Let them teach you

My journey has been long and is far from over. I had no clue what I was getting into the day I was born. I am thankful that out of all the families, I landed in mine. They have shaped and molded me into the dysfunctional adult I am. How boring my adventure would have been without them. Each family member has contributed to my life in some valuable way.

Family can enlighten you, guide you and ground you. They will instruct you, nurture you and improve you. Let them! Each generation is connected to the previous one. Every decision you make today can leave a lasting impact on those you may never know. Your family is the key that unlocks the past and opens the gate to the future.

If you are fortunate enough to have a family, even a dysfunctional one, cherish it! It will be the most valuable gift you can give yourself. Each member will teach you something unique. They may bring out your good qualities, they may enhance your bad, but you will learn from them. Our families have an uncanny ability to expose our weaknesses. This forces us out of denial and towards change. A few influential family members can teach you in a short period of time what some search for their whole lives. Savor the education!

There have been many times when I was not willing to learn, but life is persistent and will continue to teach even the thick-skulled. My family is responsible for teaching me the lessons, and now it’s my turn to try and master them. I have a long road ahead of me, but I’m in the best of company.

Thank-You for following me this last year. I have plenty more to write about but for now I am taking off the "blogging" hat. I appreciate all the support, especially from my family who so graciously allowed me to write about them.

Wisdom

Wisdom is not the inability to make mistakes, it’s the ability to learn from them. I make stupid mistakes every day of my life. Sometimes they cost me money, sometimes they cost me time and sometimes they cost me dignity. I am actually proud and willing to tell you how dumb I can be. I recently had to tell my oldest daughter just how good her mother was at making mistakes. She was having a bad day and had gotten into trouble for hurting her little brother. In the course of her discipline she told me that she felt like she was always making mistakes and couldn’t do anything right. At that point, I had to spill the beans about my own inadequacy.

I am not sure if telling her about of all my bad choices made her feel any better, but I wanted her to understand that no one is going to make all the right decisions. Sometimes, because our heart leads us astray or because we have false information or because we have not weighed all the evidence or because emotions get the best of us, we do really dumb things. And unfortunately, we may have to live with the consequences for years to come. If we are not making mistakes, we are not growing, we are not learning, we are not gaining wisdom.

If I gave you a choice of being slapped in the face or living with a lifelong chronic condition, which one would you choose? The slap in the face is painful and embarrassing, but the pain will quickly fade. It’s the same when we make a blunder. No one wants to be told they have done something wrong or wasted time, money or energy. It hurts! It’s embarrassing! But if you feel the pain, if you let it sting and accept the fact that you are NOT perfect, you can learn from it, and the pain will quickly fade. The other choice is to ignore the mistake, pretend it wasn’t your fault and repeat it again in the future. This will provide you with a lifelong condition of chronic suffering.

When you own up to your bad choices or errors in judgment, you are on the road to becoming truly wise. There will be no need to repeat the mistake over and over. Instead, you learn from it: “Wow, that was stupid, but I’m sure glad I got it out of my system. Don’t need to do that ever again.” Choosing to own up is a road less traveled, but one that is much more enjoyable. There is a fine line between wisdom and stupidity, and there is actually only one key difference: a truly wise person will learn from their mistakes; a stupid person will repeat theirs.

Brothers are invaluable

My brother is the opposite of my sister. We were only fourteen months apart, and from the day I arrived on the scene there was animosity. We have never had the same perspective on life. He was a carefree jokester; I was a serious worrywart. Most of my memories involve us not getting along. He teased, I cried.

Once again, in my perfect world I would have had the best big brother. He would have fought my battles, been a refuge from the storm, and had my best interests at heart. My brother had the opposite view. He would regularly make fun of my many inadequacies. When we were in high school, he liked to tell people that I was a lesbian (not popular at the time), or, better yet, that I had AIDS. He did his brotherly duty and made sure no guy in school would date me.

