Happiness

I took SR (2 y/o) for a walk tonight and we stopped in the middle of campus for a little bit. We sat on a bench, looking at the buildings and the mountains. I asked SR what makes him happy (he's the smartest, most mature 2 y/o I have ever met- in ALL my time of working with kids). He told me, in order- 1. JoJo (the stuffed elephant I have in my car for him); 2. His Water (that he was drinking at that very moment) and 3. His James (the toy train engine he was driving up and down the bench). I told him I was very glad he was happy.

A few minutes passed and SR turned to me and said, "Miss Megan, what makes you happy?" I don't know if it was his maturity, the question itself, or something else, but I, of course, immediately get choked up. Finally, I calmed down, thought about it, turned to SR and said, "You. You make me happy. The mountains make me happy. The sunset. This moment. Everything about this moment."

And as we started walking back to his house, I realized how true my words were. Nothing made me happier than that very moment we were living in. Nothing was better than sitting there on campus, with SR sitting next to me, staring at the sunset and the mountains. What could possibly ever beat that moment?


The beauty of living in each moment is that nothing that has come before and nothing that may come after can ever beat that exact, specific moment.

An Open Letter

Dear boy at the airport,

I noticed you on the Denver to Cleveland flight, sitting with your dad at the back of the plane. You were behaving so well- reading your book and then watching TV. You sat quietly, you didn't wiggle, you didn't bother anyone. (You were behaving better than I was!) Something exciting must have happened on your show because you turned to your dad with a huge smile and he so meanly told you to "knock it off." I watched the smile disappear from your eyes, as well as your lips*. In my seat, I closed my eyes and I wished you well.

I saw you again in the Cleveland airport, our connecting flights going out of the same gate. Your flight was canceled and the airlines were going to put everyone onto a bus. Your dad was furious. He hollered at you for not walking fast enough to the counter. He hollered at the airline personnel for having to take a bus. He hollered and he hollered, holding your arm in a tight grip the entire time. I watched as you stared at your feet-not daring to look at him or anyone around you. For ten minutes you stood perfectly still, your dad's hand on your arm, not saying a word.

And I stood and watched. I watched this scene and I worried for you. But I didn't say or do anything. I wish I had asked you about your book and movie, had found out what had made you smile. I wish I had asked you your age, or where you were from, or what you liked to do. I wish I had asked your dad to lighten his grip on your arm. I wish I was brave enough, or that it felt right enough, for me to come talk to you.

I would have told you that you seem like an intelligent, sweet, well-behaved kiddo. I would have assured you that we all crave our parents' attention and affection and told you that you aren't alone in that. I would have said that for some kids, it doesn't matter how well-behaved or good enough they are- some parents act that way no matter what. I would have stressed that you have your whole life ahead of you and that there will be people who are interested in what you do and say, who won't be mean or hurt you, and I would have told you that you are so special- if for no other reason than that you're a part of this world.

A week after our encounter, I'm still thinking about you. I'm wishing you well and sending the best thoughts a person can in your direction. I hope that wherever you were heading then and wherever you are heading in your life that there is a person to greet you with kindness on the other side.

M.


"You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should."
-Max Ehrmann



*I recognize much of this letter is conjecture.

From "Friday Night Lights"

"Two years ago, I was afraid of wanting anything. I figured wanting would lead to trying and trying would lead to failure. But now I find I can't stop wanting. I want to fly somewhere in first class. I want to travel to Europe on a business trip. I want to get invited to the White House. I want to learn about the world. I want to surprise myself. I want to be important. I want to be the best person I can be. I want to define myself instead of having others define me. I want to win and have people be happy for me. I want to lose and get over it. I want to not be afraid of the unknown. I want to grow up and be generous and big hearted, the way that people have been with me. I want an interesting and surprising life. It's not that I think I'm going to get all these things, I just want the possibility of getting them. College[/Graduate School] represents possibility. The possibility that things are going to change. I can't wait."

-Part of Tyra Collette's (Adrianne Palicki) college essay

"I've Got You..." For S.B.

When I was younger (alright, fine, until I was like 20), I always had one close friend and then a bunch of others who lived on the periphery. I thought that I only needed one because that one person could be everything I needed. I unfairly expected that my one friend could be it all- the listener, the partier, the caregiver, the fun one, the wise one, the sporty one, the smart one- everything I needed all rolled into one. How hard it must have been to be my friend, to feel as though you had to be everything, instead of just who you were.

Luckily, as I grew into my twenties, I realized that it's important and natural to have a group of friends. That each of us is meant to fill a role, sometimes more than one, in our friendships. But we're not meant to fill all the roles at one time. I've come to value my friends for who they are and for what each of us a brings to our friendship. I have the friend I turn to when I need a fun night out (L.C.); the one I go to for the mundane, every day parts of life (L.M.); the person who is as dorky and book-loving as I am (M.R.; S.W.; T.B.); the friend who has been around forever (J.S.); and the person I can turn to with everything and anything (S.B.).

