Protecting Myself

Throughout my life, I've had an "ebb and flow" relationship with God.  With God and everyone, including myself.  It never felt really intentional, and as I felt distance to God, I would try and close the gap with prayers, scripture study, service, temple attendance, or anything that I felt would help.

But this time.
Something different is happening.

The ebb is of my own, intentional making.

WHY?  This is the question tugging at my heart and brain.  What is going on?  God has given me some hard answers to prayers, and I've sort of stopped asking him questions because of it.

Is it because I don't trust Him?  Because if I did, I would be asking more questions, opening myself up to more answers, trusting that HE HAS ME.

Maybe.  Maybe it is trust.  I've tried praying about it, talking with God about where I'm at, but it's really hard to talk to God about where I'm at when I don't know where I am, not really.

As I sat in my church meetings on Sunday, someone was talking about living up to our full potential.  They referenced a talk by President Uchtdorf in which he says, "let us not pass through life immersed in the three Ws: wearied, worrying, and whining."

I love words and wordy things, so I penciled the clever alliteration in my notebook, "Wearied, worrying, and whining."  I stared at the three words, and they seemed like a brief character description of myself.

Recovery work really feels like a polishing, grinding, burning, refining, and all of those other pain-inducing words.  It has been hard.  As I feel myself gain some footing on letting go of what I can't control in my marriage and with my relationships, I find myself just incredibly physically sick.
I feel God is saying, "You've learned to let go of Danny, you're learned you can let go of your kids and other relationships, you're learning to let go of your marriage... are you ready to let go of your health?"

This sucks, folks and friends.  It truly sucks.  I come from "hustle" stock -people who hustle like it's a competition.
Well, it is.  And we're winning.

What do you need to hustle?  A good, strong body.  I have Danish ancestry (lots of Danish ancestry) and Native American Ancestry and even some Spanish ancestry.  I am built to last with solid shoulders, long legs and arms with the potential to be filled with lots of hauling, heaving muscles.
I look a bit like a man.
But anyway.

That body -the one that came in 3rd in an arm-wrestling contest in 5th grade, the one who did chair sits longer than most kids, that one that did sit ups and ran miles and pulled weeds and drove tractors... it is DYING on me.
I feel betrayed by my own skin.

Wearied, worried and whining about summed up my sole existence.
How do I stop?  I wrote under the words. With my chronic health issues, how do I stop feeling weary?  worrying? whining?

These are questions for God, I told myself.  And THAT'S when it hit me.

There's no way I'm asking Him about this.  He is the Master Refiner, and refining HURTS and I can't handle more hurt.
Ergo, I built a wall between me and Thee.

Not coming down.
At this point, I don't think I can even handle feedback about how I'm dealing with stuff.  I used to look for ways to be a better person.  I'd come up with programs and goals and charts and stuff, but now I work recovery and the hard stuff FINDS ME before I have a chance to go looking for it.
I feel sanded down today.  Correction: I feel like I'm BEING SANDED and not by the pretty, yummy sandpaper that tickles... but by the coarse stuff that would peel skin off a cat.
Meeee-ouch.

I started to feel some shame about how I'm trying to protect myself, but it melted away.  God gets me.  I don't get God... I feel like a small child, looking up at a mysterious, wonderful world that feels untouchable and saying, "You hurt me and I don't want to hurt anymore."
When I was a kid, I would watch adults at parties and feel the same sort of feeling... those tall people who laugh at jokes I don't understand and say things like, "We'll talk about it when you're older."
Older.
Wiser.
A world away.

I was never content being a child.  I wanted to grow up and solve the mysteries held hostage in the world of adults.

Now that I am an adult, I feel more like a child than ever, and God is the One I'm studying, wanting to unravel his mystery world.

There's one thing I've figured out.  Adults get kids, but kids don't get adults.  And I'm finding that as an adult, I don't get God.  But He gets adults. He understands mortality.
With that little knowledge, I feel safe being where I am and being honest with God about it.

"I'm struggling to pray right now.  I equate You with pain, and I'm hurting a lot."

That was Sunday.

Monday I had counseling.  I was planning on reading my latest Step 4 inventory to my counselor, and I was nervous.  I've done Step 5 before, but it's always a little nerve-shaking saying stuff out loud to someone else.
The day started out fast and hard: kid peed in my bed, dog had the runs. I had health stuff going on, but we somehow all made it out the door and to my work.  My kids go with me, so it can get pretty hectic sometimes.
Yesterday was no exception.
When my shift ended, I loaded us all in the car and all I could think about was heading home.  But a thought crossed my mind, "Get the mail."
I hadn't gotten the mail in weeks because -as I was about to tell my counselor in a few short hours -I struggle with denial, and if I don't GET the mail, then there's NO MEDICAL BILLS.

*MAGIC*

But I listened to the thought I had.
I opened my box and found that there was a package -one I hadn't ordered.  Intrigued, I went back to my car and opened it up.
It was a Himalayan Salt Crystal Lamp, gifted to me from a friend.  I'd had my eye on one of those lamps for over a year!  But I'd reasoned myself out of getting one over and over, and now... here was one.  Sitting in my lap!  I couldn't believe it.
I drove home and plugged it in.

As I read my Step 4 to my counselor over the phone that afternoon, I sat next to my lamp and felt supported.  Every once in a while, I'd reach out and touch it, just to feel loved.

After I finished reading, my session was up.  I hung up the phone and felt raw (like cats probably do after their skin has been sanded off, right?).  I wanted to eat some fudge.  Well, MORE fudge since I'd already down a couple of pieces. I wanted to clean my house and earn my own love.

I decided the healthy thing to do would be to just rest, and when I went to my Amazon Prime Streaming Happy Place, I found that they'd just added a new movie to stream for free -one I'd eyed at the store a few days earlier and snapped a picture of so I wouldn't forget to rent it very soon.

And there it was, just waiting for me.

After the kids went to bed, I curled up next to my lamp and watched a movie.

It turns out that God is strong enough to reach through my protection wall and show me that He loves me deeply and perfectly and that unconditional love isn't pain-free, though it isn't always pain-filled.

God,
I'm grateful and I've cried about it.  I'm still afraid to let my guard down.  Pain still scares me.  Refinement isn't something I'm ready to paint my face and do war dances about... but I'm trying each day in my own way.
I am weary.  I am worried.  I whine.
But I'm also trying and I'm trying really, really hard.  You see me, and I am blown away by your perfect timing and perfect love.
Am I ready for our relationship to flow again?  I don't know.  But you've shown me that for You -on your side -the flow never ebbs.
I don't understand that, but I admire it.
Thank you, and I do love You, even as I stumble.
~Alicia

Works When I Work It

On Sunday, I went to a class with a lot of ladies.
Did your teeth just clench a little?  Mine did.  A lot of ladies can sometimes feel very, very daunting.  I usually come away going, "I'm so glad I did that" but there have been a few times where I've walked away going, "NEVER AGAIN."  Those few bad experiences seem to have a pretty strong effect, unfortunately.

As I listened to the teacher talk about how prone women are to comparing themselves to each other, I felt a question creep up.  I didn't want to ask it for several reasons.
#1) In the past, I have worked hard to SAY THE RIGHT THINGS... not to enrich but to show how good I was.  I wanted people to think I was a good person because if they thought I was, then I was.  The opinions of others were my God, of sorts.  I was a slave, self-made.
#2) I didn't want to hi-jack the lesson.  I know what it's like to teach and have a lesson derailed by a questions.
#3) It was vulnerable.

I prayed and checked my motivations, asking God if I should ask... I felt that I should, so I did.

"A few weeks ago, I had a friend visit.  Our personalities were different and our gifts are different, and for the first time in my life I felt enriched and inspired by her.  Usually, I feel threatened when other women shine in their gifts, as if something is wrong with me.  I'd love to hear from some more experienced sisters what helps them?  What tools they employ in situations where another woman is shining and they start to feel threatened or worthless?"

Immediately, the woman sitting in front of me reached back and touched my knee, lending sweet support which I really appreciated.  I think I know the answer here, but I felt I should ask.  Being teachable is important to me, and I'm not very good at it.
One woman shared her experience studying different personality types, how understanding HOW and WHY people are different helps her when people who are different from her rub her wrong.

I have found a lot of help studying this as well -I don't want to work Step 4 for others, but it has been VERY helpful to study the strengths and weaknesses of different personality types.  I often find myself nodding at God and going, "This all makes sense.  You put all kinds of people together to life and strengthen each other... it's perfect and beautiful.  We're all one, but we are all different.  Amazing."

Then came the *zing*.
One woman shared her own experience and while I can't remember the exact words, I do remember the exact feeling.  She said it hadn't been her experience to feel threatened or intimidated by other women shining... ever.  She only ever felt inspired by other woman as they shone.
As she spoke I felt pretty, well, dumb.  Broken.  Not enough.  Very, very dumb.

