My Deepest Fear

When Keith passed away I spoke at his funeral. I've always related to the movie Coach Carter. Every single time I watch it, I think of some of my boys' friends. You know. The ones that are superstars and they refuse to be that because life got in the way of their self esteem. I had an opportunity to tell these kids that they were "better than that". It just happened to come at a time that I was facing one of my greatest losses.

The funeral was planned, clothes were washed and readied and I needed to condense a lifetime of cherished memories and moments and put them on paper in just a few words. Throughout the "funeral planning" process, my thoughts had wandered to Coach Carter and the quote that he was determined to ingrain in a wayward boy. Throughout the movie, a young man became the focus of Coach Carters' question "Son, what is your deepest fear?" Timo would simply stare back while shaking his head in wonderment as if to say "this man is CRAZY. What the crap is he talking about?". As the crowning point of the movie approaches, the viewer witnesses the young man stand and say:

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us. Your playing small doesn't serve the world. There's nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won't feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine just as children do. It's not just in some of us;  it's in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.

This quote had turned over and over in my head throughout the week, so when the time came to write my tribute, I dug out the movie, found the quote, paused and typed, paused and typed until I had it exactly as it was said in the movie.

I don't know if what I said made any kind of an impact. I said what I wanted to say. And I'm glad I did.

I still think about this quote. I relate to the part that says "It is our light not our darkness, that most frightens us."

I think that I need to find my light. I need to shine through the darkest reaches of my life and enlighten them. I think that it is important that I bring my demons into light and never be afraid of them again.

According to the world dictionary, liberate is to set free, as from imprisonment or bondage. I am not sure I ever viewed the "getting in my own way" as bondage, but recent circumstances have shed a new light on that for me. And I find that word spot on. It IS bondage to be in your own way. I refuse to be in darkness any longer. I will purge myself of insecurity and insignificance. No boss, family member, "friend" or foe will be able to convince me ANY LONGER that I am inadequate.

The Writing On The Wall

This year Mark turns 50. He has never ever EVER talked about aging. I'm the one that complains about wrinkles and sagging and grey hair and "did I do it right" and "what will I do without my kids at home" and "I HATE the silence".  He comforts me with "I'm excited for the next part of our lives", or "Oh, Poop (yes, he calls me Poop) you're a Spring chicken" or "It's just a number".

Last night Mark was talking about turning 50. He loves to golf. Golfs every chance he can get. He enrolls in as many tournaments that I allow and works daily to get his handicap as low as possible. I will NEVER forget his first tournament. I don't know what his handicap was, but I know it was in the double digits. I couldn't believe that he had signed up for a tournament. He's always been fearless that way. He's a go-for-it kind of guy, whereas I'll plan and plan and plan and then not do a dang thing about it. All talk - no action. Yep. That's me.

The morning of the tournament arrived. Clubs were clean and organized in his golf bag. The bag was loaded with PLENTY of balls and tees to get him through the hazards. Mark showered and I set his clothes out. Mark is known to wear long johns, shorts, work boots and sweatshirt. It is MANDATORY that I monitor his "I'm-going-out-in-public" wardrobe. I kissed him for luck and sent him on his way.

He had the time of his life. Didn't win. Didn't place. Teed up on the first hole, waggled the club, swung a couple of practice swings, stepped up to the ball, swung with all his might...and whiffed it. Stepped up to the ball AGAIN and officially began his golf tournament. He enjoyed his golfing companions and loved the pristine condition of the course.

At the course yesterday, it was brought to Mark's attention that he will be golfing tournaments this year as a Senior. What? We aren't seniors. Did I say that loud enough? WE AREN'T SENIORS! Ugh. All the age, all the DENIAL of age hit him upside the head and landed him smack dab in the middle of reality. 

Years ago, I read Tuesdays With Morrie. Loved it. Morrie knew he was going to die from ALS and decided to hold a "living" funeral for himself. He felt it was "unfair" that we aren't around to hear what the people we love say about us.

