworks that the host had purchased for the event.

I sat in awe of the sights, sounds, and smells of something I had actually never encountered before. Firework sprays against the dark sky of red, white, and blue. My eyes were burning from the smoke, and I felt alive. My eardrums were swollen, and I was enamored by it. My nose breathed in the horrible smoldering aroma of lighting-and-take-off, and I never wanted it to end.

I felt froggy. So I leapt. I became a wild banshee, dancing over the fire, and prancing around so close to the fireworks I could have rocketed into space. I was taking dares from my own conscience and didn’t care what the outcome could be.

The night carried on until it didn’t – and it was time to clean up and go home. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I didn’t want to go back to my old life of mere hours ago. So as the adults cleaned up the food, the grill, and the firework carcasses, I decided I would live my new-but-soon-back-to-reality life to its fullest. I was eight, after all, and I had now seen the world.

I saw the host cover up the fire with dirt, leaving a nice stage for my foolishness to persist. I was having a very mature conversation with the other seven- and eight-year-olds there that had obviously acquired the same sophistication that I had that night and decided to lie down in a mature way straight on my side with my head propped up on my hand. I wanted to give the allure that this was not my first rodeo, after all, and lying in such a leisurely position would not give away the fact that it, indeed, was. What better place to do so than on the fresh dirt round that was previously a fire with blazing flames?

I felt it. It’s like when you get stung by a hornet. You know it’s there, but there is a strange feeling of shock that doesn’t register the pain right away. It takes a few seconds, but YOU FEEL IT. And I felt it. My ankle felt as though I were a cow being branded. There was the knowledge of it, and then the pain registered. But I didn’t moo right away. I didn’t know what it was, but I had a feeling I needed to carry on as the new person I had become. I lie there, talking so casually for a few seconds after I felt the pain. I had a reputation to consider, after all!

I heard a sound I hadn’t heard before, much like the fireworks of the evening. Wait. What was that? A new variation of sparkler sound meeting the night air? A siren screaming off in the distance? Perhaps it was an unusual creature, baying at the frightening sounds from the explosions.

It was me. It was me howling so deeply and loudly that I didn’t recognize it was me at first. I jumped up from the ground and looked down at the ankle that was angry at me for being so reckless. The ankle that had been put on a hot, burning coal and that was drooling skin. The ankle that smelled like burning flesh and was actually still simmering with red flecks of fire.

Of course, people sprang into action. Ice from the cooler, ripped t-shits drenched in cold water being wrapped around the damage, and questions about the absurdity of laying down on a former fire pad.

Medical disclaimer: I grew up very poor. No money. No insurance. Not much of anything. Except liver and onions, of course. I was not taken to a doctor or to the hospital, though I should have been. The wound was great and would end up taking months to heal.

I couldn’t sleep that night from the pain. I wondered how I could have ruined everything by allowing myself to get burned. I wondered how I let my arrogance get the best of me. And it really hurt. On both counts.

The burn left an oval scar on the outside of my left ankle that exists to this day, though it seems to soften as I get older. Most scars do. But though the scars may fade, what caused them and the memory of how they occurred does not.

Every time I see fireworks, I think of the scar, and sometimes even find myself absent-mindedly reaching down to touch it. I think specifically of the fireworks that night that created a feeling in me that there was a bigger life outside of the only one I had known. Opportunities to experience things I never had before.

People say scars are “earned”. Until this particular time in my life I never quite understood that phrase, as a petulant child who made a bad choice and got what she so unfortunately deserved.

But I realize now that is not how it works. Sure, some scars come from bad decisions, or folly, or accidents. Some scars come from medical conditions or things that change our bodies. Some come from things that are not our own doing. They can sometimes not even be scars we can see with our eyes. But no matter the source, they have all, indeed, been earned – especially dealing with the hurt and better yet healing of each one of them.

I changed that night. I became a firework. Not because of the burn, but because I learned about possibilities. I learned about pain and learning to live with it. I learned things can hurt you, but how you deal with that leftover pain is what creates the future of who you are and choose to be. I learned I could shine and sparkle through anything. It FREED ME.