The woman sitting next to me sat up straighter, as if in a sort of panic and immediately reached for my back, holding it.  Maybe she was hoping to shield me?  I don't know.  I do know that she felt the blow with me.

Another woman shared, through tears, how finding her own divinity -her own self-worth -was vital in her journey... that comparing herself and feeling not enough was something she struggled heavily with, but when she focused only on her own stuff, everything else fell into place.

A fourth woman shared how she employs gratitude, how grateful she is for women who help her teach her children... some women can reach her children in ways she can't, and how grateful she is for them.

A few minutes later, I had to leave the class.  It hadn't ended yet, but I had something at my house that needed attention.  I wasn't too sad about leaving.  The brave thing would have been to STAY and FACE it all, but I breathed a sigh of relief as I walked down the empty hallway toward the parking lot.

In my truck, I reached for my phone.  Who could I call?  Who?  I needed to vent.  I stopped my hand in mid-air.  Another thing I struggle with is relying on others instead of God.  I pulled my hand back and started praying out loud.
"God, that hurt.  Not lethal.  But it hurt.  Am I just thoroughly broken?  Unworthy of JUST GETTING OVER IT?  I even wish I was above being hurt by something so petty.  Am I just not resilient?  Okay, okay, okay... even now, I comparing myself.  The ladies all had so much to share, and if I take what they say... studying personality types, finding inspiration, finding gratitude, practicing developing my self-worth and cultivating divinity... okay, okay... There's a sort of path in all that, right?  There's something..."
I tapped my steering wheel as I turned onto my road, "If I find self-worth and root myself in my identity as a Daughter of God, then I can practice gratitude for the gifts of others.  With that gratitude I can move into curiosity and begin to study others as they shine, appreciate what their gifts contribute to the whole, to the community, see them as children of God as well.  Then I could see inspiration coming."
Everything fell into place.
I still felt pain, but the sting of it had eased substantially.  I continued to pray, to lay my pain on God.

A few minutes later, I was eating a beautiful Sunday lunch with my family and I was PRESENT.

I wasn't obsessing or angry or seeking vindication or validation.  I was okay, really okay... not pretending okay.

I still wish I was the kind of person who wasn't HIT by comments like that.  What she said really had nothing to do with me at all, AT ALL.  It wasn't a direct or malicious comment.

That evening, I checked my phone and saw two facebook messages and one text -all from women who had been there.  None of the messages were filled with hate or gossip, only appreciation.
One simply said, "Thanks for your vulnerable question today."
I checked when it had been sent -it was sent in the middle of class.  Like the woman next to me who held my back, this sweet woman "held my back" by reaching out and sending me a message as fast as she possibly could.

I smiled at her message and went to my step 4 inventory -something I'm looking over again.  I added, "vulnerability" to my assets.  What a crazy asset.
On one side of the coin, I can experience deep connections with amazing women -amazing!  The women in my close life are deeply incredible women.

On facebook one day, I reached out because the day was sucky.  Not horrible or the worst day ever, but just truly a dumb, dumb day.  The responses I got were hilarious.  Seriously.
My friends posted memes and jokes that just made me smile and laugh out loud!  There was one or two "fixy" comments, but overall, my heart just burst.  Someone commented, "you have the best friends."
I DO!  I truly do!  My friends are all ready to handle REAL, and they WANT REAL.  They treasure it and place high value on things that matter (like cat memes, fur real).

The women who messaged me were all women I really admire.  That fact alone validated my vulnerability -it attracts really gorgeous souls.

On the other side of the coin is this horribly painful feeling that maybe I'm walking around the earth wearing nothing.  Except my weaknesses.  People often say things without meaning to hurt, but because I have little armor on, I feel the full WHAM-O.

But guess what?
Guess what?
God is ready to take that WHAM-O.  I can sit and lick it... and I have done that before.  I probably will again sometime.  But yesterday was a victory.  A recovery victory.

One of the women present in the same class said, "If the work I do in my head were somehow visible... like if the work my mind does in one day was represented by a garden that people could see, I think they would be amazed."

Oh, yeah.  Isn't that the truth?
Recovery is like that too.  I work it, but there isn't anything visible really -I mean my house is trashed and my 3 year old daughter carts her toy phone around and whispers, "Shhhh, I'm in a meeting."

It feels defeating most days.  Like, "what am I even doing?!?!"

But Sunday was a big pay off day.

I didn't camp out in victim.
I wasn't able to remember exact words I felt were aimed at me (I usually remember PERFECTLY).
I reached out to God first.
I prayed.
I LET GO.
I enjoyed the rest of the day.
I connected deeply to women I admire because of my vulnerability.

When my husband asked how my class had gone, I told him, but I struggled to remember exactly what had happened.  I remembered what I'd learned... and that made me laugh.
"It works when I work it," I chuckled, quoting from the s-anon script.

I did get a text from the woman who made the *zing* comment, apologizing if she'd offended me.  I told her no, that I was fine.
Then I erased it and said, "it did sting."
Because I added something else to my inventory that day: I lie to avoid confrontation sometimes.

Self-discovery is an adventure, ladies.  It's a journey of owning up, of saying, "God, that wouldn't have hurt if I wasn't reacting from a place of pride... take this pain and forgive my pride."

Today in group, we read Step 3.  I had never noticed that in Step 3, it refers to trying to handle everything myself as slavery.
SLAVERY!
How true that is!  Self-inflicted slavery of the rottenest kind.

But God has offered me glorious freedom from the captivity of my own mind.
I need only choose it.

I don't always.
But Sunday, I did.  And that is a victory worth appreciating.

Owning It

I was never an angry person.

Angry people were just annoying.  They made stressful situations worse by blowing up, people walk on eggshells around them, and there's a red-ish, black-ish cloud that follows them everywhere.  Though you can't SEE it, you can FEEL it.  Angry people were to be avoided whenever possible.

Angry people.
For some reason, as a child I had taken an emotion and morphed it into a personality type.  If someone had anger, they WERE anger.
And I wasn't. because anger was not good, and I wanted more than anything to be good.

Here I sit, watching the afternoon wind down into evening... the wind blowing outside, a crochet blanket over my lap.  My joints hurt.  They hurt A LOT.  They always hurt.  I never thought I'd grow up and sit in a recliner IN PAIN at 30 years old.
The Good Doctors run tests.  They're really good at ordering and reading them, and I appreciate it.  In all the blood pokes, the x-rays, the scans and nasty pre-procedure drinks, they have found that my body
is totally a-okay.

Well, mostly.  There is one word that keeps popping up:
Inflamed.

Your stomach shows inflammation.
Your joints show inflammation.
Your tonsils were highly inflamed.
Your vocal chords are swollen and inflamed.
Your stomach is inflamed.

It's like a bad rap song.

To put it plainly: my body is attacking itself.  I have spent hours scouring my brain, the internet and books and the minds of people who have dealt with health crud.
It could be a chronic infection, a hormonal imbalance.
But you know what it actually is?  Do you?

STUFFED EMOTIONS.

Of course I was never angry because I didn't allow it.  I shoved down every emotion that I didn't approve of... anger was at the top of the list.
After I got over the shock and shame surrounding this:

Anger is a natural emotion that needs to be released in a healthy way, and I have anger.

I decided to punch a pillow in the face.  I spent some time comparing punching bags on Amazon.  Part of me thought I should spend some time in the middle of nowhere with breakable things and fire, but the other part of me talked me out of it.

I'm embracing the process, and hey.  There's progress.

Yesterday, Danny did something that made me so mad.  SO. MAD.  Two years ago in a similar situation, I would have shoved the anger down and patted myself on the back for my ability to not say and do unsavory things.
Then I would move comfortably into victimization.
Which always, always morphs right into resentment.

My cycle was predictable, and (I thought) rationalized.  Other folks would side with me, surely.

But I'm tired of that ride.  I want to get off.
So last evening, I did.  I finished making dinner and then left.  I went to the dirt road behind my house.  It's become a sort of haven for me -a chapel of sorts.
I ran.
It hurt to run.  My joints ached, my lungs burned.
I didn't stop.

I talked to God, did I use words?  I don't know.  What poured out of me had words in it, I know... but I conveyed my message primarily with emotion -with ANGER.

Danny hadn't listened to me -that was the problem.  I had talked and he hadn't HEARD me.  Working recovery has taught me something very sacred: my voice is a gift from God. 
I've spent years silencing myself, trying my very best to reign my voice in.  I had longed my entire life -desperately -to be quiet, never knowing how.  I punished myself for things I said, for using my voice too much, too loudly. The scars on my shoulders remind me...

In my youth, my unbridled voice was an irritant.
The does she ever stop? kind.  I knew it, and I didn't know how to stop it.  In moved shame, in moved self-judgement.
I lived that way for twenty years.

