Daddy’s little girl

It was Christmas morning. The air was so thin in our house that no matter how deeply I tried to breathe it felt like I couldn’t get enough air. I bought my dad a blue sweatshirt that said, “World’s Greatest Dad,” even though I knew he would never wear it. He opened the box and smiled and said, “Well, I guess I can’t do any better than that.” It was the first thing I had heard him say in weeks. Two days later he died of lung cancer. I was 15 years old.

I remember the sound of the zipper going up on the bag they closed around him. I looked out the window and watched them carry him to the big black car that had pulled into our driveway. I listened to my mother’s sobs in another room. I couldn’t decide what was worse; the death of my father or the anguish of my mother. I thought my prayers had not been answered. There must not be a God.

Seventeen years later, I was driving to the Adirondack Mountains to a cabin by myself. I was leaving my home that was sick with the disease of alcoholism. I was not the one drinking and yet I was every bit as sick with the disease. I tried controlling, enabling, manipulating and lying. I twisted myself inside out to make things better and hide our secret from the world. None of it worked.

As I was driving I felt hopeless, lost and afraid. Again, I thought that my prayers were not being answered.

I looked up at the sky. Is anybody there?

I rounded the bend and suddenly there stood before me the most magnificent white capped mountain, still and powerful with its presence. I had to pull over. I looked at this beautiful mountain, so much bigger than me, and I was aware, with every part of my body, that I was not alone. I knew there was a power greater than myself. There was a higher power that made that mountain. There was a higher power that made me and was a part of me. I was so overcome with gratitude and love, and a calm sense of acceptance washed over me. Deep inside, I knew that everything would be okay no matter what.

Today I feel really close to my dad even though he is not here in physical form. In many ways I do not feel like I “lost” him at all. Our relationship has just changed. I believe that everything that happens in my life serves a higher purpose, even when I do not understand why. I believe it is often the darkest times that bring us to the greatest light. I believe that moment by moment, life is unfolding perfectly, just as it is supposed to. I am so grateful for my life filled with amazing highs and devastating lows and every beautiful, peaceful, and uneventful day in between.

I want to send out big heaps of gratitude for all of the lovely readers who have visited this blog and supported this tribe. This is my last post on Roots of She. It has truly been my honor to share my stories with you. With much love, Lori


Bustin’ out

I don’t know how old I was, but I distinctly remember when my mom started looking at my boobs, telling me that they were growing, and that I would need a bra soon.

What? No, thanks.

I had no interest in any talk of growing boobs and bras. Now, I imagine many of you have wonderful stories of boob love where you joyously felt grown-up and beautiful in your first time bra. I imagine mothers and young pre-teenage daughters skipping hand and hand with shopping bags full of pretty lacy bras, both so proud of this new rite of passage.

That was not me.

I avoided all conversations with my mother regarding my breasts. When I think about it now, I was actually kind of ashamed and embarrassed. I did not want any one looking at or discussing my chest. Thankyouverymuch. One day my mother told me that this was it, they had grown too big and now I HAD to wear a bra. I must have fought her on this because all I remember is her completely exasperated, saying was something like; “Did I want her to strap a board to my chest?” I remember feeling confusion. What? That’s mean. Why is she so mad? Can you really do that? Would that stop them from growing? I thought that maybe if I slept lying on my chest they would get flatter (the board effect.)

My best friend at the time was “flat.” I was so jealous. She was jealous of me. Why would you want these? I could never understand why women wanted boob jobs to make them bigger. Small boobs are lovely.

As I am writing this I am thinking about the sad and tired bra I am wearing right now. Maybe this is TMI, but I think it is time that I go bra shopping again. Maybe I need a re-do of that horrific first bra shopping experience once and for all.

Maybe I should only wear gorgeous bras (hot pink! black lace!) that carry my breasts with honor and love.

Maybe I should talk to my younger-girl self and say this:

Honey, Honey, Honey.
Sweet, beautiful girl.
Your body is perfect
just the way it is.

