Lessons that I'd prefer to learn another way...

       I came into this world with a big grin and a happy disposition - it just came naturally to me. And, discounting my teenage years that saw me in an age-appropriate rebellion against being giddy and excited about nearly anything at all, I have been a very positive person most of my life, finding the silver lining in all things otherwise dark and gloomy - and there have been a lot of those "otherwise things" over the years, some more important than others. 

       The past month, though, has found me in a funk of enormous proportions as I struggle to come to grips with the many financial difficulties that my family has faced over the past 18+ months, caught up smack in the center of the depression-esque environment of our country.  I had reached my breaking point, and I drown Pollyanna in my negativity for days on end. I was just sick and tired. Of. It. All. 

       I had been here before, more than once. In my late 20's, the fallout from some very difficult family events found me in a cycle of discontent and anger that took me longer than I'd care to acknowledge to correct. An eventful, if not exhausting, five-year-plus date with life - and a few sprinkles of the not-so-normal (but probably more normal than I know), had left me feeling as though I was teetering at the edge of a roof, a very long way to fall below. I tried balancing my victimization with humility but, my delicate state of mind called frequently on the former, and I wallowed in self-pity for months. It was painfully obvious to me that it was my time for a course correction yet again.

       What brought about the discord that go around is not the focus of my writings – I have no intention of villainizing any person(s), event(s) or institution(s) – although, as I write I am noting that I hardly respect myself as being privy to the benefits that this rule ought provide. I write instead about the oft-elusive a-ha moments, epiphanies both great and small, and entire about-faces in the ways I think, behave and even believe. And I write about the fact that, without any supposed cause – and certainly no immediate justification – I continually pull the rug out from under my feet, forgetting the lessons that came from these moments and carrying on about life, ignoring the very real, very tangible story book morals that I was abandoning. 

       Over and over again this phenomenon has occurred in my life. Wash, rinse, repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat. Like a washing machine stuck in a never-ending cycle. 

       So, I set about to make some changes in my life, searching as always for another light bulb moment- one more time and it will stick, for sure. I lifted the couch cushions and pulled up the rugs, hoping desperately to find anything- a menial answer from a past epiphany or maybe a profound lesson from a prior moment of clarity, as if we had been playing a mean game of hide-n-seek all the while. Grinding together past lessons with my present circumstances at least helped to speed up the slow process of change and, soon enough, I was weeding through my psyche like a monkey might weed through the hairs of her mate as she chatters away. 

       And then it happened. A-ha! Lightbulb! Eureka! Of course, it's never that easy, is it? If it were, I may have been saved an awful lot of pain over the years. It seems these defining moments of character come about, in fact, through times of difficulty or heartache or great change and my story is no different than most. So, let me be clear. What I came upon that encouraged change was not "easy"- a cure-all, quick-fix solution. It was not brought about because I fell in love or got married or divorced. I was not miraculously made younger or thinner or more beautiful. And I did not come into a large amount of money.

       Rather, I lost my mother to cancer, an event that spawned a whole set of introspective questions and observations for the better part of six months, consuming my mind with both personal pity and pride. I've scraped the surface of this topic before, in a blog titled "How Sweet It Is", detailing some of my thoughts and feelings that incessantly haunted me during my time of mourning. So, I'll just say that the process helped me to wake up, to become aware, and to work with intention in my life. My inner protagonist stepped forward, humbly took the lesson and headed toward the credits with a feel-good song a la a Cameron Crowe film. I grew. And I evolved. 

       Again. 

       The anger was not becoming, I knew that right away as I came to truly see myself in the mirror. Me, with my down-turned mouth, droopy eyes and crinkled forehead. Where had my smile gone, the very reason behind the wrinkles that graced the corners of my mouth and eyes. Laugh lines, my daughter Ren called them.

       Time and again, I stole sideways glances at my reflection in shiny surfaces. Staring back at me from the stainless steel toaster oven was a woman older than her years, her brows furrowed and shoulders low. The silhouette I saw outlined on the computer screen in front of me was frumpy and slouched. And, in the hallway mirror I saw a woman downtrodden and defeated by her so-called life. Soon, I recognized things outside of my reflection as well, coming to find that I spent all day picking myself apart about an array of topics, constantly reiterating my negative feelings to myself- and, oftentimes, aloud to others. 

       In my newfound awareness, I came to see that the only person who had the ability to control whether or not I choose to berate myself- continually seeking out and finding what was wrong with me, mentally abusing myself for this or that choice in my life, or absolutely mutilating my own fragile sense of confidence, keeping my self-esteem pinned low to the ground- was me. I knew that I needed to reach inside of myself and coax out the giddy blonde haired, blue-eyed, freckle-faced girl who always had a toothy grin spread across her cherry lips. 

       So, this newly acquired subjective manner I married with my sanguine inclination and I set out to change me, taking pains in reminding myself continually to rephrase my inner dialogue. This was no easy feat and took seemingly endless behavioral re-training, and I found forgiveness to be a close friend as I continually “failed” at shifting life patterns that were difficult for me to control. Fighting years of my harmful self-conduct was much bigger than suggesting to merely “change it” and I often embraced doubt, leaned on frustration or simply disregarded awareness as it pertained to my habitual conduct.  But, eventually, and after many long months of retraining my brain – constantly reminding myself to looks at things one way versus the other, my habits-turned-addictions that, unbeknownst to me had become a security blanket of martyrdom over the years, slowed. And eventually, they subsided. 

