Divorce and Christmas: A Different View

I know that my experience with divorce is unique, and many people can't go about the decisions of how to spend holidays like we did. I hope anyone who reads this only finds hope and possibly inspiration from this post. 

Another Christmas has come and gone. For the second year since our separation, David and I have spent a good portion of Christmas day together.

I know a lot of people that either cannot fathom spending this holiday with their ex, or they see no benefit in forcing that togetherness. Sometimes I wish I was one of those people, trust me. But I am not other people, and I've always dealt with our situation in my own unique way.

Last Christmas was our first as a separated couple. As in, we had both been living in our own places for most of the year, and were discussing what the next step would be in pursuit of divorce. There was no talk of reconcilliation. We were only taking our time because we were mulling over whether we wanted to deal with selling the house first before filing.

So when talk of Christmas eve and Christmas day plans came up, it seemed that all of our family traditions we'd created thus far were defunct and no longer plausible.

At least, to a less determined person than I, they would have been.

I've spent the last two years trying to prove that divorce does not have to be chaotic and fraught with despair and anger. Just because I could no longer stay married to David did not mean he was not the father of my child. If I could conduct myself through this separation and divorce with decorum and respect for him because of that fact, why couldn't I do so during the biggest holiday for our family?

As discussions of Christmas plans arose, I realized that just as with everything else that's happened during this transition time, I didn't feel the need to go along the expected soon-to-be-a-divorced-parent path. Why should one of us miss out on Christmas morning with our son every other year? I certainly didn't want to miss the precious few years I had left with Gabriel splitting Christmas morning with David bi-yearly if I didn't have to. So I proposed we do Christmas eve and Christmas morning together.

We agreed going out to dinner with David's sister and her family was a great alternative to our previous Christmas eve family party tradition. It was neutral, and still something we could all enjoy. It also meant we could go back to our own houses for the night. We also agreed to do Christmas morning at my house, so Gabriel spent the night with me. The idea was that once Gabriel woke up, we'd call David to come over, and we'd wait for him. Boy, was that an exercise of patience for both Gabriel and myself! I lost count of the number of times I said, "Your dad is going to be here any minute! Put that present down!" But David lived close, so it didn't take long for him to arrive.

We exchanged gifts, and David and I both got to enjoy the excited delight Gabriel showed exploring the contents of his stocking and opening his presents. We had both also taken Gabriel shopping for each other, so that we could continue teaching Gabriel to enjoy giving as well as receiving. Gabriel was able to present both Mom and Dad with his gifts, and see us open them with joy. I made breakfast and we watched the Disney Christmas special as Gabriel played with his new loot.

It might have been a little uncomfortable, I won't lie. Of course the fact that we were separated and pursuing divorce was floating in the recesses of both our minds. Was I ready for a break after breakfast was done? Yes, I was.

But there's reasons for why I did it, both selfish and not. I don't think its fair to divorced parents to have to miss out on their children's holiday joys. My mom enjoyed the Christmas season so much, and it broke her heart every other year when she couldn't spend Christmas with me. David and I have very few years left with Gabriel as a child, and I don't want either of us to miss out. But more importantly, if I can't teach Gabriel what a successful marriage looks like, I am going to show him to the best of my ability how to handle divorce or a break up in as healthy a way as possible. More than that, I can teach him that even if we lose romantic love for someone, they can still be our family. And I've always taught Gabriel that family, whether by blood or by choice, is incredibly important.

As part of the Christmas plans, we agreed Gabriel would go with David to his family's for dinner, since my family does their Christmas celebration the week before. I even stopped by his family's house to say "hi" to everyone, and I was welcomed with open arms. I didn't stay longer than an hour, but Gabriel was excited to see me there, and David's family was able to witness firsthand how well David and I were dealing with our situation. Gabriel then spent the night with me, because it was my night according to the normal schedule.

Fast forward a year later.

This has been quite a year for David and I. We spent the first half of it prepping the house in order to place it on the market. It sold in a frenzy over the course of a weekend. Then we worked together to get moved into our separate new places that allowed us to keep Gabriel in the same school, and within walking distance. It still took me until October to file for divorce.