But despite our conflicts, my brother taught me much. He prepared me for the real world. I learned not to take myself so seriously. He knew how to keep me humble. We compromised to solve our differences and sometimes agreed to disagree. Somehow I always knew he loved me and that his tough exterior was only a facade to protect his tender heart.

He was much like my dad, in that people were naturally drawn to him. He is still charismatic and a carefree jokester, while I remain the serious worrywart. As we aged, we chose different paths and these have led us farther apart. But even now, he is often in my thoughts. The first time I had seen him in many years was for my dad’s funeral. He is a man now, but I see the little boy who shaped my life. His tough exterior is still a façade, and his impact on my life has had far-reaching effects. He is invaluable.

Sisters are a prize

I have not won much in my life. It’s very rare I will enter a contest because I don’t want to face the disappointment of losing. When I was about eight years old I mustered up the courage to enter a competition sponsored by a cereal company. It entailed writing a commercial. Mine involved cavemen, a time machine and a box of cereal. To my amazement I came in second place. I won money and my very own camera. I was overjoyed. That camera was a treasure. I took it everywhere and held it in the highest esteem.

Without my realization I had already won a prize that exceeded that long forgotten camera: It was my little sister. When I was six years old, my life changed forever. It was the day my sister was born. I can’t remember being very impressed with our first meeting. But my apathy soon turned to affection. This new addition to our family was just what we needed. Much like my youngest daughter, my sister was spirited and stubborn. She was tenacious! You must need these qualities to thrive as the baby in the family.

For the first time, I felt a bond that I would only feel again when my own children were born. It was a protective, maternal love. I worried about her, I tried to discipline her, I watched over her. At the same time she drove me crazy. I felt my parents let her get away with more than my brother and I could even think about.

Then we grew up. I moved out and our relationship changed. I would come to visit and we began enjoying spending time together. We had the same perspective, came from the same background and had inherited the same sense of humor. What more could you ask for in a friend? To this day, my sister is my closest ally. It’s hard to find a better companion than your own flesh and blood.

When I was pregnant with my third child, I hoped that it would be a girl. I wanted my daughter to have a sister. They too are six years apart, and my oldest has taken on the same motherly role. We let our youngest get away with more than my first two could even think about. They fight, they laugh, they cry … in short, they’re sisters. I hope that someday they realize how valuable they are to each other. Because a sister is a prize of the highest esteem.

Dysfunctional is the new functional

Growing up, I was pretty sure that my family was abnormal. I have read the books, and know for a fact that I fall into the dysfunctional category. Denial is pointless. The truth is that even the ones who seemed to have perfect functioning families were only illusionist. They knew how to put on an amazing performance. Those in my family are not entertainers, they are the real thing.

When I was a teenager, a friend encouraged me to go through counseling. She said, “You don’t know how dysfunctional you are until you see a counselor.” For some odd reason, that didn’t sound appealing. I did understand I had some issues, but counseling would not have changed the family I was born into.

What are some characteristics of the dysfunctional person? You’re impatient, you judge yourself and others harshly, you fear failure, sabotage your own success, have low self-esteem, are afraid to trust and unable to let go, play or have fun. You take yourself very seriously, you’re a perfectionist and crave validation from others. As you know by now, these are some of my strongest qualities.

So, to stereotype, I am dysfunctional! My family is dysfunctional! You would see our photos on the recall list at Wal-Mart if it were a possibility. We have impaired function, but we have adapted. As the body will compensate in times of injury, so has my family.

What they lack, they will make for up in other areas. They are far from perfect, but I now realize they are normal. They are just like 99.9% of all other families. There still may be a handful who fall into the “functional” category, but I have never met them. So if you have been given the “dysfunctional” label, pat yourself on the back. It’s a big accomplishment. If you haven’t, you are either a small minority or are in complete denial.

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket

This is one expression both my parents could agree on. I heard it over and over as a child. It is very easy to put all of your energy into one thing. It may be a job, a relationship, money, your mate, your friends. Your identity is based on that one thing. If it fails, you’re a failure; if it succeeds, you’re a success.