       I came to abandon the negative beliefs about myself that I had carried into adulthood, resulting in years wasted away, as I continued poking and stabbing at my self-worth most of my adult life. Although it had been a long and painful road, I was finally coming to see a very different woman in the mirror. Marred by self-esteem issues for more than half of my years, this small shift - that only I could make - was integral to my growth. I came to discover that the possibility of altering these feelings came from the inside, out, and was literally a choice I made from moment to moment. 

       So, I searched out my best features in the mirror, overlooking supposed flaws that I had called out for so many years. I was coming to find something beautiful in me, desirable even. No longer did I see the freckled fatty with rocks-in-socks breast, hello betty arm flab and a pooter belly (known also by several less appropriate monikers). Instead, I called out the icy blue eyes I had inherited from my mother, the diamond shaped chin I had drawn from my father and the pale Irish skin I had taken away from both. I saw the curvaceous womanly body that had borne two children more than a decade earlier. The paled squiggly scars on my belly that spoke of a skin stretched and pulled taut, I choose to view as badges of valor, a sign that I had actually brought another life into this world. 

       All in all, it was not easy to make so many changes in my life. I had ripped my guts out to expose me for who I truly was, underneath all of the life experiences, environmental influences, social behaviors and human ego. Then, stuffing my insides with sunshine and rainbows - as well as a healthy dose of truth, I pushed them back in, patched myself up and looked out upon the world with new eyes and a child-like optimism. I was sticky-sweet taffy; once twisted and stretched to the point that I nearly fell apart, I had bounced back to a chewy yumminess, finding a deep value in my preceding pain. 

       Surely the time spent retraining my brain and being honest with myself would not be my last; if anything, I had walked away with that lesson before. And, of course, it was indeed not, considering I am here yet again. So, keeping that in mind, today I am humbly approaching things with at least an awareness of my fallibility, hopeful that will help to temper the lessons and keep me from all out falling flat on my face, plunging me into the next cataclysmic depression in my life. 

       And, today, as my family struggles and we live with uncertainty, I'm working to fend off a frown every morning at 7 am as I am pulled from my dreams of a life that today is not my reality. And, here I am, drawing from the latest of lessons and carrying on through this "lovely period of growth", as my friend Lisa calls it. 

       I'm recognizing that, while at this moment my family is financially poor, we are so very rich in love and friends and fun. I am discovering the depths of our family bonds and friendships. And after so many months of feelings of destitution and poverty, we are rich in hope, and have a bright future ahead of us. 

       Besides, this too shall pass, as the saying goes, and I figure the sooner I find the nuggets I'm looking for, the sooner I can move the hell on. So, I am my own subject for observance, my own case study, my very own demographic. I am the student and I am the teacher. I am Carlos Castaneda, I am Don Juan. 

       And that scares the hell out of me. 


How Can I Miss You if You Don't Go Away

I realized today that I've spent a lot of time on this blog talking about myself, my children and the state of things in our life. Jay, the man whom I've spent more than seventeen years with - sixteen of those as his wife, has not been prevalent in these posts, but has made appearances here and there as more of a sideline character. He is anything but, in my real life.

Our wedding day, July 31, 1993.  

It's no secret to most who know us that Jay and I have had our struggles over the years - and some may say that's putting it lightly. We have experienced the ebb and flow of a relationship, as most have, and, thankfully, we continually come out on top, re-committing our love to one another, and honoring the deep bond we share. 

Jay was the first guy I had ever dated who truly respected me. At 19, like so many young girls, my self-esteem was in the crapper - and that's a technical term, so you can imagine the colorful words I could use. Either way, the outcome remained: I hated myself. Through my eyes, at 5’4” and 125 lbs, I was fat, I was ugly, and I was empty. These insecurities had seeped into my consciousness and bled into other areas of my life and, not surprisingly, I had come to see myself as stupid, worthless, and a complete loser.

Feelings such as these made it easy for me to turn to promiscuity in high school. The acceptance that I felt when I offered myself to a boy was worth the demeaning, self-deprecating feelings that followed. I felt used and wasted, yet valuable at the same time because I had something to give. My sense of worth, or lack there of, brought about a cycle of self-abuse as I beat myself up day-in and day-out for being an ugly person at heart - a worthless, fat slut. I convinced myself that I was the wiser girl because I truly understood how guys worked. I knew that they used complimentary language and poetic words as a foot in the door, one small step to get what they were really after. I didn’t buy it and I told them so as I gave myself up to them. Most words I declared as empty and assured the deliverer that he did not have to say them. I was on to him. And I was still there.

KT Circa 1989

To say that this cycle did not affect my choices in boys would be entirely false. With few exceptions, once they understood that I could not be fooled and saw their honest intentions, they became single serving boyfriends, a quick shot of love and acceptance jolted into my delicate arm. 