I could try saying none of the past year would have worked if I hadn't continually pushed for us to work together. It wouldn't matter how much I pushed, if David hadn't been amenable to us doing so. It's so difficult, I know, to not let emotions cloud our judgement and force our actions. It takes a lot of self discipline and redirecting back to the course we'd set for ourselves, by both of us.

This Christmas went the same as last year's. With the exception being that we had a small Christmas eve get-together at a mutual friend's house, and we did Christmas morning at David's place instead of mine. I am happy to report it was just as successful as last year, even with the added knowledge that we have officially filed for divorce. I took Gabriel shopping for his dad's gifts, and this year I even made Gabriel wrap the presents himself. (He could use some additional practice in wrapping, I'm just saying.) David did the same.

I may have had some melancholy moments this holiday season, but it was more due to the knowledge that I crave my own holiday traditions, new and old, and during this transition period it is hard to create those. My mom instilled in me the desire to embrace the holiday season and all its' magic. My decision to pursue divorce did not cancel out the fact that I've always enjoyed creating the holiday experience not just for Gabriel, but for my family. I'd like the opportunity to light up someone special again with Christmas cheer and magic. All in good time, I know.

So tonight, I settle into the feeling of peace that my son's life is the best David and I can make it. We are by no means perfect, and we are learning how to do this as we go. Which means we are staying flexible. Even when it comes to Christmas morning. And that's all I could truly hope for, and what I will continue to strive for in coming years.

The Direction of My Magnetic Pull

My compass does not point due north. You will never know in which direction I orient myself on any given day...unless you move closer...closer.

If I shatter into a myriad of pieces, don't think of me as broken, damaged. This is my reset. My growth. My becoming more. I will reach out with my roots, and plant myself more firmly.

My heart yearns for truthful moments, for authenticity. In the world around me. In myself. You can't fool the wind. It will move through you, around you, make you shed your masks. Yes, this is what I yearn for.

My path is not straight. I cannot see around the bend. But I am more frightened of standing still than I will ever be of moving forward blindly.

When did we get so afraid of the wind, as it pulses through our hair, and moves us towards the edge? I can sway with the tree limbs, rustle with the leaves. I trust my roots. I won't blow away.

You lean into me, as the furthest tree branch reaches and leans towards the sunlight. Inching ever closer. That is where you belong.

Do you wish for the freedom of flight? So do I. In my arms you can fly on those winds. Just as I can expand and contract with you surrounding me. We will always know where home is, no matter how far we travel. We will always know where my body ends and yours begins, and we relish the feel of the perfect fit and the perfect separation.

My compass will not lead you in a straight line. But trust that it will always lead you home. Take my hand. See for yourself how I orient myself...here...now.

Winnie-the-Pooh said "How lucky I am to have something that makes saying goodbye so hard." Pooh Bear, you're a wise fellow.

People come and go in our lives, sometimes leaving barely a ripple in the pond, sometimes causing a crashing white-capped wave to wash over us, leaving our landscape soaked, but infinitely changed. There are certain people we meet for a reason, whether its to shake us up, or ground us in some fashion.

Rachael was one of these catalysts in my life. 

We met at work, and bonded over a shared love of theater productions. I found a kindred spirit in the woman sitting across from me, as we laughed and talked over Stellas and sushi. 

Female friendships are varied and every one is unique. Because of the nature of our emotions, its not always easy to find a deeper connection with another woman, a connection that is far richer than that of a shopping, gossiping or partying relationship. 

But really, it took an emotionally challenging, draining event for Rachael and I to find that connection, and decide it was worth something. 

Over the years Rachael and I have supported each other, laughed, cried, and ranted with each other. 

I have never met anyone so young who had such a vast life story already. She feels deeply, with passion and exuberance. If I had known her during the formative years of young adulthood, I have a distinct feeling my life would be very different right now. 

Speaking of passion...passion is a heady thing. Whether it is for art, humanity, ecology, religion, it doesn't matter. If you can find your passion, and yes you can have more than one, you open up your existence to so many more possibilities! 