Whatever scars you have or wherever they are, don’t look at them with disdain. Look at them and know you’ve been through so much, and that whatever suffering they’ve caused, they were definitely earned. Know that no matter the leftover pain they leave behind, they can soften with time and healing. Know that how you deal with that pain is what creates the future of who you are and choose to be, and even the legacy you leave behind.

Don’t let the lasting image of what caused you pain keep you in bondage. Be bright, be shiny, be free.

BE A FIREWORK.

THE BEACH AND THE PIT

Photo by Adrian Garcia.  This image is subject to LASDI© by Life As She Does It. Please do not reuse without linking credit.

Every year somewhere around the 4th of July, The Hubster and I go camping on our Annual Beach Date Trip.  It's only one night, but it has become a tradition I look forward to so much, that when we are leaving the beach from one trip, I am already talking about the next one to come the following year.

I am a girl who thrives on tradition; the history of things excites me.  I can't explain it.  I'm the one who buys a beat-up torn-down table because it is that way.  I've had someone ask me as I made a purchase like that how I was going to refurbish it, to which I replied, "I'm not.  I absolutely love the cracks and weathered appeal.  It tells me all about it's character."  The person looked at me like I was mad, and it made me smile.

Building traditions is like that for me.  I believe it creates the legacy we live in the present and the one we leave behind.  I don't think anyone is going to remember things I said or did in 100 years, but perhaps I can build traditions in our family that continue to be passed along from generation to generation and that may make a difference both now and long after I'm gone.

It is crucial to part of that legacy that The Kiddos and Grittles (GRAND Littles) see The Hubster and I make time for one another; that we still date each other.  It is vital to the lifeline of their own marriages and relationships.  Hence, the Annual Beach Camping Date Trip!

It's pretty simple, really.  We take our tent, which we set up in the back of the truck instead of on the sandy beach.  There has to be a thermos of wine and two plastic wine glasses.  We take along hot dogs and tortillas to wrap them in - and don't forget the skewers to hold them over the fire!  

Ah, the fire.  It's essential to a successful night, and I mean ESSENTIAL.  We go around the beach collecting wood and shells to create a pit for the fire.  We roast those wieners, sip our wine, look up at the stars, and listen to the roar of the ocean waves (and maybe a little Enya).

We play verbal games that remind us of how rich beyond riches we are.  We play "What's the Top-Five Most-Beautiful Places We've Ever Been" game, and "Top Three Favorite Restaurants", or "Best Family Vacay Memories".  We talk about our wedding, which by no coincidence, took place on the beach.  We never let any sad or unhappy memories interfere with our date - we have enough of those during our regular-life days together!  #Reality

One of our favorite games is something we actually do on our regular days together, but this time with a twist.  On normal days at dinner together, whether we are by ourselves, with The Fam, or with friends, we play "The Pit and the Peak".  This game is where everyone goes around saying the worst part of their day first (The Pit), and then to end on a good note they must say the best part of their day (The Peak).  

Since no worst part of any day is allowed to be discussed on this date, we call it "The Beach and the Pit".  This is where we sit around that fire pit we built in the sand, and talk about all of the best parts of our marriage - the things one has said or done for the other in order to edify them; the times that stand out to us in a great and fond way.  Now sometimes things are repeated from the same game the year before, and that is more than okay.   And there are the new moments from the time we left the beach the year before to the present that we talk about.

It is so easy for we, as mere humans, to cling to the bad.  It is, in fact, easier to place any good on a forgotten shelf if something bad occurs.  We all do it, really.  But life is too short to allow that to happen, so I will fiercely fight for the memories of the happy things - the good parts - even if it means I fight fire with fire by sitting around one and forcing those memories to the surface.  It is the best medicine for those regular days that bring reality back into play.

Do you have beat-up torn-down memories in your own history that tend to make you feel like you need a refurbished life?  Do you allow them to make you feel cracked and weathered or know that it builds character in you and can create a good-and-long-remembered legacy you can leave behind?  Does it make you look back and feel like a mad person or make you smile?

Real life is not always beachy and full of fun and games - trust me, I know.  But it is definitely what you make of it and what you allow it to make of you.  Don't put all the good on a forgotten shelf.  And mark out those times to remember the peaks - even if it means you must fiercely fight to do so.  And in order to see you are rich beyond riches, let the fondest pit be the fire.