Jay was different than the others and I knew it right off as he continually pushed off the advances that I made toward him, born from the belief that sex was an immediate part of a relationship. Fending off my immature feelings of rejection, I realized that he didn't not want my body, but he wanted much more. He was adamant that our young relationship was not cheapened by a quick race to the finish line, instead wanting to make our courtship special and meaningful, something that I had never before experienced. He wanted me for who I was, not what I could give him. What a foreign concept that was to me. So much so that I actually had a difficult time adjusting to it, and even all out rejected Jay at one point in the beginning of our life together. 

Of course that didn't last long. Jay and I fell in love, hard and fast, and at only 19, we knew that we had a future together.  

 

Jay making me a daisy chain, about a month into dating.

I remember the first time Jay told me that he loved me. He was driving me to work on a spring morning, about six weeks or so after we began to date. The way he said it was so sweet. I didn't know it then but now I see that the words were difficult for him. He stuttered "I..I..I love you" in a tone that spoke "duh" instead of sounding like a lovesick confession. I didn't know, I just heard the words. And I threw my hands to my mouth as I shrieked, my eyes wide and shoulders high. I was thrilled! He rolled down his window and yelled to the world, "I love Kate Neal!" while driving down the Murray on-ramp onto Hwy 26. 

Jay and I have been through a lot since those first days when we fell in love, experiencing slices of an average life for going on seventeen years now. Some have been good, some have been bad, and thankfully the former greatly outweighs the latter. Still, there can be no doubt that we've got many more challenges ahead. We're in a marriage. Some days we love each other. Others we like each other. And there's some days when we just can't stand the site of one another. But, in the end, our life and our family stands upon the foundation of our relationship. And, although it crumbles from time to time and we have to keep packing the bricks in there, it's a strong one. 

KTNJ Forever & ever, Amen.....

Where Were You When

I was making sandwiches for the kids. Peanut butter and something. It was likely strawberry jam - the sweet jelly with fat, soggy berries that comes in the blue tub. But, it may have been honey, although it's less likely since that was a once-a-month-or-so treat. Or, it could have been a special peanut butter/banana day, one of the rare times when the on-the-side fruit goes in the sandwich. But, in all likelihood, it was a PB&J day. 

I methodically went about assembling sandwiches as Great White, the unmounted portable radio/television set, with the standard  junk-in-the-trunk look that spawned the nickname, blasted the morning's news. The clunker had occupied nearly all of the real estate on my laminate countertops as we moved it around from place to place when in need of the current plot . By lunchtime, Great White would likely sit elsewhere. The old 9" tv was once in color, but could now only be seen in black and white and the short antenna, assassinated by a cupboard, was useless. 

Most days, the broken-down, antiquated tv wasn't there to be viewed, anyway. I used to call it my white noise - the endless commercials, upbeat theme songs and silly back and forth between Regis & Kelly. But, really, there was much more to it than that. 

I was a stay-at-home-mom at the time, barely 29-years old, providing full time daycare to two babies - not toddlers, but babies, less than six months apart. Additionally, I took drop-ins and, more days than not, had an extra kid or two hanging about my house. My own kids were five and seven, although if I wanted to get technical, I could say that my youngest was actually one and three quarters due to his (good?) fortune to be born on leap year 1996. Either way, I was surrounded by kids all day long - the oldest, a seven year old who had barely given up the practice of kissing her school teacher goodbye. I had an amazingly high tolerance level and, while somedays I didn't love the job so much - I mean, it's not easy to change the poopy diapers of other people's kids all day long - I grew to love each and every child who came into my home. I was privy to some amazing things, and in my pseudo-parental role, I took part in first steps, I soothed through cutting teeth and I quietly rocked to sleep. It was beautiful. And, those years I call some of the best of my life. 

But, it's no surprise that I was lonely for some adult stimulation. For four years I had kept the company of children more frequently than that of those closer to my own age. I wanted to converse with someone whose nose I didn't have to wipe. I wanted to laugh hysterically with someone without worrying about waking another up. And, it was no picnic leaving the house - especially with two babies. (How does Octomom do it?) The television had become my noisy cohort, chatting away pretty much all day long, the endless voices from the kitchen.   

I could set my clock by my tv, although the only time I actually sat down to watch it was while I was folding clothes or serving up a bottle - two at a time, if our schedule wasn't going as planned. My morning ritual began at 6:30. The first child arrived at 7 and, before he did, I had breakfast and two lunches to prepare. 

Matt & Katie got us through breakfast and helped me send the kids off to school and tidy the kitchen. I had always adored Katie Couric. She was like a good girlfriend who comes over for a gab in the mornings while I'm in my pink fluffy robe flipping pancakes and filling up sippy cups. She just seemed real to me. She drove a minivan - the ultimate sign of Mommyhood - and I thought that was pretty cool, although I absolutely refused to do so myself. And she made me laugh at her banter with Matt, whom I favored only slightly less. (I was trying to let go of my judgement about Matt - after all, I'm sure his gorgeous wife was an absolutely wonderful woman. But, c'mon. He married a model. How cliche is that? I mean, he's cute, but he's not that cute...) 

