After Scotland

My girl and I at Loch Ness

For the last year, my daughter and I have been focused on (with increasing degree) a trip to Scotland and England. When the trip was first announced, I wasn’t planning on going. It was a tour for her choir at church, and I thought it would be great for Emma to have some independence on her first international trip.

But as fate would have it, I was hired as a part-time project manager for the travel company that arranged the tour. Emma quickly had to say goodbye to her dreams of me waving tearfully from the wrong side of security; we would be traveling companions and roommates.

We both worked hard leading up to the tour—she had to learn the music as part of the choir from fall to summer before departure while I spent the year in correspondence and details for the 60 plus travelers in our group. And we both did a lot of fundraising events and pleas to family and friends, which was met by amazing generosity and kindness. Many people made this trip possible for Emma, and we are so grateful.

The pic of us here was on a rainy, foggy day, perfect for visiting Loch Ness. Other favorite locations included Stirling Castle, Rosslyn Chapel, and the home of Sir Walter Scott. It was quite an inspiring place to visit for a writer! We loved Edinburgh. I have been blessed to travel to places around the world and Edinburgh is a place I would gladly return to.

After the choir tour, Emma and I hopped down to London for a couple of days. I just had to get my theatre girl there. We took in a show, rode a double-decker bus for an overview of the city, and visited The Globe Theatre. Our review of London was favorable, but Edinburgh won out in the end.

Emma was visiting her dad for much of the summer before we left. As she departed, I had all of these visions of all the things I would get accomplished. I would continue to clean out the office closet; I would work on growing my new health and wellness business, and I would start learning Spanish.

Perhaps my goals were a bit ambitious.

The reality is that I hit a wall in the few weeks that Emma was gone. For one thing, I was starting to feel the fierce effects of losing a third of my income when a client changed course. These moments of financial stress are not new for me especially since the economy tanked several years ago, but they always result in the same life questions, “How did I get here?” and “What do I need to do with my career to keep us from this financial ledge?”

I had to begin to scramble—working every waking hour and more to keep us afloat. Bigger life questions started to surface as my exhaustion set in: “What do I want the next 5 years to look like?” and “How do I find the time and the opportunities to work on the things I’m most gifted and passionate about?”

At one point I was so hungry for answers that I fasted for three days. The answer that came was unexpected, but it was really about a bigger need in my life. All the while this personal exploration was occurring, the trip was looming. I realized with some wonderful counsel from those closest to me that many of my questions and answers would need to have an “after Scotland” label attached.

And so now, it’s after Scotland, and though I’m still recovering from jet lag and a bit of unexplained dizziness, I’m ready to peel back those labels. Underneath I imagine words like, “the future is now” and “it’s go time.” That may just be the dreamer and the romantic in me, but I know that change is on the horizon. I’m praying for continued wisdom and courage, along with financial and relational peace.

I’m ready for what’s next. I’m ready for “after Scotland.”

Clearing the Air

I wrote my last post in a narrative style because the story of that day, the day that my ex husband Chuck and I unexpectedly filed for divorce, was so bizarre and affecting. The imagery of kissing a man in the rain, a man you once would have done anything for, to say goodbye in essence has been a much-needed salve for my soul. When I think about that day, I’m so eternally grateful to have had it.

It was after lunch by the time we were finished at the courthouse. Chuck is a gregarious guy, and once the scene of the kiss passed, he quickly moved to the next space in time asking me if I wanted to have lunch.

Kissing your soon-to-be ex moments after filing for divorce and then going to the local pub for drinks and bar food might not be everyone’s story, but it is mine. We walked once again, sloshing about in the rain, our awkwardness with each other returning a bit. I don’t remember the name of the place we ended up at, but it was dark and inviting inside and exactly what we both needed.

We had a couple of hours before it would be time to get Emma, so we each ordered an adult beverage to smooth out the strain of the morning as well as some nice greasy fried and breaded food to soak it all up. And there in that cozy bar in downtown Baltimore, we talked like old friends.