Rachael and I have always had one important thing in common: we both believed in living our passion, and in living wholeheartedly and with abandon. Hers was a passion for art in general, and acting in particular. Mine was also for art in general, and writing in particular. If I could have one wish in this world, this minute it would be that everyone had a true friend who could dream big, dream EXPANSIVELY with them. It is an inspiring thing, to work towards living your passion, alongside someone who believes emphatically that you both can do it.

Alas, we have now reached a crossroads in time. Rachael's journey is taking her away, not forever, but if she has anything to do with it, she probably won't be a permanent resident of the Sacramento area ever again. I couldn't be more proud of her if she were my kid, my sister, or my childhood friend. And as this epoch of our life comes to a close, a new moment in time blazes before us. And i want to send her off smiling, full of hope and determination. So Rachael, this new piece is for you:

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She didn't listen to their little ideas. Their minds couldn't comprehend an enormity of spirit such as hers.

They wanted to place her in a decoupage box, plastered with cut up pictures of "should" and "can't" and "don't."

They didn't know she'd already branded herself, tattooed every inch of her skin with "what if" and "why not." She'd weaved "possible" into the mahogany strands of her hair, and painted "passion" onto her fingers and toes. 

She swallowed "failure" every evening at dinner, and savored the taste...she knew she could not conquer what she did not know intimately. 

They watched her walk, swaying hips that did not twitch at their disbelief, and thought she would surely stumble.

As they watched her, they thought they knew what the future held. They read it in the lines of her neck, as she looked down the empty road, and in the footsteps she left in the mud. 

They watched...and watched...and watched...

And never once did they notice that all they watched was the path she'd left, and never turned their eyes to the path she took, a path that stretched to the horizon, like the sweep of her eyelashes as they rested on her cheek, never-ending.

But that's okay. They had little ideas. Their minds couldn't comprehend an enormity of spirit such as hers.

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I won't say good luck, Rachael, because someone with as much determination as you doesn't need it. I won't say good-bye, because I'll see you very soon. I won't say I'll miss you, because that word doesn't do justice the hole you'll leave behind. What I will say is thank you. Thank you for being my inspiration, and for being a fellow student in learning to live wholeheartedly, and for believing I could come as far as I have in my life. I will be sending you positivity and light and love from here, as I know you will be doing for me from where you'll be. Love you dearest.

Hiking Alone

Hiking alone is a particular kind of assertion of independence. You are telling nature you respect it, but you don’t need any kind of barrier or buffer between you. You are not afraid to be lost. When you hike alone, you can let your eyes wander to discover what you’ve never paid attention to before. As you pass the time, you are forced to be alone with your thoughts, regardless of whether you like those thoughts or not. Awareness is more tuned in, since safety must be top priority. But a side effect of being hyperaware of the people around you is that you are on the receiving end of smiles, hellos, and waves that you may not have received otherwise.

As you travel deeper, you meet fewer people, and the quietness settles in. You begin to wonder if you are the only human being left on this trail, by this river, in this town, on this planet. You get a little jolt of adrenaline when you do pass someone, and you question where in the world he or she came from? Did they start on one side of the continent and you on the other side, and this is the crossroads that has allowed the only two humans left on the planet to meet for a fraction of a moment? 

If you’re like me, you seek out water whenever possible on these adventures. Water is serenity, life. It not only sustains your body, it refreshes your spirit. If you hear it rushing, trickling, splashing, you swiftly search for the source. If you’d been with someone, you might’ve missed the small mossy alcove of rocks and branches, a stream gurgling happily amongst the crevasses and wood. Streams that cross the trail can be forged with a purposeful leap, and an ability to laugh at yourself when you miss and fall in.

So many things are more noticeable alone. The lizard sunning himself on the rock near you as you sit and listen to the river current. The pop of fuchsia in a sea of green and brown forest. Two butterflies twirling and twining around each other, playing in the wind eddies, joyful in their flight and togetherness. The echoes that bounce off canyon walls and the surface of the water. The feel of your feet climbing the trail, rocks tumbling with each step, the dirt sliding in the damp shadows.