Perry Mason joined us at lunchtime, adding his monotone voice and dramatic music to the mix in a kitchen full of noisy and excitable kids eating carrot sticks and singing ABCs. And, as the kids grew, I lessened his presence and began to make up stories for them about two little boys called Up-Chuck and Hi-Jack, based on real-life adventures from my own childhood. 

Oprah knocked at 4, ever punctual, urging me to get dinner going. I listened to her, she's a wise woman, you know. I enjoyed my hour with Oprah as I sauteed onions and chopped up potatoes. So much so that I often shared bits of the show with Jay at dinner that evening, always beginning with, "I was watching- well, listening, to Oprah while I was cooking dinner..." so that he understood that I wasn't living up to some stereotype about television and bonbons. How many times had he told me that I didn't have to say that and yet I always did, feeling that my job was so much less valuable than his. 

By the time the syndicated sitcoms were hitting channel 13, I knew it was dinner time and that Jay would be home soon. Parents had arrived, I had kissed chubby cheeks goodbye, and if it was Friday, I was paid. This was my life. And I was, for the most part, happy. I'll get in to the less part in another blog. But, all-in-all, life was good. And full of peanut butter sandwiches.  

So at 6:15 on this PB&J morning in September 2001, I had no reason to expect anything out-of-the-ordinary was about to happen, something that would come to change a nation: unite us in our grief and stir within a collective pride and passion for the country of our birth for so many of us.  

It was Katie who interrupted my sandwich making that morning. I had heard her trip up her dialogue before, tongue twisted and, sometimes, end up laughing aloud at herself. Never, though, had I heard her rendered speechless, as though she just had no clue what was going on and what on earth to say about it. And, it was that hesitation that made me look at the tv instead of merely listening to it, as I saw the horrific events of 9/11 play out. 

We all know what happened next so I'll spare the details here. Suffice it to say that for the next several days, with a sky void of planes, the citizens of our nation remained collectively glued to our televisions when at all possible. The sucker punch we took to the gut knocked us on our privileged and prideful asses, reminding us that as a country, we were indeed fallible. And we were heartbroken.   

Ashton took the War on Terror very seriously. He worked through his feelings with art, drawing detailed and graphic pictures - some that portrayed extreme methods of retribution, causing me to contact a child psychologist to make sure this was "normal." And, he became resolute in his feelings about being American, as - like so many others did, we stocked up on all things red, white and blue to show our support of our battered nation. And, when he was upset with me a day or so after 9/11, he stomped away toward his room as he yelled, certain that his words would hurt me, "I am not proud to be an American!"

Lauren was less affected by the turn of events - at least in the sense that it wasn't quite so personal to her. Patriotism became a fashion statement in her life and she and her friends actually giggled about killing Bin Laden, bringing me to teach them about the due process judicial system we have in place in America. That only served to anger them, and they couldn't understand why it was wrong to hunt down the dirty bastard that did this and kill him. And, I knew many who felt the same way.

The big black eye America was given eight years ago has brought about many changes - some of which have caused strife within our grand family of citizens. Too, within our home we have changed. The kids have come to a different understanding of the event as they age and, as we sat to watch a History Channel documentary on the topic last night, both resisted because it would make them cry. One of Ren's closest friends, half Arabic and quite often the victim of racial slurs, has brought a different point-of-view into our home, reminding us that there were so many victims in the horrific attacks. And, while today the kids have difficulties remembering a time when dinner was actually on the table at 6 pm, they will never forget the morning of September 11, 2001 when their innocence was frayed and they grew up just a little quicker than they should have.    

Forever My Babies...

Yesterday marked the first day of Ren's sophomore year in high school, and Ashton's, last year of middle school. For weeks - months even! - every nook and cranny of my home has been infested with stinky teenaged boys and high-pitched, hyperactive high school girls. My workplace had become Starbucks, mobile and temporary as I abandon my home office in search of a peaceful space to write. 

So I'm not going to lie; I've been counting down to the first day of school for awhile now, certain that I just might drop kick my lovely children out the front door if they don't hurry up and Get. Out. Of. My. House. NOW.  

Don't misunderstand me; I love my kids - I adore them, in fact. And, I'm thrilled to be the household of the group who hosts the friends, a calculated move that I learned from my parents. True, teenagers may be loud and annoying but when they're close, I can keep an eye on things.

But, after 80 plus days of "I'm bored" or "We have no food" or "You're such a brat!" or "Will you take me?" I'm ready to have some time alone. Besides, what's the golden rule about moderation? Oh, yes- all things in it, even kids.  

So, my home is quiet at last. And, you can bet I did the happy dance when the front door closed behind them yesterday. 

Of course, I'm a mom. I can't not recognize the reality of things and I am painfully aware that time is passing and things are changing. My babies are growing up, and they both delight in reminding me just how soon they will be driving or graduating or going to college. And, each time they do, I recognize that the younger versions of them are not likely to return to spend an afternoon at the park with me. And it's a little bit heart-breaking.  

Lauren, whom I fondly nicknamed Ren, once my blonde-haired, blue-eyed little girl with the permanently affixed smile, has suddenly become a gorgeous young brunette, rocking her own style, forming her own opinions, and loving and hating me equally at 15-years-old. Her art absolutely astounds me, and I'm very excited to watch how she uses her gift in her lifetime.  