And as my tired, weary feet hit that dirt, I spit anger from every pore. God sent me answers, He spoke calmly.  I didn't.
Just when my body was giving out, I could see in my mind's eye: a little, hurting girl.

I wasn't mad, not really.  I wasn't angry.  I was treacherously hurt.

I turned to the little ditch bank. I've spent lots of time on that little ditch bank.  It has held my prayers, my tears, my meditations.
All around me were trees -rare beauties in the high desert.  I ripped at the dead limbs, stomped, ripped, tore, twisted.  Once I had a thick sturdy branch in my hands, I took to the tree.
Beat, beat, beat.  Curse, curse, curse.

To feel unheard is so incredibly painful for me.  It sucks for everyone, but apparently for me?  It touches a really hot wire.  Really, really hot.
I grabbed a thick piece of wood and threw it against the tree, it broke in two.  I didn't stop.
Throw, throw, throw.
Hot tears.

The tree didn't bow up.  It didn't puff up.  It didn't get defensive or cry.  It wasn't a victim.
What's more: it didn't shield itself.  If I didn't know better, I'd say it welcomed the lashing.
It took it all.  I landed blow after blow, word after word.  My hands were on fire.
That tree was God for me in that moment... taking my pain, my anger, my sorrow, my hurt.  I caused the tree anguish, and it did not flinch.
It only accepted, calmly blowing in the evening breeze.

Out of breath and suddenly aware of just how much my hands hurt, I turned away from the tree.
That's when I saw it.
Was it there before?  I didn't remember...

It was the perfect walking stick.  Just the right height, just the perfect taper, perfectly worn, adorned with some beautiful fire damage.
I loved it.
It was as if God fashioned it for me in that moment.  I picked it up, turning it over in my raw hands.

After all that -the outburst, the tears, the anger... God literally sent me support.
I picked up my phone for some more God-sent support, and then I walked back home.

The anger was gone.
It had successfully moved out of me and into the tree.  God took my anger, I surrendered my pain and hurt to him.
Did Danny REALLY cause me pain?  A little.  He tripped a short in me though.
Was my anger his fault?

No.

My anger is just mine.
And I have it.

Anger is a firey, hot thing.  And after years of pretending I didn't have it, it's no wonder my entire body is ON FIRE INSIDE.

I can't afford the slightest bit of increased inflammation, so I accept anger.  I let it move through and out.
Anger from last night moved out, but hurt from 15 years ago moved out as well.

Recovery has taught me the sacredness of my voice.  I've allowed it to be shamed, I have judged it and hated it.
Now is the time for amends.  Now is the time to treasure it, to be upset when people I love don't hear it, to stand up for it, to have it's back, and to give it to God... to do with it what He will.

Render under God that which is God's.
My voice, my anger.

He supports me in my sincerity, in my TRIES.

Simply Put

The Place

In my mind there always existed this imaginary sort of place where everything was as I felt it should be... my personality, my home, my finances.  I felt it was the CORRECT place.  For EVERYONE.

In that place, there was neatness, organization, optimal health, classy style that attracted but didn't flaunt, beautiful and culturally sound arts, good music, smiles, a few pets and a garden.  There are people who have pieces of that place, and I spent a lot of time studying them, using scriptures to back up each step in my journey.

Organize yourselves, people!

I felt tense when I was around someone who didn't fit into my place.  If they were too loudly dressed or refused to smile or didn't till their own earth or didn't place what I perceived to be adequate importance on dust and stuff, I felt uneasy.  I felt the need to control my external circumstances.

And it turned out that the place -the place I had in mind and kept a firm eye on always -was a very lousy place.  The journey toward it was forced and tense and filled with chemicals and workout gurus who talked about abs like they were the point of my workout.  I was in a constant state of worry -I worried about other people -what they weren't doing, what they were doing, what they thought of my home and outfit and mode of teaching and serving and cooking.  

The Place was so shallow I couldn't SINK INTO ANYTHING REAL.

I started Recovery for me but BECAUSE of Danny.

Today I worked my recovery for me BECAUSE of me.

My last post was about progress -how I'd seen it in myself.  I knew typing it was risky.  Yesterday, I was hit with

LOOK you need improvement here.

LOOK you can improve here.

LOOK you just played the martyr.

LOOK you just made a decision motivated by control.

LOOK you are more worried about what others think than God.

LOOK you are triggered!

I came home from work, sat in the big, ripped up recliner that The Place had chucked far from it and prayed.

The recliner is situated right next to three big windows, though no sun shone through.  The day was overcast and grey.  My legs were covered in a big blanket.  As I sent up my plea to Heaven asking for I don't even know what, the sun came out.  It covered my body and I felt literal warmth.  My body relaxed and I fell asleep.

It was as if God reached through the clouds and commanded the universe to let me sleep.  I would open my eyes and they'd fall again.

I needed heavy, quiet sleep.

I woke up to My Place.  It isn't THE PLACE.

My house looks like the inside of my soul -cluttered, colorful, creative, and a little crazy.  

I don't believe My Place is for everyone.  This isn't hypothesis.  My Place makes other people uncomfy to the point of action.  People clean My Place a lot.  There isn't optimal health here, but there's a constant striving for truth about our bodies and the miraculous science behind them.  There's protein in the fridge and vitamins in the cupboard and yoga mats against the wall.  The point of the workout in My Place is truth, not abs.

As I drove to work today and snowflakes fell on my windshield, I was hit with God's ever-present passion for variety.

Nature varies beautifully -the desert holds a sacred kind of beauty I can't seem to even WANT to leave... the space, the air, it has nothing to hide, nothing to hold back.

Every snowflake is different, the prints on my hand are different than the prints of the hands that GREW inside of me!  The very waves on their hands were shaped and formed by the fluid my body created to protect them while they formed. The mountains in the distance that shot up in the horizon with no pattern, no symmetry at all.

Hair colors, eye colors, body colors.

Zebras, for crying out loud!  Can you get more varied than a white horse striped all over in black?  Or is it a black horse striped all over in white?!

I'm sure this is God's favorite riddle for the world.

I thought of Satan's plan -effective as it would have been to have make the choice that would bring us salvation, it lacks variety completely.

The Place was built sort of upon The Principle of Opposition.  One Way to Rule Us All!

But there exists in me a drive that goes BEYOND this life... a drive that existed before my fingerprints and hair color and passion for yarn... a belief that variety and choices is MY way.

My Place is simply that -Mine.

Because I've never had enough self-love to give validity to My Place, it has waited in a dark and dusty corner, shivering and ratty and patient.  I loved others more than myself, and others had Their Place.  I wanted that.  I wanted a Home Within.  Recovery has helped me dust it off, polish it up and start really setting up camp.

I started the process BECAUSE of Danny, and YES I was resentful as I polished.  Sometimes resentment gives me my very best grunt work performances.

But presently, I work on My Place BECAUSE of me and BECAUSE I love God and Jesus very much.  Very very much.  I loved Jesus before, but I didn't love Him with THIS kind of love -the kind of love that proves there IS A HEAVEN because THIS love is deeper than mortal love.  I can't wrap my mortal mind around what I'm feeling, you know?  It goes beyond romance, it goes beyond sibling love, it truly goes beyond anything mortal!  It's immortal intimacy.

Yesterday I talked about progress.  Today I'm talking about NOT PERFECTION.

My Place is a friggin' mess.  Probably forever.  But okay.

Today I did yoga with the mantra, "I awaken" and I added what came natural afterward.

What came natural?  Well, thank you for asking:

I awaken my true identity.

I awaken My Place.

I find I still lean toward others, longing for Their Place.  It gives me nothing but grief and a cleaner microwave.

Today I did some dusting in My Place.

I thanked God for others and their places, for what they all send out into the world -their gifts, their process of healing, their methods and magics.

And I practiced gratitude for the way I am -the open Alicia with all her ways and workings.

Then I logged on here and was vulnerable because although it makes other people squirm sometimes, I am vulnerable for a reason.  I've been chucking it down lately in the name of conformity which is just a fancy was of saying, "I'm scared."

I hope Your Place gets dusted today and that you're able to do something very Your Placey.  Like garden or spit or run or build or sketch or chart or wash or cry or dance or sing or rhyme.

Your Place has the potential to save lives, namely your own. It has the power to tap you into spirituality, health, serenity, and peace.  

For though our places are different, they share One common denominator:

GOD.

And where God is, so is a love of variety -within you is a deep and relentless passion for variety, for YOU and not HER.

Comparison is the thief of joy because it chips away at that core passion.

So here's to Places.  To our Zions within.

It takes a very real trek to get there, and you won't trade it for anything.

Taking it Personally

I didn't know about porn before I got married.  I mean, I knew OF porn.  I knew it was a thing out there in a galaxy far, far away.  But I had never seen it, not really.  When Danny told me he'd had issues with porn in the past, I figured it was no big deal because
1) Sex is a need for men.
2) Danny wasn't having sex.
3) I would have sex with Danny after we were married.