In the end, coming back to the trailhead is truly coming back to reality, coming back to the world. As you get closer, you begin to remember you are not the only person on this trail, in this town, on this planet, and you have a life outside of these woods. As you head back to civilization, the cacophony of sounds can be deafening, and you find yourself already planning your next hike, your next sojourn into the place where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. You are not a hermit; you enjoy the company of your friends and family immensely, and hiking with friends has its own charm and sparkle. But hiking alone becomes a blessing and a need, and you make plans to do it as often as you can.

Family

It is a quiet night, in the final hours of my birthday, and I am succumbing to a bout of introspection.

I spent the afternoon rekindling a waning relationship. It was waning because I’d allowed it to sizzle out, like an unattended flame without fuel.

I haven’t seen Mary Kaye for months, and have been remiss is making it a priority to see her. She was my mom’s best friend since they were small children, and her daughter and I grew up together as well. She is like a second mom to me, and has been there for me through many difficult periods of my life.

I love Mary Kaye very much, and to allow myself to be so caught up in the mundane aspects of life that I’d failed to continually cultivate this relationship is unacceptable.

I am a firm believer that your relatives are not always your family, and your family is not always related to you by blood. My family consists of both. Family is everything, and without relationships, humans are sad, doleful creatures. I know I certainly am.

I spent this summer trying to live my life as much as possible, with no regrets. But I need to make sure not to forget what makes life worth living. Having people to share experiences with, whether it’s your spouse or significant other, your friends, or your children, makes those experiences richer, fuller.

So I want to reach out to my family tonight. If you are reading this, I count you as family. I want to say thank you for being a part of this journey. To say I truly look forward to so many more experiences with you. I don’t know what the future holds, but I do know that time is trickling away, slowly but surely. So I want to say I love you all, and wish so much for your lives to be full to the brim, bursting with color and laughter, and I hope to be a part of it.

I am comforted in the knowledge that I have said what I needed to say to Mary Kaye today, and that I have said what I needed to say to you.

Good night and sweet dreams.

The Birth of a Home Improver

There are some universal truths that I have come to accept about myself. (This is not intended to be an essay of self-deprecation, I promise.)

I am not graceful, in any far reaching definition or synonym of the word. Bumping into walls, tripping on cracks, and slamming shins into fire hydrants that were not in the middle of the sidewalk are often witnessed occurrences in my day-to-day life. I know I can successfully move my body in the intended direction I’d aimed for sometimes. But it is not from any natural grace of movement. It stems more from an influx of nitty gritty desire. A great showing of heart that can sometimes overcome the ordinarily clumsy path I take. This is how, once in a while, I can land with my feet in the perfect squat stance with the barbell above my head in a wonderfully executed snatch. Or how I have a friend or two who thinks I can actually dance. Which is hilarious.

I also don’t have a lot of experience in many aspects of life. I question my drive to be a writer every day because of my lack of experience. The problem with always being the responsible adult, from the age of 8, is I had no room for error growing up. The few mistakes I’ve ventured to make can be counted on one hand. Some of them were doozies, but I believe it is the little life experiences, not just the big showstoppers, that make for interesting ingredients in the recipe of writing.

So enters my very first solo project in home improvement.

As a way to keep my head from spinning and dwelling on all the changes happening in my life, I’ve thrown myself into a larger project, beginning a few months ago. What was first just an office organization idea, morphed into something so much more complex, and, well, ambitious. It included gutting out the closet in the third bedroom in order to create the most glorious office/craft closet you’ve seen outside of a pinterest photo, and finding the perfect blend of creative space, guest bungalow, and working nook. All on a budget of about -$160. No, that negative was not a typo.

I had two bookcases already, beautiful and over priced and big enough to hold all the special books I just couldn’t let go of. Everyone should have some semblance of a library, with those certain books you read often, if rereading books is your thing, books that are practically pieces of artwork, and books that have a sentimental hold on your heart. Doesn’t matter if you only have two books that fit this category, or five boxes of books like me. It’s your library and should be displayed with honor.