 

Ashton, my baby and the temperamental child of the two, has outgrown both Ren and me - and, at 5'11" and just 13-years-old, is well on his way to trumping Jay's 6' 2" frame. This summer has brought new hobbies for Ash - some that I encourage him to pursue, others that I resist with quiet persistence. (Guitar, air-soft guns and horror movies, oh my!) He has grown into his own person, and his determination to be in a band as big as Metallica is just downright impressive as he practices drums, guitar and singing all day long. 

These bits of who Ren & Ash were, as much as the pieces of who they are today - from the day they came in screamin' right up until this very moment - are each parts of the whole of them. Sure, I miss reciting ABCs and singing lullabies and reading bedtime stories but you can bet I don't miss changing diapers, complicated car seats and questions that I truly have no idea how to answer. And, except for the last one, I can expect that I'm done with these types of things until Grandparenthood - which, God willing is a very long time away, indeed. But, my babies - no matter their age, will always be just that: my babies. 

6262

When I was growing up, the family joke was that we ran on "Mormon time", always late. My mother, with her trademark red lipstick in place, seemed always to be rushing, dropping a kid off here, picking another up there and running errands for a family of ten.  

Seems I have adopted this harried lifestyle, although daily I work to convince myself that there actually are enough hours in the day. But, here I am as usual, running a week behind on posting an homage to my mother on the fourth anniversary of her untimely death. And, since I'm well aware that pouring out my heartfelt thoughts about her will take much more than mere time, I decided instead to post the eulogy that I wrote in her honor and my sister Mary delivered at her funeral. While, after several years of growth as a writer, it absolutely pains me to post something without editing and updating it to my satisfaction, I'm going to go ahead and do it. 

This is for my Mama....  

Maureen Gail Neal

March 31, 1946 – August 27, 2005 

My mother, Maureen Gail was born March 31, 1946 to Joseph and Jane Donnelly in Long Beach, California.  Mom quickly learned responsibility as over the space of five years, her family grew by four additional children.  Her Policeman Father and Homemaker Mother raised her in a staunch Catholic home.  And although we have heard many stories, details about her early years are imprecise, as she preferred to talk as if her life began when she met Dad.

At the age of 14, Mom met the Love of Her Life, Terry Leroy Neal.  This was the start of a 44-year love affair.  The year was 1960.  While sitting in the bleachers at a football game, a friend of Dad’s boldly asked Mom for her phone number after persistently teasing her in the way that a teenage boy might.  His efforts resulted in a slap across the face.  Dad watched quietly, likely reveling in his friends discomfort and sure to take advantage of it.  He approached Mom and asked her what her father’s name was.  Unsure of what was up his sleeve, she gave it to him.  That was all he needed to locate her telephone number.  Charming, to be sure, she couldn’t resist his methods and accepted his invitation for a date.  The rest, as they say, is history. 

Like a Shakespearean tale, their parents mercilessly tried to keep them apart. As family folklore tells it, Dad and Mom ran away at the young age of sixteen, intent on being married in Las Vegas.  The connections that Grandpa Joe had within the Police Force were wide, however, and carelessness soon found them in the grips of the police. They were hauled off to the local precinct where their respective parents were contacted about retrieving their children. The next day Mom learned she was expecting a baby.  Dad was not informed of this news and instead found himself on a Greyhound soon after, shipped to the family farm in Oklahoma to keep him away from the girl he loved.  As was typical in those days, the shame and embarrassment that goes along with being an unwed teenage mother kept Mom bound to her home for nine long months.  Keeping the baby was not an option especially with the child’s father outside the state.  Unbeknownst to Dad, Mom suffered through her pregnancy alone and was subsequently forced to give the baby up for adoption.  Meanwhile, these two young and in love kids were able to get letters back and forth to each other through a mutual friend playing the role of the go-between.  Nearly a year later, Dad returned to California and quickly resumed a relationship with Mom, against their parent’s wishes.  Several additional attempts at marriage were unsuccessful.  Their fifth run took them to Mexico where they were finally able to marry.

Their parents realized that however determined their efforts, they were simply unable to keep these two apart and they gave Mom and Dad their reluctant blessing. 

Mom became Maureen Gail Neal on February 14, 1964.  Young and in love, and as the tale often goes with financially strained newlyweds, hardship set in.  Mom and Dad worked together to carve out a life for themselves against many odds.  Responsibility furthered with the birth of their first – yet, second – child, Natalie.  Dad has laughed that he and Mom had an extensive and ongoing disagreement about having another child so it was five years before the next pregnancy kick-started the Neal reproduction phenomenon that ultimately produced an additional six children. 

Mom and Dad decided to pursue happiness outside of California in 1968.  Our family relocated to the Great Pacific Northwest, permanently setting down roots in this pristine area of the country.  We settled in the quaint town of Graham, Washington where many life-long friendships were forged.  Friends have become family and are often included in our family photos.  We came to call close friends Andy and Rosemary Baudino, in fact, Aunt and Uncle.  Many other friendships made Graham the first real home in the Neal legacy and I see many of those people here today.