I didn't realize that Danny's porn stuff had NOTHING to do with me.  I thought I had Main Sway in his sexual actions and behavior... not in a controlling, manipulative way, but in a, "if I give him enough, everything will be fine" kind of way.
I believed sex was a duty as a wife.
When Danny began acting out soon after we were married, it took over my life.  I took it personally -VERY personally.
My life became sexualized in ways I never thought possible.

I worked out so I would be thin and sexually attractive for Danny.
I kept the house clean so Danny would be attracted to me.
I made big efforts to attract Danny to me with my cooking.

Life became a string of domestic, physical, emotional and social performances... all for Danny.  All to be seen, to be what I viewed as loved.
I believed SEX was the most important sign of love.

I've been reflecting heavily on this lately.
I went shopping on Saturday.  Shopping can be stressful because I worry about food costs, personal preparedness, and making sure I buy food that is actually GOOD and not CRAP.
I battle the shame that comes to me from living paycheck to paycheck.
I also battle children.  The first believes we need to buy EVERYTHING for EVERYONE in the world!  The second believes we need to buy LOTS OF THINGS for HIM.  And the third runs circles around the circus, throwing chocolate and small toys in the cart while I debate the real meaning of charity with my 8-year old and check "painkillers" off the list.

A few years ago, shopping was pretty similar except I objectified women.  I viewed them as THREATS.  I felt less than.  If a beautiful woman passed by me in produce, a began sizing her up... I set myself at odds with her.  I measured her perceived strengths with my own.  I battled shame, and it had the potential to take my serenity away at best and ruin my entire day at worst.
I would never be that tan.
I would never be that fit.
I would never look so beautiful.
I would never have half the grace she possessed.

As I've worked on recovery, I haven't necessarily focused on NOT objectifying women.  I've mostly just worked on trying to let God take the wheel, on remembering that I can live my own life -a life that includes Danny but is not lived FOR Danny. I've learned about my own worth.  I've read good books about God, and I've found God everyday -all around me.  And somewhere along the line, I started seeing God in others.

My life began to strip off sexualization and objectification.
As I went the freezer section on Saturday, a very beautiful woman stood nearby.  She was VERY beautiful.  Did I say that?  I had to stop and stare for a minute -and I felt longing.
But guess what I felt right after that?
"Oh, look -she's with her parents.  She's shopping for them, caring for them.  What a sweet daughter."

And then I FORGOT about her.
It was nice to be able to admire a physically beautiful person without feeling shame, resentment or fear.  I SAW her as a daughter.

It was freeing.
Recovery is a freeing blessing that way.
I still remember the day I walked by the magazines in the check out line and SAW -REALLY SAW -the lies.  For years, I would see them and feel shame, resentment, fear... longing to see the photoshopping as LIES and not TRUTHS.

Its a truly miraculous gift of grace from God and Recovery to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and love who I see, to love the stretch lines and scars and most of the wrinkles (still struggling with those rail road tracks between my brows though).

Here's the part where I completely SWITCH THIS AROUND.  So hold on for a sec.

When I began recovery, Danny took it personally.  Just as I took his addiction personally, so did he personalize my recovery.  As I took some tiny, scared, shaking steps forward and did things like
*Buy songs on i-tunes that helped me feel empowered
*Called a sponsor
*Went to counseling

He felt threatened.  I remember asking him if he like the songs I'd bought and he told me he felt like they were the anti-Danny songs.
I remember feeling confused -the songs weren't about him at all.  Recovery was MY thing, my side of the street, my worth, my journey!

But it didn't feel that way to him -just like his addiction didn't feel that way to me.

This parallel has also brought me a great deal of reflection.
A few nights ago, Danny said, "When you started recovery, I was scared.  I was worried it would make you resentful and mean.  But what its done is made you into a really incredible woman."

That blew me away, to hear that.
I've always been incredible, but in those painful years where I thought Dr. Laura was a prophet of God, I FORGOT.
I forgot to just BE.  I forgot to create, to slow down, to live and breathe and go on walks with God.  I forgot how precious I am to Him, how precious He is to me.

I still struggle with a lot of crap, but today I'm grateful that I've taken this journey.  I'm grateful that I went as far as I did into a sexualized reality.  The journey out has brought me wisdom, friends, and a better relationship with myself and God and others.

Right now, I'm going to hop on my mat and do some yoga.  I'm going to give my soul what it needs and take a pain pill because my BODY WANTS SUGAR and I've been giving it sugar since Thanksgiving.
We're taking this week off and my head hurts.

Needless to say, I'll be working the 12-steps AGAIN after I finish this round.  I need to work it for my unruly creature side who only wants Netflix and chocolate.  It's time to make amends to my soul... step by step.

Fields of Toil

So often trials are compared to storms -dark clouds, rain, torrent... then comes the rainbow, then comes the rest.

Sometimes He lets it rain.
Dark clouds.
Sometimes He lets the storm rage and calms His child.

A few days ago, I sat on the shores of a lake in Arizona.  I was up in the pines, camping with my family.  We were squeezing out every last drop of summer.  Danny was fishing with the kids, and I'd just finished skipping rocks. I didn't buy a fishing license because
1) It saved us some money
2) I don't know how to fish
3) I have notebooks that love being written in on the shores of lakes in the pines

My toddler and I stuck together because she didn't care about fishing either.  She climbed up rocks, throwing her hands in the air.
"Queen of the world!"

I beat my record in rock skipping: FIVE.  And for the fiftieth time that trip, God sent me a Valentine to let me know He sees and cares.
A Valentine skipping stone:

I tucked it in my purse.
My inflammation worsened -it had been flaring up, maybe because I was constantly on the move?  So I sat down next to my daughter and we threw big rocks into the water -squealing with every *SPLASH*
The water felt so good on our hot faces.
She put her feet in the lapping water and spoke to it, "Be nice, water.  Be nice to Alice."

I sat down in our red camping chair, hunkering down so the sun couldn't find me. It wasn't easy -the Arizona sun has a way of finding EV.ER.EE.THING.  Even the lakes around us were evaporating at a weirdly alarming rate, making fishing a pretty dumb idea.

I watched my daughter build a castle out of rocks and sighed in relief as the sun fell behind the ONE cloud in the sky.  My mind went back years -twenty, fifteen...

My Dad owns a farm and a small herd of cattle.  He was the living mash-up of the Oklahoma! hit, "The Farmer and The Cowman."
Oh, the Farmer and the cowman should be friends...
My Dad WAS a farmer AND a cowman.  This meant he grew his own hay which worked out well because he had 6 kids to help him grow, cut, turn, bale and pick up the hay.  After my brothers left home, he BOUGHT A MACHINE that picked up hay.  It was a betraying day for me... picking up hay was the hardest, most grueling part of the hay business and ALL THIS TIME THERE WAS A MACHINE THAT DID IT?!
But I digress.

Those hot Arizona summers picking up hay are scorched into my brain.  Some days I'd ride in the truck with Dad and watch in wonder as the boys in town would help my brothers pick up bale after bale.  Sweat would run down everyone's faces.  Their arms were sun burned and scratched... they could wear long sleeves but the length was torture... worse than scratched arms.
The hay was carefully stacked, row by row.  A special pattern had to be made to keep the hay from falling over, so one boy would stack and the others would pitch the bales onto the trailer.  The tractor or truck would pull the trailer along at a snail's pace.
I think they have a thing called Cross Fit now that gives men the bodies I saw my brothers build throwing alfalfa bales around.
When we picked up oat bales, I could help.  I couldn't pitch them to the top of the stack, but my patient older brother would help me nudge them onto the lowest part of the trailer.  As I got older -12 or so, I graduated to Driver.
I was complete bunk at it.
I was so nervous trying to do it PERFECTLY because the thought of messing up in front of the boys my Dad had hired was just unfathomable.
My first real-life crush was formed out on those fields.

I can still feel that hot sun, the sweat, the parched summer days...
As I sat on the shore and watched my daughter talk to her castle, I felt the metaphor for trials shift in me.
When trials rage in my life, it feels less like a storm and more like a hot summer day.  I'm racing against the tractor to get the bales pitched onto the trailer.  I'm the driver, the stacker, the pitcher... the sun is blazing, and sweat is rolling down my neck... my body is coated in my own perspiration.  With every bale I pluck up, one more is set down on the unending field of toil and sweat.
And THAT.
That is what it feels like.
No clouds, no drops of rain, no torrential storm to send me into respite.  Just sun.

We are taught that Christ is in the Sun (just read it in my scriptures, though I can't remember the reference!), and this is true for me... when I'm on that figurative field with those figurative heavy, rough bales, I am closer and nearer to God than ever.
It is HARD and it is TRYING and I want to give up and spit and lie down and I WANT TO STOP, but trials aren't like that.  Even when I physically lie down in the midst of a trial, there's still a blazing heat going on inside, ripping me apart.
The sun is a healing energy that also burns -it's made of FIRE.