Mitch Album wrote:
The New Year came and went. Although he never said it to anyone, Morrie knew this would be the last year of his life. He was using a wheelchair now, and he was fighting time to say all the things he wanted to say to all the people he loved. When a colleague at Brandeis died suddenly of a heart attack, Morrie went to his funeral. He came home depressed.
"What a waste," he said. "All those people saying all those wonderful things, and Irv never got to hear any of it."
Morrie had a better idea. He made some calls. He chose a date. And on a cold Sunday afternoon, he was joined in his home by a small group of friends and family for a "living funeral." Each of them spoke and paid tribute to my old professor. Some cried. Some laughed. One woman read a poem:
"My dear and loving cousin ...Your ageless heart as you move through time, layer on layer, tender sequoia ..."
Morrie cried and laughed with them. And all the heartfelt things we never get to say to those we love, Morrie said that day. His "living funeral" was a rousing success.
Only Morrie wasn't dead yet. In fact, the most unusual part of his life was about to unfold.

I think about this now. I think about age and the pros and cons that are attached to it. It's okay that Mark is turning 50. I suppose that it's okay that I'm right behind him in the age department. 

I think about Mark's first tournament. I laugh with him about whiffing the ball and how embarrassed he was and how he shook it off and told the guys in the group "Well, glad I got that out of the way" and continued to play the 18 holes and continued to laugh and joke with the group while simply being proud of himself for doing the "unheard of" for him.

I have stepped up to my own ball a few times. I have whiffed it more than once. In fact, I continue to do so at times. I'm frustrated with my inability to learn from some of my mistakes and create a better game for myself. I'll take the lessons that Mark has taught me and I'll put the mistakes behind me. I'll enjoy the sun on my shoulders and the camaraderie of those around me. I long to live my life so that those standing at my funeral have good things to say about me. 

"Everyone knows they're going to die, but nobody believes it.... So we kid ourselves about death.... But there's a better approach. To know you're going to die, and to be prepared for it at any time....Do what the Buddhists do...ask, Is today the day? Am I ready? Am I doing all I need to do? Am I being the person I want to be?”  

I think Morrie had it right.

Conversation Hearts

When I was a kid, I absolutely-positively-without-a-shadow-of-a-doubt LOVED conversation hearts. I would wait patiently while my mom or dad would place them on the counter at the checkout register and then would run to the car so I could eagerly open them on my way home. There was a method to eating the flavored chalky goodness that I adored. The orange ones were my favorite, so they were saved for last. The white hearts were boring so they went first, followed by pink, yellow, green and purple. One at a time, after the message was scrutinized, I would pop them in my mouth and savor each and every one.

I still buy them. I don't like the flavor as much. But I buy them because for some reason they make me feel good. Those stupid hearts send me back to a time that I like to remember. Therefore, once a year I grab a box of conversation hearts, read each one and sort through the ickiness in my past to land in a time where I was special. I must have been cool, awesome and rad. Those hearts told me so.

I'm not a huge fan of Valentines Day. I'm not the girl that needs to be pampered and spoiled because some person decided that it was necessary to commercialize love. We typically stay home and cook dinner here. I am perfectly fine with that.

This year for Valentines, I made Mark a picture to hang in his bike shop. A few years back, Tyson and Goose both drew out for their muzzle loader BIG Elk tags. This was a big deal in the Deason home. Many hours (and dollars) were spent planning and preparing for this hunt. Although it was exciting and cool for the boys, I think Mark was the most affected. He was giddy with excitement. 

Tyson ended up shooting his elk. From all stories, it was an amazing shot. Everyone was high-fiving and laughing and posing for the photos shot by Uncle Mike. I got hold of the pictures and made a movie/slideshow of their experience set to "Wild Eyed Southern Boys" by .38 Special. To this day it's one of Mark's happiest memories. He'll watch the movie and say EVERY SINGLE TIME "that was one of my happiest memories". And he means it.

At the end of a movie, I put a quote by William Shakespeare:

When a father gives to his son, both laugh; when a son gives to his father, both cry.

That ending screen from the movie is what I made into a picture for Mark to hang in his shop.