We rooted in Graham as a family, built a home that we still affectionately refer to as “The Graham House” and, with some permanence, spent our younger years here.  We became emotionally attached to our home and share fond memories even now of good times and silly childhood accidents.  Mom grew into her motherhood in this very special home.

Two very significant events took place in this small town called Graham.

The first occurred in late 1968, three months after relocating to the Evergreen State.   It was at this time that Mom and Dad were baptized as members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints after taking the missionary discussions.  This particular decision was a life-altering one and became the foundation in their otherwise shaky lives. Her faith in the Gospel became a driving force in her life instilling in her a devotion to become more than she knew how to be.  And more she did in fact become.  Mom’s baptism fundamentally changed her life on many levels.  Her convictions were strong and she worked hard to live her life in a way free of personal destruction and with a burning desire to return to her Heavenly Home one day with the understanding that her marriage and family were eternal as opposed to worldly. Friendships still flourishing were found in her church community or founded in her Gospel principals.  Mom made a profound difference in the lives of many people through her testimony, whether by introducing someone to the Church or acting as a Youth Advisor.  And while encouraging each of us to question our beliefs in order to find our own testimonies, in her quiet way she often made her standards known aloud to each of us. In death, she did not waiver in her convictions, she knew exactly what lay ahead of her and was comforted by the knowledge. Her devout commitment to the Gospel was simply put, beautiful.

The next event of significance came in 1978.  After the birth of Tim, our resident Caboose baby, we embraced a new family member, Kim Kelly, who came to live with us as part of the Washington State Foster Program.  She quickly became a daughter and a sister to all of us and remains so to this day - the ninth child, if you will.   Mom loved Kim and her family as though they were her own, and indeed referred to them as such.

The early 80’s found us relocated to beautiful British Columbia.  A move to a new country was especially difficult on Mom and strengthened her faith as a result.  It is not surprising that Mom and Dad walked away with life-long friends from Canada as well, again some found in this very room today. 

After only two short years our family moved to Colorado Springs, Colorado.  It was a short stay here, less than a year, and as life would have it, riddled with tragic events that literally changed the course of our lives and tested our faith as well.  Mom was certain that it was time to go home – back to Graham, Washington.  We moved back to Graham into our much loved home that held so many family memories for us, including a marriage Dad had performed for Mom’s sister, Peggy.   

We enjoyed the company of our dear friends once again but it proved to be short-lived as we faced another move after only two years.  We had no idea that the move to Oregon would be our last and that we would come to call it our home.

The summer of 1984 found us setting up house in what would become a very meaningful neighborhood, Oak Hills.  With Kim and Natalie both married and no longer living at home, Mom and Dad settled in with six children – four of them teenagers.  We quickly rooted our lives in our Church, school and neighborhood.  For the bulk of our family, the “Oak Hills House” in Beaverton became home. 

Mom and Dad did not leave the Beaverton area until 1997.  The relationships that they made have remained integral in both their children’s and their own lives.  Many of you here today have traveled from home, Oak Hills.

In her later years, Mom and Dad divided their time between their homes in the Caribbean and Oregon.  Not surprisingly, life-long friendships became out of a friendly hello in the island of St. Kitts in the West Indies.  In her last years, Mom and Dad moved to their beautiful and remote acreage in Sandy – affectionately called ‘the Mountain’ by her children. The quiet town of Sandy became Mom’s final home where they enjoyed a view of Mt. Hood that seemed to be pulled directly from a travel magazine. Mom loved quietly sitting on her porch until her last days.  

Mom was blessed to have spent many years on this earth with those whom she loved.  In her heart she held with her a single regret and, thankfully, was able to ratify the situation prior to her death.  As mentioned, Mom and Dad, being spiritual beings sharing a human experience, conceived a child many years ago and subsequently gave her up for adoption.  And although Mom and Dad went on to marry and forge an eternal family with eight additional children, she carried the loss of her baby Lynda Patricia with her for many years.  In her wisdom, she was able to regain her health and strength in the midst of her journey with cancer, knowing that she had one final mission here on earth.  Before she was able to take the step of contacting her first-born, however, her children beat her to the punch.  In July of this year, our family shared the joy of reuniting with our daughter and sister and welcomed her entire family into the fold.  There was no greater joy in Mom’s life than to know that all of her children have been united and are actively pursuing grounded and loving relationships.  Her mission on this earth had been completed. 

Mom learned that she had Esophageal cancer on January 5, 2005.  Shock and concern turned into hope as she bore the difficulties of radiation and chemotherapy.  She was fortunate to have Natalie living in her home, assisting as she was able.  Dad took the reins on the road to Mom’s recovery.  He went above and beyond, ignoring his own physical pain and medical needs.  Dad expressed his love to Mom every single day through his actions and as the fight wore on, he remained positive in his thinking.  Dad was not downtrodden and kept hope until the very end of Mom’s life.  Dad is likely unaware of the enormity of the gift he has given his children.  He has shown us all what honest, unabashed, real love is.  He has shown us how to serve. 

Maureen Gail Donnelly Neal succumbed to her cancer on August 27, 2005.  There was no more appropriate way for her journey to take place than with Dad by her side, reading aloud their favorite scripture from the Book of Mormon.