The act of filing somehow released both of us to say some important things and to ask some nagging questions. It was so strange and yet so liberating all at once. We loosened up and laughed with each other, enjoying each other’s company for the first time in a very long time.

Before we knew it, it was time to pick up our girl from school, and a deep sadness was in the air as we got up and gathered the still dripping umbrella. Maybe we were both thinking the same thing: why hadn’t we talked like this before now, while there was still a chance?

It’s not that we didn’t try to talk things out. Of course we had major conversations before that day, many filled with tears, harsh words, and difficult, unanswered questions. But we had gotten so far away from the connection that allowed for healthy, open dialogue. Yet somehow that day, the connection made in a dusky dive temporarily fused us together again.

I like to think if Emma’s school pick up hadn’t taken us out of that time that we would have sat there for a lot longer, talking, reminiscing, and enjoying the company of each other. The result would not have been different; our marital relationship was already dead. Chuck had a fiancée by then, and the wedding date had been set.

Our kiss that day was not one of romance or desire. It was a kiss that said so much more, a suspension for a few seconds of everything that was wrong between us and the start of a new chapter in our story.

Last Kiss

We stood under the big umbrella, closer physically than we had been in years. The rain was appropriately relentless and unceasing that day. I looked up into the eyes of a man I once knew, or thought I knew. In some other moment I would have looked away, denying my true feelings to show. But it didn’t matter now; we had both cried together only moments before in the cold marble building behind us.

We were up at the courthouse to see if everything was in order with our paperwork. We didn’t have lawyers. Most of the time we weren’t that contentious with each other. After the drama died down, we had worked things out over time with a mediator.

He had suggested on a whim that we go downtown together. With Emma dropped off to school, we rode together leaving us with no autonomy, dependent on each other’s good graces as we traveled on the same road.

The public lawyer assigned to the court to field legal questions would only meet with one of us. He couldn’t play both sides of the coin and give counsel to each party. We took a few moments and conferred on our questions, and I let him go in. He was the one with a deadline.

I sat for what seemed like quite a while, my nervous stomach reminding me that this unexpected trip downtown had denied me breakfast. But only a few minutes had really passed, and he was back out with a strange look on his face. Did I see a tinge of happiness or was it simply an expression of resolve?

“We can file today if we want.”

The words like stones filled my empty stomach and added so much weight I couldn’t stand for a moment. I think he sensed that, and rather than seem too eager, he sat down next to me and repeated himself.

“We can file today if we want.”

I think I muttered “Okay” or something benign. Awkward silence filled the space until a bit of normalcy returned, and we deduced that with this unexpected news neither of us had the cash needed for the filing fee. Somehow we located our bank was within walking distance. We headed out in the storm, right into the finality of what each subsequent action would bring.

I was numb at the bank. Small talk was offered up but for my part I couldn’t seem to navigate around the unspoken pain. The pain that I was sure didn’t matter anymore.

Back at the courthouse on the second floor into a tiny window with a slot at the bottom, we took our turns passing our packets of paper to the clerk on the other side.

“The fee is $58.”

58 dollars to end it all. It seemed too cheap, much too cheap.

The cost split in half, our currency joined together as the last act of marital agreement we would make.

I couldn’t stand afterward, so I sat on a wooden bench near the elevators. He leaned against a wall opposite the bench, tears rolling down each of our faces. I didn’t look at him for a while. Everything felt like a train coming on steadily, and one I couldn’t stop, the destination decided by the restraint of painful tracks that had been laid down for years.

I was surprised and grateful that he was crying too. We both took part in the death of us, and that was no light matter.

Without words we gathered ourselves, and headed back out, his arm around my shoulder as we stepped outside.

We stood under the big umbrella, closer physically than we had been in years. The rain was appropriately relentless and unceasing that day. I looked up into the eyes of a man I once knew, or thought I knew. In some other moment I would have looked away, but it didn’t matter now; we had both cried together only moments before.

I looked up at that man, kindness and confusion on his face. He bent down gently for one last kiss.