So since the books were taken care of, I just needed to find that small organizational bone my body had been hiding to take care of craft supplies, storage of photos and pieces of Gabriel’s schoolwork, the minimal amount of office supplies I own, and the board games gathering dust in a corner. Here is where pinterest has ruined my life.

Ok, you all know what this is like, right? I’ve got an “Organization” board. I’ve got a “For the home” board. I’ve got a “DIY projects” board. And I have done squat with them. Nothing. I take that back. I spray painted a few thrift store picture frames about a year and a half ago, from a pin on my “DIY projects” board. Riveting, ground breaking stuff. So of course, pinterest is where I went for my Office Organization project.

The problem with pinterest is its filled with wonderful pictures. Pictures of strategically placed and perfectly color coordinated furniture and accents that look so incredibly homey and gorgeous at the same time, with a title “I got or made everything in this room for under $193!” Pictures of a cute girl in a maxi dress, with the title “Make a maxi dress out of one piece of fabric and a tongue depressor!” Pictures of petite, adorable appetizers that look like you’d want to lick the plate after devouring them, with the title “Crockpot appetizers! Three ingredients, and they practically make themselves!”

Everything in the pictures and short descriptions make these things look so achievable! And I’m not the first to recognize the hilarity that ensues when trying to replicate what the most popular pins indicate is a breeze to accomplish. There’s also pins that call out “Nailed it!” showing pictures from pinterest, and pictures of what the actual outcome was when real people tried to do these things. But even though I intellectually knew that things might not turn out as planned, I still attempted to recreate some simple things I pinned.

I should have known better.

So remember when I said I’m not graceful, nor do I have a lot of life experience? (Lack of common sense is sort of a side effect of no life experience, by the way.) Try wrecking out a closet, patching drywall, ripping out carpet, painting, and putting up shelves with these particular character deficiencies. I mean, when you can’t hold power tools without tripping on a cord, or you measure holes for brackets using a level and still manage to have the shelves go in crooked, you’re basically doomed, right? But that’s exactly what I did.

Surprisingly, I only cut myself once. By dropping a screwdriver on my bare foot. I was wearing flip-flops, which apparently aren’t the approved footwear for wrecking out closets. Or any other type of home improvement project. I was using the screwdriver, along with one of those pry bar things, to pry a 1”x6”x8’ slat of wood from the wall, which led to the inevitable holes in the drywall that needed to be patched. Good thing my first attempt at patching drywall was in the back corner of a closet. I definitely don’t have any kind of artistic flair with a metal spatula and Spackle.

Should’ve flirted with a general contractor at some point in my life, is all I’m saying.

So now I’ve got walls with ridges, paint layers where the existing shelves met the walls, Spackled nail holes, that sort of thing. So of course I need to sand, right? I drove myself to Ace Hardware.

Lack of life experience includes never going to hardware stores by myself. I’ve always had David to handle that sort of thing. From hanging a picture, to taking out a wall in our new house, I always depended on David to take care of the physical work involved in house improvement. He is so handy; I never needed to even make sure I could orient myself in a Lowe’s because I was always following his lead. It’s funny. To the outside observer, it appears that I navigated our marriage. I have always been the caretaker, the main provider, the one with the responsibility of the world on my shoulders. But to be able to tell a Phillips screwdriver from a flathead screwdriver, to be able to buy paint, or get a new doorknob, or understand what the different grits of sandpaper are used for, these were like unexplored paths of the maze of home ownership that I had never needed to traverse. And frankly, I never wanted to. It worked well, this division of abilities. I could create a spreadsheet that practically danced on your computer screen, and he could handle an air compressor and all its attachments with finesse and agility.