My husband was a good example of this. He worked at a winery, where most of his time and energy was spent. He loved it! It gave him value and worth. He had other priorities, but this was his biggest. But this all changed the day we had our daughter. Now the winery didn’t seem as important. He knew he had to make a change. So he did the unthinkable, and quit. When he quit, he lost all his eggs. He lost his identity, his value, his worth.

This was a valuable lesson that he willingly learned. Some people are not given the option. Many don’t realize they have put so much emphasis on one thing until it’s gone. Maybe they have neglected friends and family in order to put all their energy into their marriage. Perhaps they have neglected all of their friends and family to concentrate on their career. The disaster is just waiting to happen. The day the basket breaks. The day the mate leaves, or the job is lost.

Just like the stock market, the safest course is diversification. To have many assets spread evenly across the board. To keep all things balanced and in proper perspective. Develop friendships with a variety of people. Enjoy your mate, but don’t neglect your family. Appreciate your career, but know it’s just one of your assets. Remember that all things in life are transient. A job can be gone tomorrow, a family member lost indefinitely, a friendship severed. Choose the best eggs carefully, treat them delicately and make sure you don’t put them all in one basket.

Sainthood

It’s easy to turn those who have died into saints. You overlook obvious flaws and overemphasize the goodness. An ordinary, average person can become extraordinary the day they die.

Now that my dad is gone we only seem to remember his amazing attributes. This is a source of contention for my mom because we have not shown her the same forgiveness. We have turned my dad into a saint: St. William Arnold. He would get a good laugh out of the whole situation. His final revenge.

My dad was able to pull this same maneuver when we were teenagers. He left town for an extended period of time after my parent’s divorce. Even though I felt angry and abandoned at the time, I soon forgave him. Then and now, only remembering the good, bright and sunny moments can ease the pain. It somehow makes the separation bearable. I gain much comfort recalling the positive qualities my dad displayed. But he was not a saint. He had flaws, he made mistakes, he was human.

Around the time my dad died, I learned some valuable information about my great-grandfather, who had passed away when I was a child. All my life I had been told about his amazing, saintly attributes. But no one ever talked about his flaws. I was shocked to learn of his failings. To know he was human.

The irony is that when you die, you are forgiven of the mistakes that follow you when you’re alive. This is a natural human tendency: to memorialize those who are gone, to set them on a pedestal. The sad part is that we can’t seem to do this when the person is living. For most of us death may be the only time we achieve sainthood.

Don’t let them meet the extended

It was not intentional, but boy did it work in my favor. It just so happened that my soon-to-be husband was never able to meet the extended family, before he vowed to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, till death do us part. Looking back, this may be one of my husband’s biggest regrets, but was one of my wisest moves.

If you have a perfect, functioning family, you should skip this part. For the rest of us, if you ever plan on getting married, you might want to learn this valuable lesson. Don’t let them meet the extended family until after the deal is done, and make sure the ink has dried. You may even want to wait until after you have your first child …

It all comes down to the gene pool. You have met someone so special that you want to spend the rest of your life with them, you want to reproduce, have little versions of yourselves running around, live happily ever after. Then the day comes to meet the distant relatives. You want their approval and their acceptance, but instead your world is shattered. Somehow it is all quite different from what you had imagined.

They are loud and rude, as opposed to reserved and dignified. They are intoxicated and obnoxious, as opposed to sober and agreeable. You may wonder if this is the wrong family: how could your perfect someone come from such imperfection? This can raise a series of troubling questions. Do I really want to be related to these people? What will our children be like? Doubt after doubt will fill their mind, until they run off, never to be seen again. It will all be traced back to the day they met the extended family.

Most men who have married into our family have done so without fully understanding what they were getting into. I look at it not as deceit, but as the decent thing to do. You will have plenty to fight about once you’re married. Enjoy your courtship, your wedding day, your first year as newlyweds. When they’re intoxicated on your love and cannot remember life before you, then the time is right. But until that day, don’t let them meet the extended.