I think about how simple love really is. The unedited-easy-to-read version fits on a tiny, heart shaped candy. 

I probably will never be a huge fan of Valentines Day. I don't need the flowers and gifts showered upon me. I will grab my box of conversation hearts and read each individual one and remember why I love and am loved. I will remember that there isn't an item in the world that will top pure happiness and unfettered love. The love that a father feels for his son is a good place to start.

Forever 17

Yesterday was my birthday. I received a HUGE bonus birthday because I LOVE the Super Bowl and it was on my birthday this year. Yay me!  We have a huge shindig. Lots and lots and LOTS of people come to watch the game and I get to pretend that it's a birthday party for me! haha  Win! win!

As I was doing party preparations (I don't know why I clean the house before everyone comes, but I do) I had my IPod cranked and "Forever 17" by Tim McGraw came on.  I was belting the lyrics and thinking about "life". I just turned 49. That's a bit of a jump from 17 but man! I remember being 17.

I do enjoy the freedom that comes with age. I have my own style. I'm not tied in to trends that I can't afford. I know the importance of being kind, yet I know when it's time to stand up for myself or someone around me. And I am not afraid to do so.  I love MY music. I listen to country, 80's rock, pop, classical, any genre I am feeling when I am feeling it. Yeah, growing up has it's advantages.

However, there is nothing better than reminiscing. Mark was (and still is) my boyfriend. I named each stuffed animal on my bed. I enjoyed school and the friends and activities that went along with attending high school. I spent hours trying to figure out the Rubiks cube. How about parachute pants? LOVED them! I would set my tape recorder up by my radio and wait and wait and wait for my favorite song to start. Hear it. Tape it. Then I would play it over and over and over until I had every word down so I could sing along. Watched Diff' rent Strokes (What you talking about Willis?) Fantasy Island (Da plane, da plane!), and wished I could be Vicki on the Love Boat. I had a poster of E.T. in my room and I thought John Stamos was pretty hot.

More of the "real" stuff that happened. According to liketotally80s.com:

The advances in technology that began in previous years continue to gain speed in 1982 with the release of the Commodore 64 computer and the first CD player by Sony. The shift is so significant that Time Magazine names The Computer as the person of year in 1982. Other big news items include the opening of Epcot Center, the dedication of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, the Tylenol scare, the death of John Belushi, and the birth of Prince William. It was a great year in movies with ET, Fast Times, the Wall all at the box office. Olivia Newton John had us getting physical and Joan Jett had us loving rock n roll. But, Michael Jackson ruled the music scene and the airwaves with Thriller, which became the best selling album of all in time. 1982 . . . we embrace you with Open Arms.

Ahhhhhhhhh...1982.

Music From the Heart

Last night Shelby, Tanna, Jaden and I were in the family room chatting. As per normal for twenty-something gals, Shelby had out her cell phone and was scrolling through random stuff when she gasped and said "This is probably the coolest thing I have ever heard." Then she read from thefreeproject.com:

Here is a tribe in Africa where the birth date of a child is counted not from when they were born, nor from when they are conceived but from the day that the child was a thought in its mother’s mind. And when a woman decides that she will have a child, she goes off and sits under a tree, by herself, and she listens until she can hear the song of the child that wants to come. And after she’s heard the song of this child, she comes back to the man who will be the child’s father, and teaches it to him. And then, when they make love to physically conceive the child, some of that time they sing the song of the child, as a way to invite it.

And then, when the mother is pregnant, the mother teaches that child’s song to the midwives and the old women of the village, so that when the child is born, the old women and the people around her sing the child’s song to welcome it. And then, as the child grows up, the other villagers are taught the child’s song. If the child falls, or hurts its knee, someone picks it up and sings its song to it. Or perhaps the child does something wonderful, or goes through the rites of puberty, then as a way of honoring this person, the people of the village sing his or her song.

In the African tribe there is one other occasion upon which the villagers sing to the child. If at any time during his or her life, the person commits a crime or aberrant social act, the individual is called to the center of the village and the people in the community form a circle around them. Then they sing their song to them.