I knew I was already in over my head on this project, so as soon as I stepped foot in Ace’s, I pounced on the first red-vested person I could find. I explained what I had planned for the closet, stared at the floor tiles while sharing the tale of the Great Closet Wreckage of 2014 and the drywall repair debacle, and ended with an exclamation that I must have an electric sander to continue with my project. Now, this guy could have been my grandfather. And I could tell that if I were his granddaughter, he’d be removing all electric power tools from my possession, rather than helping me acquire another one. But I stood my ground and did not let him talk me out of my desire for the sanding power of the gods. So we compromised, and I left with a compact sander, three different grits of sandpaper, and the provision of my promise that I would start with the least harsh grit on the wall surface.

Now, I’m sure some of you have sanded before. So you’re probably shaking your heads already at what could happen when I have a power sander in my hands. Fortunately, either it was not powerful enough, or the grit of the sandpaper was not harsh enough, so I avoided sanding a hole right through the wall, which is the image I’d squashed immediately before beginning. Nope, I sanded like a pro. Well, at least like someone who doesn’t have a professional sander in her hands and wasn’t being too picky about having some rough areas left in the recesses of the sides of the closet. I sanded, wiped, sanded some more, gave my hands some breaks, opened windows, and sanded till I was satisfied painting would take care of the rest. I’m not sure how long it took, but I was content.

Then I looked around the room.

Everything was coated with a fine, white dust, similar to baking flour. The bookcases, the books, the boxes, the stacks of games and piles of stuff waiting to be organized. Everything! I looked down and I was covered head to toe in the white substance. I started to laugh. I guess there are sanders that come with bags. But Grandpa Ace hadn’t felt I was responsible enough to own that MacDaddy of all sanders, the one with the bag attached. I’m still in the working stages of this project, so I didn’t kill myself trying to clean the dust off of everything. But it seriously looked like an old mausoleum that’s been closed for centuries, covered in the dirt of generations. Especially when even the guest bed was covered with it.

I finally got to paint the closet. I’ve had this vision in my head of painting the closet with this vibrant orange. I love bold hues and pops of color in unexpected places. Sherwin Williams had my orange of choice, “Robust Orange,” and I was fully prepared to take that huge leap. But after sanding, and taking shelves out and finding different colors of paint under the slats of wood, I knew I’d have to put down some primer. I may not know much, but I knew to do that. Gabriel wanted to help, of course, and since most of the walls were white, we just painted the patches and the places that weren’t white. Because that should be all that we’d need to paint, right? Haha.

I’d grabbed a can of white primer out of the garage, not knowing that there is a difference between water based and oil based paint. It wasn’t until after Gabriel was covered to the elbows in white paint, vainly trying to wash it off in the utility sink with soap and water that I suspected we were dealing with a new breed of animal. One that I’d never before encountered. The more he scrubbed, the more the paint seemed to spread up his arm, turning it from nude colored to opaque white. I thought, he must not be using enough soap, or scrubbing hard enough. Silly me. I dove in and tried to scrub it off of him. Ended up with my own lily-white hands.

Where’s David been during this entire endeavor, you might ask? Well, we’ve been living together during this transition. But from the start of this project, I could tell he didn’t want anything to do with it, and maybe even had a small desire to show me what I’d be dealing with once I was living on my own. But when I scrubbed and scrubbed and watched with horror as the white crept up my arms like it had Gabriel’s, I finally called in my Get Out of Jail Free card, and made David help us. He only had brush cleaner in the garage, which I later learned does not work as well on oil-based paints as mineral oil does. He proceeded to pour it over both of us, as we washed and screeched and scrubbed and growled about the stinging and minimal help the brush cleaner was providing. Gabriel and I both managed to get most of the paint off our arms, and the palms of our hands. We gave up on the rest, and neither of us returned to our normal skin color for a few days after.

And of course, after all that, it still took three coats of orange paint to cover the different white patches on the original walls and the spots with primer on them! At least the “Robust Orange” was water-based. That’s all I needed, orange and white hands and arms, like I was turning into Tony the Tiger.