Divorce damages

I recently tried to explain, to my youngest daughter, what getting a divorce meant. I said, “It’s when a mom and dad can’t get along and they decide not to be married anymore, so they don’t live together.” I thought it was a simple explanation for a five-year-old, so I was caught off guard when her eyes suddenly filled with tears and she started sobbing. She then said, “Are you and dad going to get divorced?” I tried to reassure her that we hoped never to get divorced, and she soon calmed down.

This brief, innocent conversation made me realize something I had kept buried for many years: divorce damages! I remember the day my mom told us she was getting divorced from my father. She did all the right things: she sat us down and talked to us about it, telling us she loved us and that it was not our fault. Lastly, she said, “It’s going to be really hard for the next few years.”

I appreciate her telling us this, but for some reason it did not prepare me for the future. “It’s going to be really hard” was actually an understatement. I was twelve at the time, in sixth grade. I looked forward to school as an escape. My little sister, on the other hand, was five, and just starting kindergarten. She would cry every morning when my mom dropped her off at school. The tears lasted all day long, for most of the school year. Some days I would have to go to her classroom to try and comfort her, but to no avail. She was damaged. Seeing my own five-year-old sobbing brought back the sadness I had seen in my little sister’s eyes. A sadness that we will both carry for the rest of our lives.

I once read a quote that struck me: “As a child I grew up without any visible scars. But inside I battled monsters of rage, depression and insecurity with out knowing why … my parents’ divorce took away from me every child’s birthright—the feeling of being secure and protected.” It was if I had written that statement. A few days later, I was talking to my husband, who is also from a broken family. When I mentioned this quote, he said, “That is exactly how I feel.” We have both been robbed of our birthright; we are both children of divorce. Our scars are invisible, and our wounds are internal. They will never heal, and we will carry them for the rest of our lives, because divorce damages.

Are you a child of divorce? How has it impacted your life?

Appreciation is a protection

Saying my son hates the dentist is an understatement. After eight cavities, he knows what going to the dentist involves. We usually tell him the morning of his appointment. This will be followed by crying and moaning, until the dreaded event arrives. When it’s all over and the dentist gives him a wink with the words, “No cavities,” he will sigh and say, “That wasn’t so bad.” Yet I know that in another six months we will repeat the same routine.

His fear of the dentist does motivate him to do one thing: he will spend an exorbitant amount of time brushing his teeth each evening. He will floss, use a special mouthwash, and take as many preventative measures as he can to avoid the agony of another cavity.

In any relationship, appreciation is the preventative care. In order to have a good marriage, you must have two appreciators; two people who are indebted to each other, who overflow with gratitude, who never forget to acknowledge the other person’s efforts. Appreciation can be self-centered. It’s the realization that your life would not be the same without this amazing person. But at the same time it requires you to take the focus off yourself and put it on someone else. It’s not assuming that this person knows how you feel, it’s expressing it. Appreciation is treating a person with dignity: bestowing honor, giving worth, adding to their self-respect.

Why is this one preventative measure so hard for people to perform? One reason is that appreciation requires time and effort. It’s like cooking a good pot of chili: the more you let it simmer, the better it taste. If we slow down and reflect on our lives, the better the appreciation will be. It‘s easy to be rushed, overwhelmed and annoyed. This leads to complaining, fault-finding and minimizing. A second reason is that some people have never been appreciated. They have never heard the words, “I am proud of you,” “Thank you for being a part of my life,” “You are an amazing person.” So to them, showing appreciation feels like getting their teeth pulled. You have to tug and wrench on them before they will show an ounce of gratitude.