My baptisms by fire has come through Christ and at NO POINT was it easy.

Coming home from those fields was the best -dunking myself into bath water, filling my body with water, eating a good meal, and sitting down.  You can't beat that feeling.  It measured up to the feeling you get after spending a day branding cattle and coming home to wash the stench of burning hide and human sweat off.
Nothing in this world has come closer to me than the way repentance feels than a long shower after a full day pitching hay or branding cattle.  Even rounding them up is less intense.

So it is with trials -after the work, the sweat, and the seemingly unending output on my part -there is living water to be had in abundance.  It's there all along, but after the trial it seems more precious.

God is in the sun and the water.  He's the most miraculous gift -the most present, the most mysterious, the most attractive.
And so we find that another sort of romance is flourishing on my Fields of Toil... I desire God, and unlike the hired hand I longingly stared at through my coke-bottle glasses, God actually knows I'm there and what's more?  DESIRES ME with a passion far deeper than any I've cooked up.

Because He desires me, He gives me Fields of Toil.
And that's where the metaphor shift is vital for me... I see the point of pain, I see a purpose -a loving purpose in pain.  Pain becomes necessary -thereby making it endurable.
My pleas to end it all, my declarations of self-weakness dissipate and I stand under the hot sun, knowing now, as I didn't five years ago, there's something great at the end of the field.

Knowledge, compassion, growth, clarity.

God has led me in the path of healing these days -physically healing.  He's led me to resources that will aid in boosting the negative ions in my life.
Negative ions are found in waterfalls and mountains, in nature -they energize and build us up.
Positive ions are found in electronics and man-made structures -they drain us.

There must be a balance.
And as I think of the rain falling, I see a gift from God, for especially in lightening there is a SURGE of negative ions, and we are uplifted thereby.

The world is my university -the sun my teacher, the rain my gift, the earth my healer.
And God is in them all.
And God is in me.

Building Towers

I don't remember Heaven, not really... but it seems that part of me -perhaps a bigger part of me than I can grasp -suffers from severe homesickness. It's an ironic sort of homesickness -the more I feed it, the more it grows.  And I realize that it isn't actually a sickness at all but a HEALER in every way.

When I first sat down and really talked with Danny, it felt as if something deep within me was all at once excited and rested to be... could it be?... reunited.  I didn't know Danny.  I had never met him.  It was simultaneously the weirdest and most natural feeling in the world.

The part of my brain that's forgotten Heaven was confused and scared.  The part of my brain (? soul?) that remembers Heaven sort of exhaled, as if it had been anticipating my meeting Danny for years.  His voice was strange and familiar.  His hands were new and also home.  His hug was the hug of a newly-found friend and also the hug of someone I'd sung, "God Be With You 'Til We Meet Again" to.
It felt good.
It felt scary.
It felt natural.
It made no sense and complete sense all at once.

A piece of homesickness was given remedy that day.  It was proof of Home.  I'd felt for some time that there was a Home for me out there.  Meeting and marrying Danny was a piece of my Home Puzzle... but there's SO MUCH MORE.  I can feel it.

There's a part of me that hungers -ever hungers -for something MORE.  I don't mean materially, don't mistake me.  I mean -emotionally?  Is it emotion?  Or is there something out there that is MORE, even, than emotion?
I've always had this hunger.
I've always been a deep-feeling, passionate person, and as such I've always felt a constant dissatisfaction with the world at hand.
That's not to say that I've dismissed joyful moments or failed to live and bask in the present -though at times, many times, I have.  I'm only trying to say that I've got a hole in my heart.
I've heard some in the SA world refer to it as a "God Hole" and while I believe that, I still feel like my hole is more aptly titled, "The Home Hole."
I am not at home, no matter where I go.  I used to pity Christ when He spoke of having no place to lay his head, but pity isn't what Christ sought at all... Christ simply spoke truth of how He felt about Earth.  It wasn't His home, and He wasn't at home in it at all.  Earth was where He went for a mission.

I've sought to fill my Home Hole in so many ways -SO many.  I've sought out intense emotions, trying desperately to reach a level of unearthly emotion, trying to feel ANYTHING strongly, powerfully.
I've sought for years for more and more proof of home, and in so doing I've developed My Vices.
My Vices, unlike my Home Sickness, are ACTUALLY sicknesses who also grow abominably the more they are fed.  They bring no healing.  They are malignant.

The more I shop, the more I eat, the more I tear down others, the more movies I watch, the more I dive into the Earth and try and make it my home... the larger grows my Home Hole.

I think of the descendents of Noah, building a tower toward Heaven.  So often I was taught that the Tower of Babel was a symbol of wickedness.  But yesterday as I looked up in the darkness at the ceiling over my bed, I thought about those inherently GOOD people building what they felt was a needed and necessary building.



They sought to muscle their way back home. This I understand!
They gathered up their friends -they all spoke the same language and they all had the same hole in their heart, and they built a tower to home!  To Heaven!  But they forgot -again, let's hold hands with irony -about God. They formed and fed vices with their tower. Their tower became their house of worship, but they had replaced God with their own selves and in so doing had built up A House of Vices.
But God didn't forget about them, just as He's never forgotten about Alicia.
God took from them their unity of voice which they were using for desecration, and He cursed them with the inability to understand one another, thereby saving them.

My Vices look like theirs, though their story is ancient and mine is circa 2010.  My search for home often (or eventually) lacked a God-center and by default was mortal-centered.

So often I've reached for food, for money, for beauty and validation -so that I might reach Heaven in some way.  I didn't understand Heaven, really, and that's why I did it.  My innate was crying out for home and I sought out home as best I could with where I was and what knowledge I had.
And God, in His familiar mercy, is saving me.  Though my saving doesn't involve a curse, it does involve a lot of pain... and therein I can empathize with the descendents of Noah.

Glennon Melton has said:

"People think of us addicts as insensitive liars but we don’t start out that way. We start out as extremely sensitive truth tellers."

I built my vices from a hungry place -I was starving for Home.  I sought it out in the wrong places, but I sought it out regardless.

I built my Babels and they all failed me.
I love C.S. Lewis's thoughts in The Screwtape Letters.  He speaks at this point as a Devil:

Prosperity knits a man to the World.  He feels that he is "finding his place in it," while really it is finding its place in him.  His increasing reputation, his widening circle of acquaintances, his sense of importance, the growing pressure of absorbing and agreeable work, build up in him a sense of being really at home in earth which is just what we want. ... The truth is that the Enemy, having oddly destined these mere animals to life in His own eternal world, has guarded them pretty effectively from the danger of feeling at home anywhere else. 

As I am facing my 30th birthday next month, I find that I'd much rather be 30 with the knowledge that has come with 30 than be 21, sitting in the dirt with my building blocks, trying to muscle my way back home.
It is a really yucky and hard place to be.

Ironically (yeah, we're still there), the most rested place I've ever been is completely racked with homesickness.

Give me not of this world, God, but offer up pieces of Home on Earth that I might make myself Fat upon my Longing for Home.
Give me a rose, a breeze, a baby's curl.  Give me a song filled with strains of Home, and a evening spent in the company of those who kept company with me at Home.
Give me meat and bread of body and soul.
Shower thy blessings upon me as I reach my hungry, childish arms up toward Thee.
I cry unto Thee for comfort, for love, for peace.

Give me no place on Earth to lay my head for therein lies risk of losing my peace-giving sense of Longing.

This is my Sabbath prayer and my Step 7.
Amen.

Of Mice and Mold

C.S. Lewis told me that I'm a mere player on the stage -that the REAL me exists outside of the stage -in the darkened wings and the unseen balconies, and that I can't tap into The Real Me until my part is finished, until I've washed off the stage make-up and hung up the costume... in short: until I die.

This makes absolute sense to me because I feel The Real Me at certain sacred times in my life, and each time I do, I find a sense of home that feels even more HOME than the four walls that house me right now. 
Writing does it to me -leaves me with a sense of other-worldliness that feels more like visiting a departed twin I've never met rather than an alien encounter.
Certain songs will transport me to my "other" home, remind me that I'm still playing my part on stage and that there's a wide world waiting in the wings and beyond.
But surely, PRAYER is my biggest, fattest surest freest ticket to my Homeland, to Father and Mother.

Prayer has been my golden ticket in these last years.  I always pick up a ONE WAY ticket, fully intending to never leave God's presence, but something always, always pulls me back to the bright draw of the stage lights.
God knows how I can't let go of that stage.  Even when we're together, it seems like all I can talk about is The Play.  I'm consumed with it.
He knows all about The Play.
He wrote it.  He produces it.  He is the audience, the crew, the set designer.  Alpha and Omega!