OH, CHRISTMAS TREE

LASDI©

Christmas is coming!  I love the Christmas season.  I don’t really have a standout favorite thing about it.  Well, that’s not true.  I LIVE for Countdown to Christmas on The Hallmark Channel.  But rather than have to decide what I like best about the holiday, I choose to like all of it equally: the decorations, the Christmas music, the lights; ALL of it!  But there are certain branches of Christmas that kindle special memories and spark a few flames in the heart.

We are definitely a family that stands united and that stands on tradition.  For us, Christmas starts the Saturday after Thanksgiving.  Every year we go pick out the perfect-not-perfect tree. When The Kiddos were Smalls, we went together as a family and it would take us hours to find the right tree.  Even though they all liked something different, we wouldn’t leave until we all agreed on one.  The Hubster and I would nearly always agree on the tree we liked, and of course, each Kiddo would choose a different one.  At that point, it was time for all of us to go to each tree everyone liked and “sell” the others as to why that would be the Christmas tree for the house. 

But no matter which one we ended up deciding upon, we knew what awaited us when we got home.  Christmas-tree-decorating-day meant The Hubster climbed into the attic and brought all the packed-up Christmas boxes down for us to deck the halls, and it also meant cinnamon popcorn and homemade eggnog.  We turned on Christmas music (the classic kind, of course) and away we would go.

Now that The Kiddos are Talls, they still hold that day as the day for putting up the tree and getting their ornaments up in their own homes.  And so, still, do we.  Now each year, The Hubster and I go and pick out our own tree knowing it’s a reminder of times gone by.  For the last few years the tradition has been for Aunt Lu to come with us and help us choose.  The three of us still do the walk-and-find.  My choice is not always what most people would want, though. 

When I go a-tree huntin’, the big winner is always one that stands up straight, because I believe we stand up straight when we’re confident about life.  We shake the tree, and if the needles fall off right away, it doesn’t get picked.  That means it’s not healthy enough to last, and I intentionally choose health for The Fam so that we can last and be together as long as we can.  To pull a tree out and see if it’s rounded all the way around or flat on one side, and that the trunk is large enough to be grounded into a tree stand, is a big deal.  My goal for my family and myself is to be sure we are grounded, and well-rounded in everything we do.  I especially like the ones that are a little imperfect; the ones that maybe have some sort of gaping hole or seem to have some branches that jut out further than the others.  I like the ones that are blemished in ways that show the flaw, though it may be a little hard to see.  Isn’t that how we are as mere humans?  We try so hard to look a certain way or stand out, knowing each one of us is imperfect on the inside, though it may just barely be enough for anyone to see.

Once we find the precise tree, we place vintage ornaments on it with the greatest care.  Each one gets unwrapped and hung in just the right place.  Now I know some of you have that ornament OCD The DAUGHTS talked about in her blog, The Untidy Tribe, but as for The Hubster and I, we just put them on the tree where we really believe they belong.  If that means a couple hang close to one another, then so be it.  Even with that, there is a parallel to what we feel for our family and community not just at Christmas, but every day – we want to hang close to one another, believing we are in the exact right place with the right timing for each season.

Christmas is coming!  How have you stood united with those you love?  What traditions have you kept or created to give a sense of who you are and the legacy you build to tell your story?  Do you embrace your imperfections, no matter how you decorate the outside?  How do YOU choose YOUR Christmas tree? 

“Oh, Christmas tree, how lovely are thy branches.”

BY THE BOOK

LASDI©

I am not known for being a Rule-Follower.  The Hubster is a Rule-Follower.  One of my closest friends is a Rule-Follower.  In fact, several people I know are Rule-Followers.  They are the type that HAVE to follow the rules or else they get all freaked out or their throats close up.  I've seen upper lip sweat occur at the very thought of breaking a rule.  Everything for them has to be 'by the book'.  For each person, it's a different book, with different chapters.  

I'll give you an example:  If Adrian (the aforementioned Hubster) is making pasta (a rarity in our home, as it were) and the instructions on the box say "bring six cups of water to a boil", he will measure out exactly six cups of water, because that is the rule, whereas I would simply fill the pot about halfway or so and move on.  He goes 'by the book'.