The tribe recognizes that the correction for antisocial behavior is not punishment; it is love and the remembrance of identity. When you recognize your own song, you have no desire or need to do anything that would hurt another.

And it goes this way through their life. In marriage, the songs are sung, together. And finally, when this child is lying in bed, ready to die, all the villagers know his or her song, and they sing—for the last time—the song to that person.

Mark was blessed with the gift of music. Not just the ability to play the guitar and sing along (which he does VERY well) but he UNDERSTANDS how music works and can create songs that are appealing and all-around wonderful. I'll plunk away at the piano and inevitably Mark will make his way into the Pooh room and start speaking with words like "G Minor 7th" or "C Major".  I just look at him stupidly and keep plunking. I finally get exasperated with him and tell him (not so lovingly) "Not everyone understands music like you. Just let me be content to READ the music and play the notes that are in front of me." Which FREAKS him out and he starts in with "I don't understand how you just read music and don't think of other things you can do to ADD to it". Ugh. I usually abruptly end the session by exiting the room and secretly sticking my tongue out at him behind his back. So there.

Oh yeah. Back to the topic at hand.

I love how this tribe attributes music to the human. I've always felt that music from the heart is perfection. It doesn't matter who is singing, if it comes from the heart, it can transcend your soul.

I know that the crime and bad behavior that haunts our society has by-passed the simplicity of music to turn it around. But what if it was a possibility? What if a mother KNEW her child so well before it was placed gently into her arms? And what if the parents cared SO MUCH for that child that they taught EVERYONE they knew the music of that child's heart? What if we could hear our OWN song at times when we need comfort or love or discipline? What if those around us knew us SO WELL that they could bandage our knees while reminding us who we are?

I love the idea of that. When I'm sad or lonely, hopeless or angry, I'm going to remember my song. It's a simple song, I'm sure. Filled with easy chords and lyrics that are precise and to the point. I'm going to make Mark write it for me.

Come by. I'll teach it to you.

With Every Broken Bone

I've said it before. Each year for Christmas I make sweatshirts and a family movie reflecting the past year in pictures. The planning for this usually begins in June. I look for the PERFECT song to set the movie to. It needs to represent something I want to say to my family without me sitting them down and giving them the "mom talk". I sift through pictures that are funny or meaningful to represent our year. I plan and design a sweatshirt that suits our family. It's a process that I love.

I had a perfect song. I had a design in my mind. I was ready to go and thrilled with the memory I was going to create. Then Shelby sent me a text:

"I know the perfect song for the Christmas video. It's called I lived by one republic. Look it up and read the lyrics. You'll DIE."

I don't let my kids know what I'm doing. I DON'T share the song I'm using. They don't see the design of the shirts. Heck. I don't even let them tell me what color of sweatshirt that I'm going to use. So when I answered "Hmmmmm okay. I have one already picked out but..." I really had no intention of changing the song, let alone letting Shelby in on my gift. 

I listened to the song. 

I changed my choice of music to "I Lived" by One Republic.

2013 visited the Deason clan with a vengeance. Difficult. Scary. Heartbreaking. Overwhelming. Hopeless. These emotions have pummeled us at every turn. There were times that I wondered if we would ever get through the turmoil visited upon our shoulders. 

We did it.

I'm grateful for so many things. I find myself grateful for the difficult times that I slug my way through. Maybe that sounds weird, I don't know. I do believe when I "own" something, I take the power from the problem and the power becomes engrained in my soul. I find honor in overcoming pain and heartache. That door isn't presented to everyone and in turn, not all choose to step through the opening. Those of us that choose not to turn and run?  The blessings are endless.

I put the birthday of each member of our family at the bottom of the design. Within those date, the blue number (if put together) is the date of the beginning of our family - 06/15/1983. Let me say it loudly - THE DEASON's HAVE LIVED.

Sweatshirt Back:

Sleeve:

Ernest Holmen said "Today I live in the quiet, joyous expectation of good."

It will be good. I know it.