I ask Him questions, and sometimes He replies.  Sometimes He raises His eyebrow and sometimes He just smiles while I work out answers for myself.

I'm doing a scene right now titled, "Of Mice and Mold."It's really pretty grotesque.

It hold the familiar old plot line of health issues, one that I can't seem to shake.  Maybe my character plays the part well?  I don't know.  This is something I ask Father when I happen to buy a well-intentioned "one way" ticket. 

The set looks something like a blue-collar rental, adorned with antiques and dirty clothes.  There's a baby painting her own fingernails, a young boy and girl arguing over who called whose imaginary friend stupid, and Me.  Me is wearing my LEAST favorite costume: work clothes.  I'm curled up in the comfiest chair.
There's a television show on in the background, a nearly empty milk carton in the fridge and leftovers on the counter that have grown some fascinating mounds of mold.
And as I sit with a heating pad on my side, hoping to quell the pain roaring from under my right rib and calm the nausea that comes in dreaded waves, a mouse scurries around the edge of the stage.

I want to care, but I'm too tired.  I'm SO tired.

I find that in previous acts, I've had to let go of expectations in my marriage.  I've had to leave my 50th anniversary bash and dreams of grey-haired front porch hand-holding in the hands of The Playwright.
THAT was hard.
I yelled into the blackness of the audience at that point.
"You expect me to go along with this?" My hair curled, my body toned and able, my make-up as pristine as was in my power to procure.
It was my DIVA moment, The Diva Scene.

Of Mice and Mold is unfolding in what feels like YEARS away from The Diva Scene.  I'm not sassy and stamping my feet.  At this point, I'm looked less plucky and more sucky, defeated and tired.

"It's been 5 years," I whisper to the footlights because I know The Director well enough by now to know that HE WILL HEAR ME even if I don't yell, even if I don't stamp, even if I don't speak at all, "and still.  I am being asked to give more of my future.  I am being asked to give all.  I don't know if I can."

Can I surrender my ENTIRE future to God?  Can I trust Him with my health and my kids and my bank account?
With the mice?
I haven't even mentioned the mold!

These are the questions I put at His feet on my Prayer Train visits.
His answers are always so pure and delicious. 
"Stop worrying about The Play, Alicia," He closes His eyes to match my closed eyes, "And let Me."
His calming words make the mice and mold feel like distant pebbles in my shoes -the kind I kick out in an instant. I remember that The Play is a blip on the radar.  It's so easy to forget, so easy to get wrapped up in my lines, the set, the banter.

At that moment, the Real Alicia and The Real Father touch souls so intimately and deeply that I can't imagine ever opening my eyes and breaking our connection.  In that moment, God knows my deepest longings to live a life filled with Mother Teresa's charity, C.S. Lewis' wisdom, and Erma Bombeck's humor.  He knows my shame, my strength, my fears and my hopes.  It is the most vulnerable love I know. I am completely exposed, yet all around me is insurmountable support.

It is Heaven on Earth.
And I CLING to it right up until the mouse scurries across from stage right, and then my eyes fly open.  I'm back.

The Plot floods my mind: get the nail polish away from the baby, keep the chocolate from the dog. Put the fighting children outside, and don't forget to eat even if everything makes me sick.  Do I have any bleach?  Can I make it to the store?  Does anyone have any clean clothes?

My serenity is threatened constantly on stage -maintained only by the heavenly hangover that comes when I access my Real Me, my True Home.
I remember today is just today, and my only job is to be as present as I can be in it for God has a new act around every corner.
The great tragedies only come when I spend my time trying to predict and manage the upcoming acts -to grieve over my mistakes in the acts I left behind.  I try to balance every scene all at once instead of simply playing the one at hand and leaving the managing and writing to God.

Tonight, I touched The Real Me.
This makes the impending tomorrow easier. Though the mold will grow and the mice will somehow find their way from the barn to my home and the pain in my body will insist on playing it's own shadowy part... I remember the Play is just The Play.

And God, who is within and without, knows me very, very well.

God Callings

In the LDS church, members are given "callings" -volunteer positions to keep the church functioning in an organized manner.
It's a great system that doesn't always work perfectly -just like life -and it gives members the opportunity to serve in a variety of ways.
I've served as a teacher, a leader, a pianist... I've given talks, treats, time, projects!  I've only ever hated ONE calling.  I was called as the "compassionate service leader" and it made me physically ill to call and ask people to help other people.  I agonized over who to bother LESS with casserole-making.
"Hi, um, this is Alicia... Sister So-and-So just had a baby and I'm wondering if you'd be able to make dinner for her on Thursday?"
Sometimes (most times) I would just make the meals myself because asking people to help was so sickeningly difficult for me.

It still is.  I almost cried with happiness when they released me. 

We are asked to magnify the callings we receive... to prayerfully work at our task and endeavor  to hold and perform the calling in the same way Christ himself might.

I'm currently holding a lot of callings -none of which I am magnifying in the least.
I'm the organist for our Sacrament Meetings, and I don't practice.  I mess up a lot when I play.  As in, I've turned heads, and not in a good way.
I'm a sub scout leader, and yesterday my Lone Cub Scout walked through my door and I went, "Oh!  HI!  So glad YOU remembered about scouts today!" (the "I certainly didn't" was implied.)
I'm a stake missionary for the addiction recovery program, and I've given up on even holding meetings -mostly because parking in the seminary parking lot each week BY MYSELF triggered abandonment and loneliness.  The leaders over me haven't responded to my requests for paperwork, training, or HELP.  I'm going to ask for a release.
I'm a Primary Teacher and I read my lessons the day before I give them.

Clearly, I can improve.
And here's where the big but comes in.

BUT.

I believe -so strongly, so so deeply -that God has inherently called each of us to God Callings.

Each Child of God is sent to earth endowed with gifts to help them magnify their calling: teacher, athlete, scientist, musician, healer, preacher!

So many callings!
Working recovery has helped me to find and define what my own personal callings are.  God wants me to use my voice: teach, write, laugh, share!  God wants me to tell stories, to find metaphors in BASICALLY EVERYTHING.  He wants me to reach out and share my life with others in order to bring light and connection where there once was darkness and loneliness.
God wants me to be a free spirit -He wants me to keep my feet off the ground, my wild hair around my face... He does NOT want me to be controlled by fear or another person (or fear or another person).
God wants me to give of what I have, no matter how meager it may seem.
God trusts me with children -my own and those scuttling around my ankles in the supermarket. 

Right now, I am magnifying my callings by FINDING THEM OUT through recovery, and God is giving me strength to simply carry on with my church callings.

I complete them well enough for now, and when the time is right and in God's timing, I will find that my NEXT RIGHT THING is reading my church lesson on Friday or Thursday and maybe even on Monday.

But that's not what He wants right now.

I can magnify my God Callings today by doing what I'm doing right now: writing.

It's more important, more vital, more life-giving than anything else. 

I am filled with gratitude at God's perfect plan -the way he seamlessly sews us all together in a puzzle of community perfection.  Where there is a healer needed, a healer is found.  Where there is a nurturer, a nurturer is found.  There's a mechanic and an organizer.  There's someone who is completely fulfilled by bringing beauty to bodies, spaces and faces.  There's someone who knows their way around mechanics and chainsaws... someone who makes desk living look attractive.  There's someone with a lush garden and someone with homemade breads and pies.

When we dive deep into our divine center and give ourselves the respect we'd give any other person we know to have GOD within them, WE FIND OUR CALLING.

A family or any kind of community knit together in mutual love, appreciation and respect for individuality and God Callings is HEAVEN ON EARTH.

Addiction twisted this truth -wrenched it out of control.

I felt I knew what was best for Danny.
In many ways, Danny felt he knew what was best for me.

As we take a step back and try to find ourselves, we stand in awe of each other... we begin to respect the God Callings in each other instead of trying to morph them out of fear.

Danny is a leader -he has a passion for justice that is brought out magnificently in his job.  Danny loves music -it speaks to him, and he uses his own musical voice to speak to others.
So often I've tried to force a love of literature on him. So often, I've tried to get him to STOP GETTING WORKED UP over justice issues beyond his control.

But I'm coming around to just watching Danny dive inside of himself.
I'm an observer on his individual journey to God -not an active participant.  In the end, it's ONLY about Danny and God.
The same is true for myself.

It's bumpy, but the rewards of uncovering and magnifying my God Callings?  WORTH IT.

The best part?  I love my callings.  God attaches passion to each of his God Callings , so that what He calls His children to do is fulfilling and pleasing unto them!

Not as true for ward callings that cause me to face character weaknesses.
There are women who are called by God to be compassionate service leaders, and I'm not one of them.  But in doing that calling, I gained a GIGANTIC appreciation for women who are naturals.