S.B. and I went out for coffee today and while we were sitting there chatting, I started thinking about how blessed I am to have her in my life. She gets me in a way that makes our friendship feel so easy to me. We share some of the deepest conversations I've ever had with anyone, yet nothing feels like work. There is no heaviness there. Every time I leave our dates, whether we were serious or silly, I feel lighter, more confident in myself, understood, and loved. She takes me for everything I am and she loves me for it. Now, I'm not saying that my other friends don't do this, they absolutely do, but I feel like this is the main role S.B. plays in my life. She's the friend I turn to when my world is upside. She's the one I text when I need to complain. She's the one who listens to me ramble and makes me feel heard. Somehow, through our conversations, I walk out the other side changed. Better. More whole.

When I first saw this dance routine (as all my posts appear to stem from SYTYCD), I immediately thought of S.B. Not the romantic, sexual parts of the dance, but the message behind it all. The idea that someone's "got you." That someone will be there even before I fall.

S.B.- I love you and am so blessed to have you in my life.

This could really be a good life...

Into the Light or the Darkness?

I love the show "So You Think You Can Dance" for many reasons. For starters, I have no rhythm, can't hear a beat, and therefore suck at dancing, so I love watching others do what I cannot. More importantly, I love the way that the combination of music and movement can speak in ways that words cannot. As much as I am a words person, I firmly believe that sometimes there are limits to what words can convey and that sometimes our bodies must do the talking.

I have a long, long list of routines from all the seasons of SYTYCD that I adore, and most of them are contemporary pieces that reach beyond my mind and into my soul. When I saw the piece in the clip above for the first time, the hairs on my arms raised, my stomach twisted in the tell-tale way, and I started to cry. Perhaps part of it is Dee Caspbary's way of explaining the meaning behind the routine. Perhaps some of it is the way the dancers fulfill his vision. Perhaps it is because I so deeply understand the struggle when being pulled between the darkness and the light.


As someone who has struggled with depression for most of her life, I know how difficult it can be to move out of the darkness. Depression has a way of wrapping her tentacles around you and keeping you weighted down to the bottom of the sea, to the part where light has no chance of ever reaching.

It can be so, so scary to venture out from the darkness after you've lived there for so long. As Marko explains in the video, "I want to go towards the light, but I don't know what's under the light." When you've existed in a place where everything is nuanced, where darkness is comfortable because it is known, when you feel punished every time you allow the smallest part of you to tentatively tiptoe into the light, it is so easy to give up even trying. It becomes so much easier to just stay where the light cannot reach because you cannot be hurt there- at least not in ways you do not already know.

I've been lucky in that I've had loved ones (who both do and do not understand depression) who were willing to reach into the pain and the blackness and the hopelessness and the soul crushing weight of depression to try and help me back into the light. Sometimes they have not succeeded. Sometimes I have pulled them into the darkness with me. But sometimes- through their understanding, their patience, their ability to remain in the light while still holding my hand, in my darkness- I have been willing to venture into the light.

Though in this dance routine, the darkness wins, I have been blessed in my life that sometimes, even if only for a moment, the light wins and I am able to experience life on the other side.

From Winter 2004

"Just Afraid"

We were afraid of everything: poison ivy, a case
of the flu that would leave us in the house for
days, stitches, toothaches, that funny word-Alzheimer's,
that made Grandma forget who we were, measles, chicken pox
that might leave scars. We were afraid we'd

step on a crack and break our mother's back, dying
if we didn't hold our breath past cemeteries, that we'd
walk past a black cat or under a ladder, spilling the salt
on the table, smashing a mirror and having seven years
of bad luck, the number 13, especially Friday the 13th,
especially home alone on Friday the 13th.

We were terrified of the skin-headed, tattooed, Johnny boys
who threw rocks through our windows and burnt
fish behind the bushes next to the lake, tornadoes that would
come during softball games, ants on our blankets at picnics,
Barbie dolls that lost heads, arms, and legs. We were afraid of

having bad grades because our parents would yell at us,
afraid of good grades b/c kids would make fun of us,
getting fat, so we watched what we ate and made sure
to exercise, what we did when our parents didn't see
but God did, of what to say in confession, of what He would do
if we didn't tell Everything.

We were once terrified of cooties, but then wanted kisses.
Were afraid of getting caught playing doctors with the boys
next door, caught sneaking out of the house, caught playing
spin the bottle behind the garden. We were scared that our first kisses
were with girls, that we wanted to wear short skirts and show off
our emerging breasts, that we b/c we left lipstick kisses
on many faces, other girls would call us whores.

We were afraid of our parents' angry voices
that filtered through our bedroom doors as we lay huddled
underneath the sheets in the dark, the sound of dishes hitting
the wall. Terrified of asshole, and bitch, and you mother-fucking-bastard.

We were afraid
that one of the times dad left
he really wouldn't come
back,
and when he didn't come back,
we were afraid.
Just afraid.