In her death, each of us has determined to see something beautiful and, fortunately for us all, inspiration is easy to find. 

Reflecting upon the many lessons we learned from Mom over the years, I’d like to share a few pearls of her wisdom with all of you. 

1.     Share in the responsibility.  Many a Saturday morning found the wiley Neal clan out in the garden pulling weeds, scrubbing bathrooms or cleaning the garage.  Mom instilled in us the value of hard work and pitching in to help one another out.  Of course, we weren’t always happy about it and when we complained, as we often did, Mom mocked that she had children so that there was someone around to take out the trash.  Mom did not fear an argument.

2.     Enjoy a good belly laugh.  Anyone who truly knew her knew that Mom had a great appreciation for humor.  Mom’s laugh started as a giggle, worked into an all out howl and ended in tears.  Therapy, she called it.  Sitting next to her at a funny movie was always a treat; often we would roll our eyes and apologize to those around us but secretly we admired that she had no fear of looking silly in the eyes of others.

3.     Appreciate a good sweet.  It was an abnormal dinner if it was not honored by a treat at the end.  In fact, a clerk at the local AM/PM came to call Mom ‘Butterfinger Lady’.  Mom had no fear of deserts.

4.     Change is good.  Looking through old photographs always reminds us of the “what was I thinking” hairstyles that we wish we could forget – especially for women.  In rummaging through photographs spanning 59 years, we stopped counting the different coiffed hairstyles and colors – from the blond bombshell to the foot-high brunette beehive – and laughed at Dad’s consistency.  Dad used to say that he felt like he had a new wife on his arm with every dramatic change.  Mom did not fear change.

5.     Try something new.  One spring afternoon Mom decided that she wanted a brick patio.  We arrived home from school to find her mixing mortar in the backyard and laying bricks, one upon the other, like an old pro.  Experience made no difference; she just did it.  In fact, in her 50’s alone Mom pursued Yoga, received her Scuba Diving certificate, obtained her Pilots License and took up quilting – some of which are on display in the foyer.  Mom did not fear a challenge.

6.     Express yourself.  All of the girls in our family today are wearing something special of Mom’s that showed who she was in her mortal life.  A bright scarf, a funky piece of jewelry, a loud shawl, or bright red lipstick with nails to match.  Mom had no fear of expressing who she was.  She said it loudly; she wore it proudly.

7.     Stand for your convictions.  When one child habitually skipped school, she decided that a possible course of action was humiliation.  She knew that being a parent to a teenager likely meant that she was the butt of every joke.  Embracing this, she proudly walked through the halls of Sunset High School, going to each class with said Troublemaker.  She did not fear 2,500 teens making jokes behind her back, she walked tall in her hot pink jogging suit.

8.     Love one another. Many times over the years when in the midst of an argument with a sibling we heard Mom singing aloud in her off-key voice, “Love One Another” or “We are a Happy Family”.   Mom often said that she was happiest in life when her children were getting along and felt honest pain when there was turmoil between us.  Mom had no fear of giving us guilt trips.  

The common strain in each of these lessons is her lack of fear.  And while I’m certain that as with anyone else, human nature often superseded her efforts, she didn’t allow fear to rule her decisions.  She understood that fear is a blockade in the road of life and carefully steered around it.  Overcoming her fear, Mom faced a teenage pregnancy alone.  Overcoming her fear, Mom picked up her family and moved many times.  Overcoming her fear, Mom sent eight fairly well adjusted children off into the world.  Overcoming her fear, Mom met and established a relationship with her first born.  And overcoming her fear, Mom quietly made the voyage to the Other Side before many of those who love her. 

The PIN number Mom assigned to her ATM card many years ago – and kept until her untimely death – was 6262, spelling out MAMA.  In life, motherhood was her greatest joy.  In death, it is her greatest legacy.

We will miss our Mama and look forward to meeting her again.

 

 

You ho...

...and you rake. You shovel and you ache. Wouldn't you rather roll 'n grow? 

I sure would. For months now my yard has been in a perpetual state of disarray, unkempt and unloved, scorned daily as we skirt the lumpy, browning lawn and untamed hedges to get to or from our cars. I could blame this on the severe heat or busy schedules or any other half-assed excuse I feed myself but I'm trying very hard to practice humonesty (humility & honesty) with myself these days. (A feat which, by the way, is not easy, finding me tripping up often, and relearning both. That, however, is best saved for another post.) 

So, in my quest to be humonest, I have to admit that we're pretty lazy in our household when it comes to going above and beyond, and the yard is only one sign of this. For example, my kids version of getting the dishes done is loading the dishwasher and wiping the counters. The kitchen may still look like hell with stacks of extras that couldn't fit into the dishwasher and stuck on food in the bottom of the sink but, darn-it, they did their job. And, I'm not much better; while I leave my kitchen spic 'n span, I would rather poke a fork in my eye than bring myself to do the hand washing. And, as for Jay, well, let's just say that he doesn't spend a lot of time in the kitchen unless there's something there waiting for him. :)

But, man, am I ever tired - we all are, and chores have, unfortunately, become the first casualty of our time-and-energy starved routine of life. 