So then, who is the author of this 'book'?  Who decides what the acceptable rules are across-the-board?  I don't mean the lawmakers, though there are still some old rules on the books that say "Humming on public streets is prohibited on Sundays" or "Bowling is forbidden", both of which are still documented as actual laws!  I wonder what my Rule-Follower friends and relatives will do when they find out they've not only broken those rules, but broken the law!   

There are the rules of the law, or the laws of morality, and the every-day-back-of-a-box-of-pasta kind of rules.  But who gets to say what is going 'by the book' in this life, and what is not?  Who is the author?

Though I am not exactly a renegade, I do believe in a more bendable point-of-view.  I'm a bit more colorful in my thoughts and behavior about getting things done, though I find the black-and-white way of looking at things quite fascinating, and necessary to the life/people balance.  There is room for both or else we would all be exactly the same.  Can you imagine how boring THAT book would be?

I guess that means we author our behavior ourselves, whether it's exactly 'by the book' or perhaps not.  And though the Book I try live by (written by the Author of my life) is not one that everyone shares a belief in, I have a confidence that we, as individuals, do share the belief that there are seasons in life that bring us emotions we must deal with; sometimes there are wonderful seasons, and sometimes there are dark or stormy seasons.  And those seasons are almost never black-and-white, and there are no rules to follow, or how-to's when we deal with them.  There is no 'by the book' process to our emotions.

This is one life we've been given.  We have one life to live, whether we live it within the measurements of every single rule, or a tad bit outside the boundaries of the rules, how we do it creates the legacy we live and leave behind.

Though I certainly don't have all the answers, I do strive to make my legacy something that will make an impact. 

I have lived a life with the wonderful seasons and the dark and stormy seasons, and my 'by the book' is finding light in the dark in order to survive, while not taking this life for granted or letting it slip by me in sorrow or self-pity.  My 'by the book' is my own - one that I authored.  It is called 'A Life Of Flavor', presented by Life As She Does It (me, She Gar-C!).  It is a book of finding joy in life's hard times.

In the long run, whether we think in black-and-white or in color, how we deal with the peaks and the valleys is what creates our distinct flavor of who we are and how we live our lives.  Do you find joy when the hard times come upon you?  When a loved one gets sick, or a job is lost, do you try to see the light through the darkness?  It's never too late to try.  Never.  

Whatever is your distinct 'by the book' - BUY THE BOOK!  

Click on the photo below to purchase Life As She Does It presents: A Life of Flavor! (published by LUCID BOOKS)

If You Build It, They Will Come

*Photo credit HERE

Lord knows (as do I) - I haven't always made good decisions.  Or right decisions.  Or righteous decisions.  In fact, looking back I would venture to say a lot of the decisions I've made were quite the opposite.  I would venture to say it took me a long time to understand what learning from my mistakes meant.  I say that because perhaps I made the same mistake more than once.  Or twice.  Or more than twice.

Don't get me wrong.  I mean, I've definitely done some good things in my life.  Take a look at my children and you will know that's true.  (I do good work, Y'all.)  But the lovely and well-grounded human beings they have become came through trial-and-error, not through making all the right decisions.

What I have learned over the course of my life - whether good or bad decisions were made - is the power of the legacy you build.  The very children I speak of are positive proof of that.  And so are their spouses.  

"What do you mean by that, She?"  "How could you possibly have had anything to do with the people your children married?"  I'm glad you asked those questions!

When my children were small, I never knew the power of a praying parent.  I did all the things to take care of them physically: I brushed their teeth, helped them with their homework, bathed them, fed them, put giant helicopter bows in their hair.  (Well, not the boys.  Well, sometimes the boys.  But just for fun - perhaps that can go into the bad decision pile.)

Thinking about how fantastic my son-in-law and daughter-in-law are obviously makes me grateful for their parents - because just like me, right or wrong they did their best - and it happened to work!  But for me, personally, I now know it's about building your legacy; building an example, building tradition.  Children THRIVE on it.  They watch you.  Ohhhhh BOY, do they watch you!  And they remember EVERYTHING.  And they carry on traditions.  And they really don't want to disappoint you as parents.  (Even if you're not a parent, you're someone's child, and you know exactly what I mean.  And even if you are not close with your parents, you STILL know what I mean through that loss.)