Test drive

I mentioned in my last post about revirginization that I was shocked by a certain discussion that my Divorce Care class had around the topic of sexuality. The group met over 12 sessions, and for the session on “what to do about sex while separated or in the midst of divorce,” our usual mixed group of men and women ranging in ages of early 30s to 60s was altered. Like grade school kids, we were divided—ladies in one room with a female leader and men in another room with a male leader—so that we could address the topic more openly and without fear of expression in front of the opposite gender.

This session we started right in on the video. I thought maybe it was to break the ice or something. Staring at a glowing screen watching other people talk about sex would give us permission to talk about it with each other, right? As I watched, my mind was actively wondering what discussion time would be like. I imagined long awkward silences and shy smiles as we all avoided eye contact. I was so very wrong.

Some of our meetings understandably were hard. Many of us choked back tears on more than one occasion as we shared our failed relationship stories that brought us to Divorce Care. But all my assumptions about sex being a taboo topic at church were swept rapidly away in that particular hour. In fact, when our leader opened up the floor for dialogue, it was like something had been unleashed.

Some context: I was one of the youngest people in the room in my 30s at the time. The church and the program of Divorce Care were both decidedly conservative in nature. So nothing could have prepared me for the exuberant waterfall of information that was about to fly from the women in that room, some of who were close to double my age.

Discussion time started, and a common theme of how bad these women had it in their married sex lives rose to the surface quickly with many jumping in rather freely and offering details. One lady talked very openly about how just after her divorce, she met a much younger man and “an adult vacation” with him for two full days. Everyone seemed to be on the same page as the testimonials rolled out, one after another, and I could almost hear the “amens” as I saw pursed lips and nodding heads in agreement and recognition.

I was baffled into silence. I don’t have any trouble chiming in or speaking my mind in most situations, but I was shocked by what I was hearing. Being one of the two youngest people in the room, it felt like I was with my mom and all her friends and listening to their worst bedroom secrets. These were women sporting cat sweatshirts and carrying large Bibles, and they were tripping my head out with the things they were saying about very private matters.

The din was dying down a bit as the session was coming to a close. In the semi-quiet a crowning statement made from one of the saucier ladies in the estro-circle, “I tell you what. I am not having a bad sex life if I get married again. I may just have to take him for a test drive. You know what I’m saying?”

Everyone else: resounding agreement.

Me: jaw on floor.

Revirgin is an awkward word

When I was going through divorce, this admittedly awkward word “revirgin” came up at one of my Divorce Care meetings. Divorce Care is a wonderful program to help those going through separation and divorce, and it was particularly helpful for Emma and I because there was a special session for kids that met at the same time the adults did.

The sessions provided both practical and emotional support as we addressed things like single parenting, finances, grief, and faith. Materials included a workbook with homework, videos with divorcees, pastors, and counselors providing testimonials and advice, and discussion led by a leader from our church. One of the meetings was focused on the hot topic of sexuality.

Ultimate Virgin: Mary depicted in a Greek mosaic from Israel

That week’s video mentioned that those who go through divorce could experience a revirginization, or a time where God renews and restores the sexual part of our life. I really didn’t know what to make of the term “revirgin.” And the discussion that ensued after the video was no less than shocking to me. (That story is for another blog.)

Interestingly enough, there is also surgical revirginization for women. I will not go into the details here. Basically, like a boob job, you can get a lady part job that makes you a faux virgin. A bit weird, but it’s yet another thing one can Google, so there you go.

Until the last two or three years, I guess I have been a bit ambivalent about sexuality. My fresh awakening has come through my boy crazy teenage daughter. But for myself, I also have this new respect and perspective for virgins and “revirgins.”

Part of that respect is from reading Lauren Winner’s book Real Sex. I resonate with the intelligent approach she takes in the book. It’s not filled with Christian idealism as a way of looking at the issue. She’s open and honest about the struggles she has had with sex and purity, and as an Episopal priest, she asks some good questions about how the church is handling the subject.

Looking back to my married life, I know that did not understand the value of sex. Learning that has been eye opening, and these days I talk about it with my married and single friends quite openly. Cultural pressures make it hard to have a healthy view of sexuality, perhaps especially as a single person. But I don’t think enough weight and time is spent on the fact that an unhealthy sex life in marriage erodes many relationships to the point of death.

