Maybe I've been spending too much time with early teenagers lately, but I've had a lot of thoughts rumbling through my head lately that sound way too much like my journal from 1990. When you're in the middle of that teenage angst, there's always any number of adults around telling you that it will all make sense one day. That eventually you will be at peace with yourself. That "this, too, will pass". And they do. I see now from my vantage point of 31 (Wow...31? Really?) that perspective comes only with experience. I wrote in my journal the other day that sometimes I want to "crawl into my 12 year old skin". It's not that I really want to live through those days again. It's just that I miss the simplicity of knowing my daily goal was to learn how to solve equations and the gross domestic product of Brazil, to write some notes to friends, to watch my favorite t.v. shows, and go to sleep knowing that my life was just one great big bundle of poss...

I was so impressed by my last post that I shared it with my grandmother who immediately said, "Just remember to hold on to that faith when bad things happen." That was fair enough, and I've been through enough rough moments in my life to know there's always something waiting around the bend with the potential to shake my core. Little did I know just how quickly it would rear its ugly head. A few years ago I first noticed a weird little scar on my back. I have no recollection of how I got it. It just suddenly was there. The only spot on my very red, sunburned back. I never thought much of it until I went to the dermatologist a few weeks ago. Names have an interesting way of taking over. Until the doctor spoke the word, I didn't think of the spot as anything more than an entity named Bob or Herman or Frankie with a made up a story about how we met up during our time in the Peace Corp in Bolivia. No such luck for me. It turns out that my weird little scar is actually...

I just finished writing one of those off the top of my head emails to a friend about choices and consequences. My own words have me thinking now. Just because you're in the middle of a very different situation than what you based your decision on doesn't change your original decision. This haunts me. How many times have I made a choice only to have the situation change or morph into something I never expected? Or berated myself for not being omniscient enough to see the future? Or let someone else make me feel scatterbrained or fickle when I wanted to back out of something I clearly didn't want in the first place? The sad truth is far too many times. We make choices based on the information before us. Sometimes it's factual. Sometimes it's not. Sometimes it changes when someone else changes their mind. But that still doesn't change the truth alive in me. That doesn't change the drive I feel in my spirit or the passions in my soul. Learning to see myself...to...

Every woman should have at least one pair of entirely impractical shoes. I don't care if you only put them on to go to the bathroom. They should be there in your closet to remind you of your dress-up roots. (We all have them buried somewhere within us; it's part of the female DNA.) I bought another pair of impractical shoes today. They are fushia. Stiletto sandals. (Not too tall.) I'm in love with them. I found them in a small shoe store filled with all sorts of unpronounciable Brazilian brand names. I've only worn them to the bathroom so far. My purchase today got me thinking about my wandering roots. I'm not much of a shopper because I equate shopping with hunting. There'a s purpose in mind, and purpose doesn't usually bring me the refuge from the world that I crave. Wandering, on the other hand, has no purpose. There's no time frame. I'm not obligated to load plastic bags in my car. I wander more than I realized. Sometimes I hop in the car and dri...

Well, I finally confirmed for myself what I've suspected for a while now. I have anxiety attacks. This explains the weird sensations I've had for months now that the doctors just couldn't explain. My husband chalked it up to hypochondria (which I vehemently denied). The doctors just said they couldn't figure out what it was (contributing to my mistrust of Western medicine). After all, there's nothing in my life that would cause additional stress...like a move, job change, change in income, miscarriage, and lifestyle change! When I think about it, I've had these attacks for almost 18 years now. I've always ignored this possibility because in my head I see anxiety as one step away from schizophrenia. I know this is highly unlikely, but given my mother's mental health history, it makes sense. When you're mother or father has a severe mood disorder, you find yourself hyper vigilant about the symptoms in your own life. I wrote a poem about it in the margi...