I have witnessed a lack of appreciation, and it can be as painful to watch as seeing my son get a cavity filled. I have seen someone’s hard work go unnoticed. I’ve observed efforts go unrewarded. Failure to appreciate is like the sweet, syrupy foods that get stuck in your teeth, slowly starting the decay, forming holes in a relationship. Appreciation is the toothbrush and toothpaste. It is the preventative measure that you perform every day, to keep your loved ones healthy and happy. In any relationship, appreciation is a clinically proven cavity protector.

Embrace the inner dork

Lurking in each of us is a dork. You know—the goofy one who dances poorly in the living room when no one is watching. The one who belts out “Phantom of the Opera” in the shower when no one is listening. The one who trips on their own two feet and then pretends they did it on purpose. For some of us, the dork is unruly and regularly takes possession of our body. For others, the dork lurks in the shadows because he thinks you’re too cool to hang with him.

Since no decent dictionary even defines the word ‘dork,’ I had to go to the urban dictionary. This was my favorite definition: “Someone who has odd interests, and is silly at times.” A dork is also someone who can be themselves and not care what anyone thinks. When I was growing up, being a dork was a bad thing, and believe me, I know, because I was a dork. Other words I may have been called were nerd, geek, loser, lame, wannabe, goober and many more I don’t care to share.

What I didn’t know as a child is that I should have embraced my “gooberness.” The most lovable dorks, the irresistible nerds, are the ones that don’t fight being a geek. These are the ones I adore. They are the quirky, the goofy, who are not embarrassed to embarrass themselves, and too show who they really are. I always hated my dorkiness. By the age of sixteen, I detested my handmade clothes. I despised my pale skin, freckles, bushy hair, my name, which no one could pronounce, let alone spell.

If I could do it again, instead of hiding from the dork I would embrace it. I would allow the silliness, the odd interests, the never-going-to-fit-in-the-mold quality to shine. I would not force it to lurk in the shadows.

So if you’re a closet dork, I urge you to come out! Be odd, be goofy, be silly. Dance with no rhythm, sing with no tune, trip and fall with grace. Love the dork within. Embrace the goober you were meant to be!

Are you an in-the-closet-dork? Or are you proud to be odd? I would love to hear!

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Enjoy the small gifts

It seems that when we are at our lowest point in life, we are given a small gift. It is a tiny gift that makes us smile despite our despair. If you’ve never experienced this, it doesn’t mean it did not happen; just that you didn’t notice it.

Every time I see a rainbow I think of my dad. I saw a rainbow the week of his funeral. I was exhausted and overwhelmed with grief. My daughter and I were driving back to my dad’s house and in the green valley below was a flawless rainbow. The kind with a pot of gold at the bottom. Despite my misery, I had to smile. I felt thankful to be alive and to be there at that precise moment. It was a gift and I am glad I received it.

That same week, I decided to visit one of my dad’s favorite spots. It was a swinging bridge in the village of Arroyo Grande. He loved taking his children and grandchildren there. I planned on going and wallowing in my sorrow. Fortunately, I was not allowed to do this. Instead, an extremely amorous rooster jumped up on the bench with me and started doing a mating dance. His desperation brought a smile to my face. It was a tiny, happy gift.

The breathtaking sunset, the look your pet gives you when you get home, the smell of honeysuckle in the warm air, someone telling you they love you, all tiny, happy gifts. Even when you are content, it gives you peace when you notice the abundance around you. Life is hectic and rushed and daily small gifts go unobserved. As I frantically tried to get my children ready for school, I pulled out a paper from my youngest child’s backpack. It was her standing under a rainbow picking flowers. Since she is just learning to spell she had written: "I like to pig faurs." I felt thankful to be alive and to be there at that precise moment. It was a gift and I am glad I received it. No matter how disappointing life feels, it is full of gifts. But some are so tiny that you need 20/20 vision to see them.

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You get what you need

We were very nervous to have a second child. Our first child was sweet, obedient and a girl. Not a bad combination for our first try. We were confident, we were amazing parents, we had it all figured out. The midwife who was delivering our second child must have seen the arrogance on our faces, because she used five words that still ring true: “You get what you need.”