Jay, feeling the brunt of our financial burden, has burrowed himself away at his office for 12-15 hours a day, doing whatever he can to keep us above water. Most moments of his day find his mind consumed with fear and worry for our future and, more often than not, he skips lunch or any kind of break, concerned that walking away for 15 minutes means that much less billing time. Mentally drained, he comes home each night and collapses on the couch with his dinner, clinging tightly to his remote, and easing into anyone's reality but his own as he seeks out shows like COPS, Speeders or American Jail- anything that serves up a little justice. 

For my part, I can't help but wish desperately that I was Samantha from Bewitched, twitching my nose to rotate laundry, vacuum floors and put clean sheets on beds. Forget about the six - yes, SIX - rooms in my house that are waiting in line for a fresh coat of paint in some new colors to dress up the place. And then there's the book I'm editing for a client (my Dad), the book I'm actually writing (that hasn't been touched since April), and two new start-up businesses. Did I mention that we're raising two teenagers and ever working to keep the sparks alive in our marriage? 

I'm all fulled up, honey. If I thought that trading off a small piece of time versus the repercussions of ditching the only real therapy that I have, would be a smart thing to do, getting rid of this blog would be a great place to start "finding" some time in my life. Instead, though, I'm starting with the yard, the last thing I see as I drive away and the first thing to welcome me home. 

I have never enjoyed gardening - it has always seemed like just so much work to me, although I have many friends who thrill in the whole process of it. And while I understand the fulfillment in literally seeing the fruits of your labor, my idea of gardening conjures up thoughts of back aches, sore knees and thorn-pricked fingers. And, of course, I can't ignore the black thumb that I have, it serves to kill nearly every living thing I've ever cared for for any length of time; It's a wonder my children have made it this long.  

So, in keeping with my criteria of a beautified yard without the fuss and cricked back, I decided to buy into the "it's just that easy" credo of infomercial land. The Roll 'n Grow offers me, not 1,000 but 2,000 seeds, a "miracle garden in a box" for a mere $19.99. The miracle comes from a biodegradable floral carpet packed with the embryos of flowers such as Baby's Breath, Scarlet Flax, Crimson Clover and more. Roll it out, water thoroughly and let nature do the rest, they say, and within weeks I am sure to have a beautiful garden. It's easy and fun, I am promised. Easy and fun? How could I resist? So, within the next two to six weeks my miracle will arrive at my doorstep.

Meanwhile, right now my blogging timer is buzzing incessantly, angrily yelling at me for cutting into house keeping hour. If anyone happens to see an infomercial for a miracle housekeeper in a box, let me know. 

The Opposite of a Rut is a Groove

Life, the Antagonist, has done the job well this year, pounding us with obstacles that have found my family in a collective depression, financially and otherwise. Today, though, it seems like we've crossed some invisible line that brings us a menial sense of balance; peace, maybe. I've lost the hopelessness that has percolated within me over the past difficult year, coming to a gregarious head within the past month and knocking me onto my Positive Pollyanna, chewy candy a**.

I had become the Cheerleader, spitting out positive words and phrases in a home consumed with a thick air of fear and concern. I struggled to find the best out of our difficult situation, sharing the roots of half-baked lessons with my children and grasping at absolutely anything that might suggest that our bare-boned humility was not in vain. I had become quite good at dispensing my self-professed "lessons" to rolled eyes and heavy sighs, and I'll admit that for the past several months, some days - when I didn't feel like being positive at all, I felt a very real pressure to keep it up, aware that I was helping my family stay afloat emotionally during a very rough time.

Last month we collectively hit a wall, each of us tired of the circumstances that lived with us, conversed with us, slept with us, ate with us and breathed with us. It was everywhere and in everything. We cried, we commiserated, we fought. We dwelt in our misery for more than a week, focusing on what was wrong, stressing about what could be, living in fear of the unknown.

One day last week, Ren said something to me that caused me to yank myself out of the rut of self-pity that I had found myself in. She said that she thought I was wise and that she loved my philosophy on life, as borrowed positive words and phrases spilled from her tongue. True, I could easily have gotten stuck on the fact that being called "wise" would often assume being old as well, but the words she said were somehow so beautiful that I let it go. I was amazed. My 15-year-old daughter was listening to me, and she was hearing me. I've never felt like more of a teacher than at that very moment, and yet I am actively engaged in being one to her every single day.

What was I teaching now, by shacking up with misery for the past two weeks, drop kicking my own advice down the highway? I had always taught her the importance of honoring her problems without remaining mired in them, reminding her that the only person who controlled any piece of that process was HER. But here I was, knee deep in the muck and talking my way deeper as I continually reiterated my negative circumstances instead of pulling myself up by the bootstraps.

Ren's words helped me get back to a solution-driven state of mind, inspiring me to rally the troops and call things to order! Time to move forward! Time to head on! Time to get up, brush off our chaps and get back on the damn horse!!

The dense atmosphere that dripped from our walls a week ago has today lifted, letting a bit of light in the place. Our circumstances are still present - and we have a long way to go, like most Americans in similar situations have - but we're choosing to go forward humbly and with gratitude, and to follow the light signaling the end of the very long tunnel.