I’ve alluded to the fact that somehow I managed to put up the shelves crooked, even with the use of a gigantic level. (Seriously, why does the level need to be so long? I smacked the walls, my head, and the dog with it on more than one occasion.) And many can infer the level of my frustration and the limits I had finally reached since I did not take it all down, patch up the holes and start over, but rather left them crooked. One side is exactly 1/4” higher than the other side. I’m just saying, for a control freak like me, that one was hard to let go. But I did put them up successfully, for the most part. Until I started trying to place things on the shelves to see what would look nicely proportional and reminiscent of the pinterest photos. I placed one box on a shelf, and it was apparently too heavy and/or I plunked it down too enthusiastically, because one bracket started to pull out of the wall. Yes, I used anchors. No, I did not use a stud finder. To me, a stud finder is a well-placed beach chair on Lanakai Beach in Oahu, preferably with a cup holder that has a mai tai in it. If you want me to find the studs in the walls, you’ve come to the wrong woman.

"Robust Orange" and crooked shelves. Yes, they are crooked, trust me!

So I’d had enough of the closet, and rather than pitch the one renegade shelf through a window, I decided to take a break from that piece of the project. The other somewhat crafty endeavor I wanted to take on was finding a nightstand and possibly a desk for the room. Preferably used and at the right price point. I’d begun to comb through thrift stores for possible pieces, but hadn’t found anything worthwhile. I had my heart set on a black rolling wooden chair straight out of an old detective noir film that I’d seen at a furniture consignment store, but was really striking out on the desk and nightstand fronts.

I finally found a cute round table with delicate, curved legs for $15 at EcoThrift that would work nicely as a nightstand, and bought some paint from my new favorite paint store, Sherwin Williams. This time, since I was buying oil-based paint due to the durability it would provide for the table, I also bought the mineral oil and some gloves. Look at me, learning from my mistakes as I go!

I set up a drape sheet at the edge of the garage, so I could sand and paint in the nice weather. I sanded on the driveway to minimize the mess of the dust (see, learning!) After cleaning off the table, I painted it as it stood. Then the next day I flipped it and painted the undersides and feet once the first paint job dried. On the second day, I bent down to get as into the nooks and crannies on the underside. My head grazed the table feet, freshly painted, of course, and without even thinking about it, I reached up to brush the hair out of my face. Then the wind started to blow, and wonderful pieces of tree droppings began blowing my way, sticking to the surface of the freshly painted table. So I scrambled to get the particles off the surface before it dried that way, and forgot about my hair.

That evening I was in the kitchen cooking when David showed up from a day of fishing. He took one look at me, snorted, and shook his head as he walked away. When I called after him to ask what was so comical, he told me to go look in the mirror. When I did, I found that I had a large purple streak across my forehead, and purple streaks in the front section of my hair. Because of course I was painting the table a beautiful “Wood Violet” as an accent color. Ok, sure, it wasn’t the first time I’d dyed my hair purple, but the streak across the forehead was a new look for me. Of course, being oil-based paint, it wasn’t going to come off easily, and took quite a long time with my face exfoliator to diminish the violet hue of my skin.

$15 thrift store nightstand. My first thrift store furniture purchase!

"Wood Violet" is totally my color.

My project is still not finished. At the rate I’m going, I’ll be redoing a number of things I’ve already done, or causing myself additional work because of my naiveté when it comes to home improvement skills.

  

When I put the work in at the gym, I do things like repeatedly doing snatch work to improve my form, dropping into a squat to get my foot placement right, practicing the pulls and starting position. I do it over and over again, and because of my lack of grace and coordination, (and sometimes my inconsistent visits), I can never seem to do it correctly more than a couple of times in a row. You need more than grace though, in order to succeed at a lift. You need tenacity, heart, willfulness, and all the other traits that seem to come naturally to crossfitters.

As I take on new challenges every day, moving into the light of a new chapter of my life, I will need that stubborn will to succeed, despite my natural tendencies to bump into walls, trip over cracks, and learn lessons the hard way. I am opening myself to new experiences, ones that aren’t of epic proportions, but are fodder for a writer who is clumsy, eccentric, and goes through life streaked in violet in one way or another.

My next home improvement project will involve turning plumbing pipes and wood into shelves for Gabriel’s room. I saw it on pinterest, and it looks totally doable.