Virginity and certainly being a revirgin is a state of mind and perspective. I read a great article by Fr. Ronald Rolheiser that says, “…virginity is living in such a way that there are certain areas of our personality and life which are revered and sacred and which are then shared only within a context which fully respects that sacredness.”

I think many of us long for that sacredness. After trying to do it our way or after succumbing to the way of the world and throwing away some of the best parts of ourselves, we eventually (though many years and mistakes may pass) long for something different.

Rolheiser deepens the thought: “To be a virgin is to live in tension, unfulfilled, longing, waiting for a time in the future when one will be fulfilled.” And that’s not something to just be applied to sexuality, but all of life.

Maybe it’s because as a writer I’m a lover of story, but that hopeful tension of expectancy is awesome. I lost sight of it for a while as I tried to soothe my grief with stupid impatience and cheap fun, but I’m glad to say that that expectancy is back in my life.

We may have been conditioned by the instant gratification and relativism surrounding us, but I’ve come to realize we all have a chance at renewing the sacred in our lives and becoming “revirgins” again. And we don’t even need surgery.

Beware of the fanny pack

You secretly want this fanny pack.

So…internet dating. I’ve had a lot of friends tell me I should try it. I know that some people have found their perfect someone online. I hear that like 1 in 4 people meet that way now or whatever. But I decided a long time ago, it’s not for me.

It just seems like online shopping for a guy to me. And the personality profiles, ugh. I’m 40. I know how hard I am to live with; my standards are ridiculously high for myself and that trickles down into all my relationships. The strong woman thing that I have? Men say they like that, but no. Not really.

I think men like the idea of a strong woman who wants things to be equal in a sort of feminist way. It’s not really about not holding doors open or anything; it’s more of a “your turn to do the dishes” or a “women can take out the trash too” kind of thing when it is actually lived out in a relationship.

I was so strong when I was married that I ultimately felt alone. I was always filling in the gap and putting the preverbial pants on, and I shouldn’t have. I should have let my husband be more of the head of the household. I should have encouraged him to be the man. Really.

It may sound funny or old fashioned, but that was one of the lessons I learned after I divorced. I hope to put the lesson into practice if I’m ever married again.

But not through finding someone on the internet. No, definitely not.

For several years I traveled to Mexico with a couple of dear girlfriends. It was such a gift to be able to relax and have time with other adults. Those were the years of separation and I was just learning about single parenting, so the time away really did recharge me.

One of the first years we went to Mexico, we met another group of women, all similar in ages to us. I cannot remember their names, but we hung out very casually at the pool or would stop to talk to them if we ran into each other in town.

These fellow travelers seemed to be like us–friendly, fashion forward, generally happy, and with some common sense. But one of the women in the group was going to meet the man she had been internet dating for a few months. Right there in Mexico they were meeting for the first time.

Well, we couldn’t miss it for the world! They had planned to be very low-key about it. He would come to the pool where she was with her friends. Safe, public, and she clearly had the advantage. All afternoon we laid in the sun and waited for the grand arrival.

Before we knew it, the man of the hour appeared. We’ll call him Danny for our story’s sake. Danny stood at the main entrance to the pool and looked around. We all shushed a bit wondering if this was him.

Honestly in my group our eyes had grown big at the sight of Danny. He was a handsome fellow, really he was. But he had made some interesting wardrobe choices. He had a nondescript t-shirt on, thank goodness. Below that was neon shorts, very short shorts made of that nylon that crinkles, not the good kind. Shorts that were more like flaps on either side of the body covering admittedly a nice physique.

Then the eye was drawn to the feet wearing colorful crocs. I’m sorry, but grown men and crocs? But the true crowning glory was sitting at his waist. Yes, he had a fanny pack on.

Now, I’m not really that petty or shallow. And I’m not saying I haven’t made some wardrobe errors in my 40 years on this earth. The real point is do you think that the lady waiting for Danny had any clue he even owned a fanny pack? No. She couldn’t have.