We knew within twenty-four hours of our son’s birth that we had gotten what we needed. He had a temper, he was contrary, he was a boy.

The midwife’s words have been fulfilled many times since they were uttered. As if our son wasn’t enough, two years later, the birth of our third child left us even more bewildered. Our arrogance has turned into a form of mortification. Each child has managed to embarrass us more than the next. They keep us humble, which must have been exactly what we needed.

These words bring me comfort. When I am worried about some future event, I resolve that I’ll get what I need. It may not be what I want, but it will be what I need. I don’t view every bad situation as a disaster. I think: What do I need? What am I supposed to learn from this? When I get frustrated with others who seem to face no consequences for their decisions, I tell myself, they’ll get what they need. Then I sit back and wait. Sure enough, the prophecy is always fulfilled. The user gets used. The smug get humbled. The unreliable are jilted, and the untrustworthy are misled. This principle runs on autopilot. The best thing to do once it’s in motion is enjoy the ride. Just remember, you’re the one who chose the course, so don‘t complain when it get‘s bumpy. Have fun and don’t worry, because you‘ll always get what you need.

Cherish the time you have

The last time I saw my dad, he hugged me and said, “Don’t bother coming back out, I know it’s hard on you.” We’d just had an amazing week of visiting him, and I had an overwhelming feeling that I might not see him again. As we drove off, I had more regrets than I normally did. I began to wonder if I had made the right decision in leaving California.

As I contemplated the choices I had made, I came to the realization that I cherished my dad more by not being around him all the time. When we were together, usually once every year, I valued every second of it. I recorded the memories and the feelings so that I could replay them later, when he was no longer there. I didn’t have to deal with the day-in-day-out stresses of life. He usually had something spectacular planned. He would tell us, “It’s all about you,” and we knew for that one week it was.

My dad was never a serious person, so I am grateful that during our long phone conversations I learned things about him and his childhood that he probably would not have told me in person. I’m thankful that he had the ability to cherish those around him: his wife, who had dozens of notes of adoration; his children, whom he regularly told how much he valued them; and all his family and friends that he took the time to treasure.

I probably would have never moved if I knew my dad would die. I would have stayed close and enjoyed every moment I had with him. Unfortunately, we never know that about anyone. How many people would we treat differently if we knew they would be gone tomorrow? What would we say to them today? Time is the most valuable commodity we have. Your house, your car, your credit cards—they won’t miss you when you’re gone. But those whom you took the time to cherish will.

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My children will be just as dysfunctional

So far, I have never met someone who has made a conscious decision to procreate, and invest twenty years of their life, just for the fun of damaging their children beyond repair. Yet that is usually what happens. Even families that seem to be the cream of the crop, the most normal of all, will still have dysfunctional children. No matter how good we are as parents, there will always be issues, years of counseling, baggage and resentment.

As parents, you can’t win. You work … they hate you because you didn’t spend enough time with them. You don’t work … your kids hate being poor. Not enough of this, too much of that. So you may be asking, are children really worth it? Of course they are, because even dysfunctional children can still be a blessing to their parents, and truthfully, when that strong maternal instinct kicks in, there is usually not much you could say that would convince someone that having a cute, adorable, bundle of joy is not worth it.

So what’s the point in trying? You try because deep down you hope that someday your children will realize that you tried to do what was best for them, and they will look at the big picture, and maybe at their grandparents and even great-grandparents, and notice that each of them tried, with all they knew at the time, given their background, to make the best decisions. Perhaps their perspective was wrong, or their thinking was based on inaccurate information, but they still loved you and exerted a great amount of effort to raise you.

One of my mom’s favorite expressions is, “Being a mom is a thankless job.” She usually tells us this soon after we’ve informed her that she has single handedly ruined us forever. She then follows it by the mother’s curse: “I hope that someday your children are just like you.” So the cycle continues indefinitely. Someday I will realize that, no matter how hard I tried not to, I still managed to raise dysfunctional children.