By the time I learned the value of building these things and building my children up in prayer, I thought it may be too late.  But it wasn't.  I got started immediately after I came to realize that something like praying for your child's spouse, even when they are young and long before their True Loves come along, is valuable to the legacy they themselves build as they grow - and also who they choose to do life with.

I learned that if you build it, they will come.

I know, I know.  There are some of you that just can't believe that building prayer up for your children in their lives is truth; that it's worth the effort.  There are some of you that are believers but still don't understand you can be building your legacy and that of your child's through every decision you make and the consequences that stem from them.  There are also some of you that simply think I stole this idea from an old (but classic and awesome) baseball (and legacy!) movie and I'm just crazy.  But I have proof.  I believed it.  I built it.  AND THEY CAME.  And they have been beautifully built into our family and our traditions and our prayers as well!

Do I want to choke my kids out sometimes to this day?  YOU BET.  Do I know they sometimes imagine doing the same to Adrian and me?  Uhhhhh, YES.  Is life easier now?  No.  Can I go back and undo the poor decisions?  Nope.  But I can find joy in just about anything now.  And I can look upon my children and their (hand-picked, prayed-for) spouses with a grateful heart.  And I know that life is good, even when it isn't.  

And I know that if you build it, they WILL come.  It's never too late to get started.  

So?  BUILD IT.

“The past is a pebble in my shoe.” ~ Edgar Allan Poe  (Past failures remind us of the importance of the choices we make today.)

"Outlive your life!" ~ Max Lucado

"The proverbs of Solomon, son of David, king of Israel: To know wisdom and instruction, to understand words of insight, to receive instruction in wise dealing, in righteousness, justice, and equity; to give prudence to the simple, knowledge and discretion to the youth— Let the wise hear and increase in learning, and the one who understands obtain guidance" ~Proverbs 1:1-33

Tis The Season: A Birthday Blog

Photo Source: https://drnorth.wordpress.com/2010/04/23/picture-of-the-week-26-happy-birthday-shirley-temple/

Some people, when it’s their birthday, are infamous for saying, “Oh, it’s just another day.”  I will NEVER be one of those people!  I have a pulse!  I am breathing!  I am happy I was born!  I feel wonderful that I get to celebrate it!

I have been through so many different seasons in my 43 years.  Hills.  Valleys.  Ups.  Downs.  Highs.  Lows.  Like EVERYONE ELSE!!  But I can say this with all sincerity – I don’t regret one moment, nor do I have any bitterness.  How could I??  Those seasons have led me to the most incredible, charmed and joy-filled life!  And it’s brought me to a time spent with each and every one of you beautiful, crazy people!  I may not be the wealthiest woman in the world, but I am definitely RICH.

Thank you to all those people who have been in my life and made a difference – both in a negative way AND a positive one.  For the ones that weren't so enjoyable, I thank you for thickening my skin and giving me balance, wisdom, and growth. 

For those who have left me with a positive imprint of you on my spirit - even though we may have come and gone in each other’s lives, I still love you.  That is what a season does!  It comes and it goes...but we still celebrate them with each change.  Well, this is the month of MY birthday, and not only do I celebrate the fact that I have been given this brief life here in this world, but I celebrate YOU!  At some point, you have helped me turn lemons to lemonade.  I've been knocked down, and you never let me be down for long.  You've been a shining, triumphant example to me in some way or another.  You have shown me life-survival tactics.  You have taught me the value of family, friendship, and most importantly – the gift of TIME.  You have generously shared your love with me.  You've carried me through seasons.

I challenge you to ALWAYS celebrate this life you've been given, through every single season.  None of us know how long we have here.  We are not promised tomorrow.  Even if you’re in a valley, I encourage you to remember that those valleys are what leads you to the top of the hill!  The seasons in your life – good or not-so-good – mold you and prepare you for what is to come next.  The seasons shape your legacy – while you’re here, and for after you’re gone.  And I, for one, want to be celebrated for what I leave behind for the lives of others……and for what I can contribute while I’m still here!!  To everything, there is a season…

Happy Birthday to me!! SHE!!

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