And that is why I have never tried internet dating services. If that fanny pack was there all along, yet hidden, think of all the other things you the lady in waiting didn’t see from his profile or that didn’t come up while they were chatting online.

Beware of the fanny pack folks, and anything else you can’t see!

 

VDay

Sparkly love

I used to call Valentine’s Day “VD Day.” If you don’t know what that means kids, Google it or something.

I know it wasn’t very nice to add that extra “D”, but as a divorced single mom Valentine’s Day has been a weird day for me for some time now. When I was going through the serious thick of it all several years ago, I shared my angsty title for the day with a good friend. He was so on my planet. He surprised me by calling my voicemail to sing the “VD song.” I had never heard it until that day.

I’m not going to share the lyrics here. You know what to do…Google it or something.

It was cathartic and healing to have a friend who, instead of wallowing in the pain of lost love with me, made me smile at a silly song some middle-schooler probably made up. And just about every year since then he has called to sing that song on my voicemail. I hope his new wife doesn’t mind!

From my recent perch at 40, that warm gushy love of my youth just seems so far out of reach. I was talking about it with a friend yesterday. She was recounting how fun and free the beginning of her relationship was with her beau. Now they are married with two children.

I’m NOT saying they can’t be fun and free anymore now that they have children. But all parents know that it simply takes a bit more intentionality for two people who love each other to have an evening to focus on, well, each other.

For me, this month marks living alone for 9 years. For 9 years, I have approached 2/14 with various states of unrest. But this year, the year of 2014, the house is decorated with a few hopeful cut-out hearts and a sparkly L-O-V-E sign, and I have slid into Love Day feeling immensely blessed.

I have had my eyes opened to the love all around me: in a giant card that arrived all the way from California, in a bag of candy with chocolate and peanut butter combinations, and in a belated birthday gift with perfectly timed bath salts, wine, and this little bright strand of lights.

It showed up in my teenager noticing when I really needed a hug this week, and in her helping A LOT around the house as I juggle some big deadlines and stress.

Love Ninjas

The love showed up last night in probably the perfect Valentine post from Glennon Melton of momastery.com as posted on my Facebook wall by a dear friend (all single parents must read it with a box of tissues nearby).

Love is on it’s way even as I type this because my best friend in the world is driving several hours just to see me tonight. And we are going to go eat sushi or Chinese or both.

I may not deserve all this love, but I’m so grateful for it. So on this VDay, (extra D excluded) I hope your eyes are open to the love around you. It can be in the smallest and grandest of things, but it is always I’m finding these days, more readily available than I ever knew.

Oh! I think I have an annual voicemail to check.

Happy Valentine’s Day!

A beginning…

The other night my daughter Emma and I were talking, and I can’t remember exactly how we got there in our conversation, but before I knew it we were talking about the day her dad and I filed for divorce. In her younger years, I had answered questions about that day carefully, avoiding anything that might upset her. But this time, I was the one tearing up, the memory coming back so strong that she apologized for bringing it up.

It wasn’t an average day the day we filed for divorce. Every time I recall it, I remember how the day was filled with deep sorrow but also connection, a renewal of honesty, and very surprisingly tenderness.

And that is a story I want to tell here because after I got the courage to tell Emma the toughest and most beautiful parts about that day, the very first thing that came out of her mouth was, “You should write about it.”

And that thought, that admonishment, rang true in my head. Some of my favorite writers like Shauna Niequist, Anne Lamott, and Jeff Goins talk about how writers like me just need to tell our stories. We love a good story, don’t we? We never tire of stories and the ways they intersect and resonate with our own lives. But even when they don’t, that intrigues and informs us too.

So here I am. Starting at a place I’ve never been, to talk about some of the crazy, silly, eye-opening, hard and wonderful things I’ve come to find about life and love.

I’m 40. It’s a new year and an old me, and I’m ready to write about some of the ways God, and the best friends in the world, and my family, and yummy food, and fabulous exercise all have helped me get to 2014.