Of Mice and Men

In 1937, John Steinback wrote a novel.  In 1939, a movie was made based on the book. In 1992, a new version of the movie was released. According to IMDb:

Two drifters, one a gentle but slow giant, try to make money working the fields during the Depression so they can fulfill their dreams. 

This movie is a favorite in the Deason household. The "gentle giant" played by John Malkovich is named Lenny. When Shelby decided to con her dad into letting her get a cat, her bargaining chip was "I already have a name picked out for him, Dad, it's Lenny." I now have a cat in my house. His name is Lenny.

I'm sitting here on a Saturday morning. Snow drifting down outside. Dogs curled at my feet. Wearing my favorite jammies. Wrapped in my favorite blanket.

I should be filled with comfort and peace. 

I'm not.

I got fired from my job.

First of all, I have never been fired from anything in my entire life. I'm usually well liked. I'm a hard worker and don't easily fall into distractions in the work environment. But, alas, when someone decides they don't like you (and that someone is your boss) there isn't much you can do about it but hold on tight and wait for the hammer to fall.

I've been dodging Jeff and his hammer for six months now. He found me. He axed me.

Jeff Clawson is the "Creative Director" for American Legacy publishing. This company puts out the Studies Weekly paper that is disbursed throughout some classrooms in the States. I was a designer there. It wasn't rocket science by any measure. The writers would submit articles for the paper and I had to slip in a graphic that fit the article. I liked my job and loved the "guys" I worked with.

The first Friday in June, Jeff called me into his office to inform me that I had made an error that cost the company over $4000. They had grounds to write me up and that I needed to follow the naming protocol of the company for my publications. I was fairly new to the company, so when he told me what had happened, I believed him. He WAS my boss, right? Why would he have any reason to be dishonest with me?

I was sick about it the entire weekend. I emailed the owner of my company and told him that I would do whatever is necessary to make this right.

When I got back to work on Monday, I went to Jeff and (after pondering all weekend about the situation) I told him that I believed that I hadn't been the one that had made the error. He told me to "cut the f*#%ing drama and get back to work". What?  

That lit a fire inside me to find out what had happened. As my investigation continued, I came to believe that the printing company had caused the error and we were being charged for something that we should not have to pay. I emailed the owner and told him what I had found out and that he should NOT have to pay for the error, but he should investigate it further.

Guess what. Long story short? Jeff had made the $4000 mistake. I didn't even work for Studies Weekly at the time the error was made. Jeff was attempting to pass it off on the "new" girl in order to avoid taking responsibility himself.

That is the day the wheels came off.

Jeff went from chatty and happy with me to sullen and negative towards me. He quit acknowledging my hellos. He started picking apart everything I touched. He took away publications from me. He did everything in his power to make my time at work as miserable as possible.

Most times, I didn't give him power over me. I kept thinking that I would kill him with kindness. I have repeated over and over to my kids that they need to remain true to who they are even in the face of mean and shallow people. How could I face my family if I did anything different?

So I kept my head low and tried VERY hard to stay out of the radar.

OBVIOUSLY it didn't work.

Somebody I work with went to my HR department and let them know that Jeff was creating a negative environment with me. HR came to me and requested a write up. I had been documenting everything that was going on. I submitted my write up. From what I hear, the "Powers That Be" brought Jeff in and talked to him. I was called into the HR office and was told that things should be getting better.

Didn't happen.

Within six weeks I was out of a job.

It's Christmas time. I need the money. I have a pretty screwed up disease. I need the benefits.

My family is happy to have me home. The house is clean again. Meals are cooked again. I'm having conversations with my kids again. Mark and I are becoming a stronger unit again. Yet, I worry and fret and fear and for our future.

I'm a believer in women. I think we are a pretty cool species and I'm proud to be strong and capable however, I can still be soft and vulnerable. I've always believed that men should be protective of women. ANY woman.

I have always known that there are "micey" men out there. I don't surround myself with little people, but in a work atmosphere, there isn't much choice.

So, I will "pick up my bootstraps" again. I will take what I need from this experience and discard the crap...again. Jeff Clawson will not win. Micey men NEVER do. He will remain shallow and mean and lonely and broken.

I, however, will fly.