God,
Thank you for them.
Thank you for the engineers, the athletes, the painters.  Thank you for the beautiful voices, the crafters, the brainy business ones.
Your children are brilliantly magnificent.
You must be so proud.

~Alicia

Out of Captivity Into Good

I've been reading up a bit on the story of Joseph and his brothers... I want to get into the meat of Moses' story, and Moses' story really begins with Joseph.

I didn't intend to get anything out of Joseph's story, really.  As I cracked open my Old Testament, I really felt like I was just perusing an intro... so I was surprised when I was stopped in my tracks at Joseph's words.  I was surprised to find that I NEEDED Joseph's story more than I needed Moses' story right now.

A few months ago, my mother confessed to me that my Dad had made a remark to her about my light. 
"It's gone out," he said.  His words echoed a blessing he'd given me, "Alicia, you have many people around you who love you and are worried about you.  They can tell something is wrong.  The light you carry with you has been dimmed..."
He went on to promise -through the grace of God -that light would be restored.

Before I met Danny, I didn't give too much thought to what others thought of me.  I wore crazy clothes and I did crazy things.  I didn't get into trouble, but I was comfortable with how unconventional I was.  I made friends with like-minded people, and my last year of high school and first year of college were so precious to me. 
It's safe to say, I think, that during that time my light was burning brighter than ever.

My high school was down the dirt road from the house I grew up in, and we always ate breakfast as a family (though dinner as a family was harder to muster).  I'd often stroll out of the house wearing whatever struck my fancy that day: sarong over capris, a skirt with a tee, a bright orange scarf...
One day I bounded out of the house wearing a sheer (but shiny!) light pink over-sized button-up shirt (over a white shirt) and my hair done up in double buns on my head.
My Mom told me later that day that as I'd walked proudly to school, she'd told my Dad that I looked ridiculous.
"I think she looks classy," he said.
He said the same thing about my pink Superman beanie.
Dad was a pretty classy guy himself.  He has always paid careful attention to his appearance when it mattered -not so much on the pasture, under a car, or standing over a cow he's branding/milking/herding... but at church.  He always dressed so nicely.  His boots were often polished, his shirt pressed.
Basically, this made his closet perfect for raiding because -you guys -he SAVED ALL OF HIS WESTERN CLOTHES FROM THE 70's.
And though he made little attempts to connect with us as teens (he really had no idea what to do with us when we turned 11)... he would always give a loving nod to his flowered-up Wrangler shirts getting a second chance at fashion.
"Nice shirt."

Reading Joseph's story reminded me of my own Father -how proud he'd been of my "classy" taste in fashion, my fearless bird-flipping to Calvin Klein and American Eagle.
When I married Danny, there came into the picture a change... he understood fashion and matching and the whole "belt and shoes must be the same color" thing.  He helped teach me the ways of matching, and I was truly grateful.
Except in the course of learning matching, I lost a piece of my light.
As time went on, I wouldn't get dressed without Danny's approval.  His addiction and my wanting to please became entangled in a dysfunctional lust affair, and it didn't take long for me to feel as if I'd been taken from my father's house, had my flair ripped from my back... I felt like I was in a pit, trapped and scared, and the one who helped me find my way down was someone I had loved dearly and trusted with my life.

I felt as if I'd been bought by the porn industry -it ruled me.  I competed, idealized... It took over my choices, my life.  I dressed according to media expectations.
I listened to Brene Brown's TED talk, "Listening to Shame" and felt a little ill when she said:
" ...some research by Mahalik at Boston College. He asked, what do women need to do to conform to female norms? The top answers in this country: nice, thin, modest and use all available resources for appearance."

That's the industry that bought me: unrealistic expectations for appearances and sexual relations as well as a warped definition of the word "perfect."

As I climb out of the prison and back up the ranks of emotional, spiritual, mental and physically healthy living,  I find the flickering light inside of me beginning to spark.
Each time I go with my gut, the flame burns a little brighter.
Each time I give into fear, the flame dies down.

It's some kind of dance filled with fine lines and grey spaces.

It's hard work, and sometimes I want to give up.  Sometimes I DO give up.  Sometimes I spend a day behind closed blinds numbing out with movies and snacks.  
But the progress is real.

I'll never forget the first time I saw a Cosmo magazine... I mean REALLY SAW IT.  I used to "see" them and feel longing, sadness, "I'll never look like that."
For the first time, I SAW the Cosmo magazine and realized the lies my brain had been believing as truth.
The woman on the cover was unnatural because she'd been altered.  And it was unattractive.

My appetite for reality -for the beauty in God's creations AS IS seems to be insatiable.  Every time I see crow's feet or freckles, moles and thick thighs with pock marks... I breathe in the LIFE and think, "God is truly amazing."

I can see the lies. 
I am returning to truth -to God.
  
Like Joseph of old, I have my Heavenly Father restored to me.  Recently, my father remarked to my mother, "She's back.  She's come back again."

I had lost my father -what's more: he had lost his daughter.  What a painful, preventable tragedy.

After Joseph's earthly father passed away, his brothers were afraid of Joseph's vengeance.
From Genesis:

 15 ¶And when Joseph’s brethren saw that their father was dead, they said, Joseph will peradventure hate us, and will certainly requite us all the evil which we did unto him.

 16 And they sent a messenger unto Joseph, saying, Thy father did command before he died, saying,

 17 So shall ye say unto Joseph, Forgive, I pray thee now, the trespass of thy brethren, and their sin; for they did unto thee evil: and now, we pray thee, forgive the trespass of the servants of the God of thy father. And Joseph wept when they spake unto him.

 I remember a time when Danny asked me to please read, "The Peacegiver."  I'd read it before.  I didn't feel as if I SHOULD read it again, but Danny was insistent.  I finally gave in.  He seemed impatient for me to read, to make it through.

"Did anything stand out to you?" he would ask.

It turns out, he was wanting me to forgive him.  

"Forgive, I pray thee now..."

Joseph's response is insightful:

18 And his brethren also went and fell down before his face; and they said, Behold, we be thy servants.

 19 And Joseph said unto them, Fear not: for am I in the place of God?

Joseph recognizes his role.  He recognizes that he is not God, and his brothers have need of seeking forgiveness from God more than they have need of seeking the forgiveness of Joseph.

For so long, I felt as if Danny OWED me this apology.  I truly believed Danny had sinned against ME and only me.  It makes sense that I felt this way because I had often put myself into the role of Savior, constantly trying to save Danny from his own addiction... each time Danny acted out it felt more like he was sinning against ME because I exchanged my own progression for saving Danny.

He then goes on to say:

 20 But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.

 21 Now therefore fear ye not: I will nourish you, and your little ones. And he comforted them, and spake kindly unto them.

That passage hit me hard yesterday... the line, "God meant it unto good."

 

I look at my life now, my perspective, my relationship with God, my new found friends, my light, my core, my LIFE.

God meant it unto GOOD, and it IS good.

I think of those who have gone before, how they have helped to rescue me and "save much people alive."  So many people have endured so much abuse, hate and horrors and go on to "save much people alive."

It's Step 12.

My Heavenly Father and My Earthly Father have been returned to me, and I feel the sweet nectar of forgiveness.  I see how God is God in all of this -God will take Danny and I can let go of Danny.

I can hand back "The Peacegiver" and say to him, "Fear ye not."

 

I may not have my crazy clothes back, just as Joseph may not have his coat of many colors... but I have freedom.

And with this freedom, I will live and nourish and comfort and speak kindly.  With this freedom, I will seek to cleave unto God, and though I will fail as mortals do, I will simply keep practicing.

Today I will practice by staying home with my sick child, looking in the eyes of my toddler and pray for forgiveness.  I will take care of my body by treating it a detox bath and some healthy food.  I will pray my latest favorite prayer, "What you do have be do today?  Who would you have me serve?"

And I will embrace my free spirit, even if that means the living room doesn't get vacuumed.  

I will let freedom be the theme of the day -in Christ, I am free.

 

From Within

Everything came from without during those dark, star-guided days.  My circumstances were my master, others were my Gods.

Any strong answer I had well up from inside was only accepted if my Gods stamped their approval on it.

"Don't have sex right now," my insides would scream, "Please, please stop."  So to counseling I would go, to the phone, to the masses! 
Is it okay for me NOT to have sex right now? I'd ask.

Fear was my constant companion, my guiding star.
Through it all, I was terrified that I would lose my husband.

I was terrified of losing the person who had hurt me, broken my heart and trust, betrayed me and abused me.

So why?  Why was I scared?

Because Danny was God.  Losing Danny meant -in my life and mind -that I would lose the one thing in my life that mattered most.  Danny had my heart fully.  I thought about him everyday.  I wanted -above all -to please him, to make sure he was happy and do his will... even if it meant giving up my own.

I couldn't fathom a world without Danny, without having a marriage with him intact.