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You need them

Why was my first phone call after my dad died to my mom? Because I needed her. I needed her strength in order to break the news to my sister. No matter how old we are, we still need our parents. We know that even if our mates or significant others don’t believe in us, our mom and dad will. They have the ability to support us the way no other human can.

My dad would tell me that he only heard from my brother in rough times. If things were going smoothly in my brother’s life, my dad wasn’t needed, and my brother could depend on himself. Sometimes, though, we reach the point emotionally when we don’t have the strength to take care of ourselves. Maybe it’s a tragic event, a bad week or some unexpected news. We manage to hold it together emotionally for our children, our mate, our friends. Then our mom or dad walks into the room and we break down like a little baby.

No matter how badly your parents treat you, no matter how old you are, you need them. I am a married woman with an amazing husband and three children of my own, but I will tell you that without a doubt the hardest part of losing my dad was that I still needed him. When I was a teenager, it may have been for superficial things: to borrow his car, to help me fix mine, gas, food, money—all those things you need as an adolescent.

But as I grew older, I needed his support, his understanding, his strength. All those times when your parent is the only one who will do. So the next time you feel like an independent and capable grown-up, take the time to appreciate your parents when you don’t need them, because the day may come when you do.

When did you need your parent's the most? Please feel free to comment.

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Celebrate life

Today, is the second year anniversary of my dad’s death. This is a day I have dreaded all year. February fourteenth is a day I wish never existed. The last two years have brought with them many tears and overwhelming moments of anguish.

I have had much time to think about what I should do on the anniversary of my dad’s death. Should I lock myself in my bedroom, cry all day or reflect on all the things I miss about him? These are all extremely tempting, but they don’t celebrate his life; they only commemorate his death.

What would my dad want us to do, to celebrate his life? Here’s my fantasy: I would rent a house in Montecito, his ultimate retreat. I would invite all of his family—he would have wanted that. We would start the day at the Santa Barbara harbor, followed by an afternoon at the zoo, ending with dinner at his favorite restaurant. We wouldn’t be sad; we would reminisce and be thankful for all the memories he left us. We would laugh, we would cry.

To celebrate means to observe a day with ceremonies of respect, festivity or rejoicing. Grief can be so overwhelming that we forget to celebrate what is left behind. We don’t remember the good times because it causes too much pain. We aren’t thankful for the short time we had; we are only bitter that it didn’t last longer.

These are all normal reactions to loss, but not ones my dad would have wanted for us. His life was about living, about laughing, about loving. He cherished every second. To wallow in self-pity was not his style. He celebrated every day, so why shouldn’t we? I want to celebrate the legacy he left us. My children should know how much he adored them. I can teach them to have his outlook on life. I can tell them stories so they understand who their grandfather was.

If I died tomorrow, I know my family would be sad, but I hope they would show me respect by rejoicing over what I left behind. My legacy is the memories I have created. Those will continue indefinitely. My dad will be the great-great-grandpa of some future generation. They will exist because of him, and maybe, if the stories have been passed down, they will still celebrate his life.


How do you celebrate life? What legacy will you leave? Please feel free to share your experience.

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I drove my parents crazy

I feel deceitful. I have managed to trick the universal forces that my mother set in motion with the infamous words, “I hope your children are just like you!” I am blessed, and a little sneaky, to have basically escaped this curse. Most of the time I have three manageable, kindhearted, easygoing children.

And then there are the other days. Days that make me wonder what I did to deserve this. Those are the days when my childhood flashes before me and it all becomes clear. I remember the days of driving my own parents crazy. There are certain personality traits that make a child loveable, that draw adults to them. I’m pretty sure I didn’t have any of them. I was at the opposite end of the spectrum. I didn’t have looks, so I learned to rely on my personality, and boy, did I have a lot to offer! I was extremely picky, exceptionally whiny, painfully shy and gravely serious.