A lifetime ago I was at Cooper's Rock in West Virginia. The view of the tree covered Appalachian Mountains was stunning. I stood there overwhelmed and dumbstruck. Being outside in the mountains or a forest or the beach leaves me feeling connected to God in a way that a church has never been able to mimic. In this hallowed moment of personal worship, someone uttered the most ridiculous statement I think I've ever heard. "When I look at that, I think to myself, 'Wow, that's a lot of trees.'" We all laughed. This statement still pops into my head from time to time, and it did the other night as I listened to a talk radio show. (I'm addicted to talk radio the way some people are addicted to reality t.v.) The host was talking about some study that found a formula for unhappiness. Basically, we are unhappy when our idea of what our life should be is different from it's reality. Okay, so it was another "that's a lot of trees" statement, but...

As we grow...we are less inclined to say, "I wonder why God allowed this or that?" And we begin to see that the compelling purpose of God lies behind everything in life, and that God is divinely shaping us into oneness with that purpose. (My Utmost for His Highest, August 5) I stopped asking "why" twenty days ago when I first read this. Oh, I still complain and cry and swear and wonder from time to time just how the minutiae of my life is shaping me into God's purpose. But I suppose that deep down I really believe this, so I keep trudging along through what seems like an unending field of uncertainty. It's moments like this that make me really miss my therapist. I'm in a pretty crummy state of mind. Chalk it up to the chaos in my life combined with the fact that I am married to a man who interprets everything that pours from my mouth as either, "you're stupid" or "you don't know how to manage money" or "you're irresp...

I just spent the last hour trying to fax two documents to my new school district (yes, I accepted the "heart" position). It wasn't pretty. The fax machine ate the paper like it was in the Nathan's Hot Dog Eating Contest, so I had the bright idea of seeing if any of my 17 email accounts has the option of faxing. They don't, and it turns out the fax machine's problem was a paper clip wedged inside. I did, however, find an old email I had saved. This email appeared in my email box December 10, 2000. I still don't know who sent it to me, but it is a rather interesting note. Dear Allison, I'm not exactly sure how to begin. You were my biggest competition when we were in high school. I always thought that you're poetry was very profound and that you have a very inspiring intellect. I was moved by the way that you were able to paint a picture with the words that you used. So many poets try to accomplish that goal,but fall short in the end. You should feel...

I thought it was bad enough today when I waited in line at the post office for thirty minutes to mail a package I promised would go out today. I thought it was bad enough today when I wandered through the grocery store for twenty minutes looking for Cheese Whiz. I thought it was bad enough today when I waited for three hours for my husband to get back from his one hour errand. That's nothing. I've stayed in destructive relationships with people just to avoid feeling like the time I spent with them was a waste. I've lost years' worth of sleep staying up late to write because I had to work three jobs to pay the rent. I gave up most of my life feeling like I could never fit in with a group of people because there was something wrong with me. I earned a degree and slaved away at jobs trying to figure out a way to marry my dreams with the dreams everyone else has for me. I hate wasting time. Life is too precious.

We're interesting creatures. My husband once yelled at me for not taking out the overflowing garbage can, "You're the stupidist smart person I've ever known!" I chased him down in the rain and tried to explain my absent-mindedness. Apparently, my doe-eyed "I didn't realize it needed to go out" look didn't cut it with him. I meant it. So did he. There was a time in my life when that statement would have sent me on a life quest to figure out what the hell was wrong with me for not being able to read his mind and keep my quirkiness from gushing forth like Old Faithful. (I mean, come on, I really should have noticed that a black banana peel was blocking the cupboard door from shutting.) As I've come to grips with the fact that I'm just another whackjob in the world, I've found that those quirky pieces of me are just part of my fabric. And I can drop the perfection facade and show the real me. Like the fact that in my perfect world, I can ...

There once were two dogs who wanted to please their master and earn the master's love through obedience. They raced to see who would be first to greet their master and then tried to outjump each other to show who loved the master more. Each one would bring the master a slipper and the newspaper, and they even learned how to carry the laundry basket. When the master wasn't around, they pushed and bit each other and fought epic battles for the top position within the pack. They counted out the number of kibble pieces and kept track of the length of their walks with the master believing that this would show which dog was more loved. And they compared notes. "On Tuesday, you got to climb onto the bed. I don't get to do that." "But I was sick, so that doesn't count. Besides, you got a new collar in my favorite color." This went on for years. The dogs struggled and battled and neither ever seemed content in his position within the pack. They wasted so much...