But God is a jealous God.  He desires Alicia.

Today, boys and girls, I have NO CLUE if my marriage will last.  I don't know if I will get divorced.  I don't know if someone else will raise my children.  I don't know if Danny will relapse or cheat on me or die in the line of duty.  I have no clue when it comes to my relationship with any mortal human.

BUT OF MYSELF I CAN SAY FOR CERTAIN: I will be okay.

I
Will
Be
Okay.

I have taken a stand I didn't believe I was allowed to take -I stood up to Danny and told him I could not live with him if there was no recovery.  That was risky.  I put my marriage on the line FOR MYSELF.  I realized after one harrowing day of mistreatment that Danny -though important and worthy of love -WAS NOT MY GOD.

My God Hunger had tried for years be filled with Danny which isn't fair to God, Danny or Alicia.  When I began taking my soul appetite to righteousness (it's all very "Blessed are those who do hunger and thirst after righteousness, for they shall be filled") and filling it with GOD HIMSELF, I began to bask in the freedom that comes with leaving the past with the Savior and the future in the hands of God.

Will my marriage be okay?
Who knows.
Will I be okay?
Definitely.  

My God is loving, constant, aware, prepared, all-knowing and He WILL NOT FAIL ME.  He will not leave me.  He will not betray me, control or manipulate me. 

God did not want me in my marriage as it was.  He was NOT okay with the conditions, the absence of safety and the dysfunction because both Danny and I are better than what we were perpetuating.  

Danny rationalized his addiction just as much as I rationalized his behavior.

God desired me -He wanted me to see myself, to start me on the path of living, of becoming who I would be. 

I am His.  We are intimately connected in a way no mortal can play-out.  Ours is a transcendent love -ratting the cages of fear and glaring light into the darkest corners of shame. 

God touches my center, and I can do all things.  I learn, I seek.  Calmness settles on me, and I become sensitive to it's absence.  My anxiety is quieted.

I am free from abuse.
I have the answers to my life's questions within.
I have the capacity to change.
I am an agent unto myself.

And so I row into the Sun today, and we talk about life's daily duties.  We talk about my failures and we talk about my victories and in the calm chapel of nature, God's presence envelopes me.

Please, I plead, my sweet sister -the power to break free from abuse is WITHIN YOU.

God is waiting.
He desires YOU.
He will not fail.

If Fear is your guiding star, remember The Sun -don't sacrifice an internal, eternal summer for starry darkness. 



 

Body Healing

Over a year ago, I wrote a post about Pressure.

I struggle with holding tension in my body.  My shoulders have been tight for the better part of my 29 years.  I'm pretty sure I stressed out when I took my first bites, first steps, and first few swings at my older brothers.  I've spent YEARS holding expectations, shame, disappointments, confrontations... in my BODY.

It's gradually falling apart... the doctors keep taking things out of it and handing me papers with the words, "chronic inflammation" on them.  Tonsils?  Gone.  Gall bladder?  Gone.
My body is on fire. (Stop singing Alicia Keys.  Once you start, that power ballad never quits.)

My first counselor asked me to begin paying attention to my body -to the way I physically react and feel when I felt the trauma of my situation.  I began to notice that I felt my head sort of spinning, my heart pumped faster.  I began feeling the need to FLIGHT... FLIGHT my way into the bathtub and fill it with hot, hot water and big, fat bubbles.  When it's really bad, I find myself picking at my own skin nervously.
But the most prominent symptom: tight, tense shoulders.  I began to notice that my shoulders were tense constantly.

I felt tense in Sunday School when there was silence.  I felt tense when I talked.  I felt tense when I crocheted (must. finish.  must. finish.) and I felt tense when I watched television (maybe because I felt shame for watching?  I don't know).
I felt tense at the grocery store.
I felt tense when I went running (must. burn. calories. be. skinny. wear. leggings. boots. with. fur. cute. hair. bun. be. adorable).
I felt tense when I did yoga, when I ate.

As I've made a conscientious effort to release tension, I've felt calm and peace.  I've felt freedom that comes from letting go of finishing, performing, and perfecting.  And I've begun investigating WHY IN THE CRAP I've been this way for so long.

Looking back on my life, I see that I was raised to make good choices out of fear.
I jokingly say, "I did what was right not because I was afraid of God but because I was afraid of Dad."
Putting someone other than God in my center is an issue I've had long before I'd ever laid eyes on Danny.  Ironically, while I was being raised out of fear, I was also being taught that being afraid was weak... something to get over.

I want you to take a second and imagine -if you will -how much mental wreckage that all adds up to.

I have a lot of healing to do.  Marrying a porn addict took my "sickness" and BLEW IT UP.
I am so scared.  I am so scared all of the time.
I recognize that I am scared.  so scared all of the time.  and I HATE myself for being so weak and scared.

I feel shame for being scared.

It's a whole lot of crazy running rampant.
In a BYU speech given by Elaine Marshall in 2002 when she was the dean of BYU's College of Nursing, she says:

healing is active—you have to be there. Your friend or your husband or wife or your mother cannot do it for you. You have to face the problem and the pain. To begin healing, you must acknowledge and feel the hurt. Only those who don’t feel, those without conscience, cannot heal.
My mother once told me of an experience she had one winter morning as she drove down to check the cattle in the lower pasture. She noticed a car off the side of the road. Inside she recognized a young mother and three children. When my mother asked if they needed help, the woman tearfully reminded her that this was the place of the accident two weeks earlier that had killed her husband. She answered, “We are just here to feel the hurt.”
On that first day as a nurse, I assumed cure, care, and healing to be synonymous. I have learned they are not the same. Healing is not cure. Cure is clean, quick, and done—often under anesthesia. The antibiotic kills the pathogen; the scalpel cuts out the malignancy; the medication resolves the distorted chemistry. Healing, however, is often a lifelong process of recovery and growth in spite of, maybe because of, enduring physical, emotional, or spiritual assault. It requires time. We may pray for cure when we really need healing. Whether for cell reconstruction, for nerve and muscle rehabilitation, for emotional recovery, or for spiritual forgiveness, healing needs work and time and energy.
Healing cannot happen in a surgical suite where the pain is only a sleepy memory. Cure is passive, as you submit your body to the practitioner. Healing is active. It requires all the energy of your entire being. You have to be there, fully awake, aware, and participating when it happens.

I spent a few hours with a close friend last week.  She called me the next day and voiced her concern over my health.  Because she's been in a similar situation, she knows the toll trauma can take.  Her advice to me was simple and full of concern.
"Alicia, your body is hungry.  Feed it.  Feed it good food.  As women, we get caught up in eating salads, and salads are good... but your body needs more than that.  Cut out anything that is causing you extra stress -anything at all.  Your body can't handle more stress.  Drink lemon water in the morning and do stretches -not more than your body is willing to do, don't push it. Sleep is so important.  Get a lot -get enough."

I've been so busy working on my emotional healing, that my body has gone by the wayside.  Rhyll Crowshaw once told me, "This addiction literally KILLS women.  We have to take care of our bodies.  It is VITAL."

Does this mean a program?  Work out DVDs?  New Running Shoes?  Cute Yoga pants?
No -all of those things add up to more tension and pressure for me.

This means me writing out every day step-wise what I will do the next day for self-care.  This means tapping into the self-love I've babied into existence through recovery work.
This means walking the full-sized puppy and running only when his contagious energy touches me and I can't help but break into a sprint with him galloping into my path.
Together, we are Grace Personified.

 This means turning tension into acceptance.  Accepting silence, accepting myself, accepting the cold air and the time spent waiting for the children to finish eating, the sun to finish setting, the dust to settle.

This means more naps.
This means more real food and less fake food.

This means more meditation, more yoga, more calm, more peace, more perspective.

And as my mind clears and my life simplifies, I will find another facet of healing -one my Savior has had in store, waiting for me to be ready to choose it.

I begin to see that everyone around me -EVERY one -is sick in their own way.  They are all struggling.  They react not because of me and my illnesses but because of THEM and THEIR illnesses.

Healing pulls me OUT of myself and opens the world up -I begin to see what I was too sick to see before.

I see beauty in my mind, in my heart, in my white skin.
I see love.
I live from this.  I accept this.
I offer this to God, broken and serene -and I ask, "What would Thou that I should do?"

And then I walk and trip with my big puppy.

Or I eat something grandly filling -oatmeal with blueberries, a pat of butter melting deliciously into the grain.

Or I read Dr. Seuss out loud.
Or I plug myself into Massenet's "Meditation" and allow myself to just... BE for a little while.






And I find within myself a solid sense of SAFETY -an solid inner-chamber wherein fear and shame can not penetrate, where true love for God and self resides.

My shoulders relax and serenity sweeps tension into the other room.

THIS.
THIS is healing.

It is work, there are no pain killers for this kind of healing... but there is immeasurable recompenses for the pain.