I know I was whiny, because I actually remember my mom telling me, over and over again, to “STOP WHINING!” I hated everything my mom made, except sweets. I was sure that all adults would kidnap me, and prevented this from happening by staying in the house at all times. My parents would tell me “It’s okay if someone takes you, because they will bring you back.” I don’t remember laughing much, and took myself and others very seriously. I was afraid of my own shadow, and was without an ounce of hand-eye coordination. To top it off, I thought I was an adult trapped in a child’s body. I couldn’t understand why my mom would make me leave the room for adult conversation. My parents nicknamed me “Memorex,” because not only did I love listening to adult conversation, I would repeat it word for word at the most inopportune times.

I imagine my parents developed qualities of patience, endurance, longsuffering and mildness every day of my childhood. So on those days when I am ready for a nervous breakdown, I have to laugh, think of myself as a little girl and thank the stars that my children are not even close to the child that I was. Hallelujah!


What did you do as a child that would have drove your parents crazy?

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Regret is our GPS

Regret goes hand-in-hand with loss. What kind of regrets will we have in life? How many decisions do you look back on and wish you could change? When you face loss, you always will have regrets. This is true not just with the death of a loved one, but with anything in life, including the loss of your job, your home or your spouse.

The worst part of regret is that, if you don’t have any, you will never learn from your mistakes. On the other hand, if you have too many, you will always be looking behind you and never move forward. So the lesson I learned is this: when you feel regret, stop and think about what it’s trying to tell you.

I regret that, during the last conversation I had with my dad, I was too busy to stop and cherish our talk. I didn’t sit down and enjoy our conversation. Did I tell him I loved him? I don’t remember—I was in too much of a rush. So what does this tell me? That, as usual, I was being impatient and thinking about things and not people.

My regrets are unsettling. They make me doubt my future decisions and also make me aware of my many failures. Regrets are much like a Global Positioning System. They are the annoying voice reminding you that somewhere along the trip you have gotten off course. They alert us when we have gone in the wrong direction. They prod us to take a new route. We may choose to ignore the advice our regrets are offering, but that will only result in us becoming thoroughly lost. On the other hand, if we listen to our regrets, we can change our path and safely arrive at our preprogrammed destination. We all know where we want to go; the hard part is arriving at our destination. Next time the annoying voice of regret tries to speak, it’s best to listen. Chances are, you have made a wrong turn somewhere along the way.


What are your biggest regrets? What have you learned from regret?

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Loss is inevitable

There are two types of loss, and I have experienced them both. The first type involves losing touch with a person for one reason or another. This is the loss suffered from broken relationships, severed ties, damaged alliances. The other person is still living, just without you.

I felt this loss when my parents divorced. It was the first time my dad was gone. The man I knew, who gave me life, was no longer a part of mine. He had moved to Arizona searching for comfort from his own mother, sister and brother. The impact of the divorce left a crater in his heart. Who better to fill it than his children? That is what his sister hoped, when she brought us for a visit. But that is not what happened. After driving for ten hours, we saw my dad for ten minutes. At the time, I did not comprehend the depth of this loss. It wasn’t until I had my own children that I understood why my dad chose not to see us. His life was dark; it centered on alcohol, depression and hopelessness. Thankfully, this loss was temporary. After a few years, my dad found his spirit and started putting his life back together, which included seeing his children again.

The second type of loss is even more devastating, because it’s permanent. It’s the unimaginable loss of a family member. It might be a mate you have spent your life with, the person who brought you into this world or a child that was a part of you. It really doesn’t matter who it is; we all feel the same: utterly devastated. Everything in our world is thrown into to the air and, unfortunately, it never seems to land in the same spot.

The agony of loss has no limits—it’s endless. But it can still teach us a valuable lesson. This is what it has taught me: there are no guarantees in life, you may never heal, life is never what you expect, things are not always fair. Even though these realizations may seem morbid, they have changed how I view my life. They have taught me that, no matter how much it hurts, loss is inevitable.


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