Maybe now I finally believe that is true.


Girl talk


Your Friendship

One of my favorite things about women is our ability to pierce through the chit-chat to get to what is really going on in our hearts.

Conversations with close girlfriends can be deep and true. I have a few girlfriends with whom I can reveal the darkest parts of myself and know that I will still be accepted and loved just as I am. This, in turn, helps me to accept and love myself as I am. The way I treat my closest friends with compassion and understanding no matter what, also teaches me how to be a good friend to myself. I believe this connection spreads out into the world, showing me the light and sweetness in people I do not know at all.

A few days ago, I was talking via Skype with a woman from Australia, Justine, who I met through her blog, Inner Adventures. She wanted to talk to me a little bit since she will be writing a paragraph to introduce me when I am featured on her website.

It didn’t take us long before we got right into talking about our partners, divorces, therapy, kids, dreams, passions, and disappointments. We cracked up with laughter. We covered a lot in a short time. We connected as women do- soulfully and powerfully. She was completely delightful, zillions of miles away, we had never talked before, and yet I clearly had a heartfelt connection to her.

In the media, friendships between women are often portrayed as caddy and insecure. My experience is that friendships between women are full of depth, gentleness, grace and wisdom. Girlfriends listen empathetically with their hearts wide-open. They are not afraid to hear pain. A friend holds the painful stories of other women, quietly and lovingly. This makes the pain lessen and love grows stronger. Girlfriends create a safe place to share heartbreaks, jealousies, anger and fear without being judged or criticized.

My girlfriends teach me over and over that I am okay just as I am, even when, in my darkest moments I am certain that I am not.

They remind me that I am always loved, no matter what.


Sending blessings


Sending Blessings


May your heart be warm.
May you be filled with joy.
May you shine.
May you feel loved.
May you be well.

Once in a while I send silent blessings out to people I do not know.

Like to the person in front of me when I am standing in line at the store.
May you be well. May you be happy. May you have peace in your heart.

Or to each person in the waiting room of the doctor’s office.
May you be healthy. May you have candlelit dinners. May you live in luxury.

I forget to do this all the time, but when I remember, sending blessings fills me up with love and makes me remember the importance of my words and thoughts. It helps remind me, once again, that we are all connected and that I cannot send blessings to others without also sending them to myself.

Wishing you mountains of blessings this weekend,
xo,
Lori


Love is coming home


Love is Coming Home to You

My husband once said to me, “You start a lot sentences with, “I’m afraid….”

I do?

I do. Or, I did.

That was a big moment of awareness for me of how I was living my life unconsciously.

About 10 years ago, I went through a stage of intense anxiety and panic attacks. I called it, The Red Face. Anxiety would sweep in unannounced and wash over my body, from my head to my feet, turning my face and ears incredibly hot and deep red. My heart would race. I would become embarrassed about the red face and confusion would set in. During the middle of the worst anxiety attacks, my cognitive processing abilities would shut down completely, and I would often loose the ability to speak.

Afterward, I felt ashamed and broken.

If I could redo that time in my life I would go back and be kinder to myself. I would meet “the red face” with love. Just love. Now I know that the anxiety was all part of what I had to go through to get me where I am today. The anxiety had a message for me about my life. It was waking me up to what wasn’t working. I fought against it, but it was leading me home, to a gentler, more authentic life.

I am in the middle of doing a gratitude project called A Hundred Thank-Yous. I am making 100 paintings for 100 people that have touched my life. I plan to have all the paintings finished by mid- July when I will have a gallery show, then spend 100 days of giving them away. There is so much love in this project that just writing about it makes my eyes fill up with water. But, there is also so much fear. Can I really do this? Can I finish all of them? What if the creative ideas disappear and I discover that I cannot paint? Or worse, that I am not an artist at all?

This project is forcing me to meet my fear and say hello, every single day. I notice the fear. I don’t fight it, I just feel it. And, I begin to paint and it goes away.

I send the fear love, I send myself love. It is all just part of the process of coming home.