A random blog is better than none at all.

Last night I had a dream, one that I’m coming to expect every year around this time. The details are always different… Sometimes it’s my wedding day, others I’m at the grocery store or walking down the street. This time, a tornado came through and ripped my house to shreds. I knew J was in the house and I knew he was hurt, but I wasn’t afraid.

Here’s where the dreams have a common thread: I looked up, and I saw my daddy walking towards me. At first, I didn’t realize it was him. But the closer he got, dream!me became overwhelmed with emotions. It couldn’t be Daddy! He’s been gone for 7 years now. But there he was, in flesh and blood, now running to me with concern on his face. As I’m running to him, something occurs to me. If he’s been gone 7 years, there’s only one explanation for how he’s here now: it’s a dream. But then he closes in on a hug and he’s so solid. If it’s a dream and he’s not real, I wonder, how do I feel his arms around me? Then I decide that if it’s just a dream and he’s not real I won’t be able to smell him (whaa?), so I lean in and take a big whiff of his collar. I don’t know what I expected, but I was surprised to find that he smelled like cigarette smoke, Big Red gum, and axle grease. Yup, smelled like Daddy too.

Then he tells me it’s going to be okay, and we have a conversation that I don’t really remember now.

He’s a week early for my birthday… But then again he was never good on remembering that sort of thing.

If anybody out there is listening and you’ve already said goodbye to a parent, do you ever dream like this?

Life According to Disney

No product of the 90′s can hear the phrase ‘the circle of life’ without picturing this:

For the movie The Lion King, that moment symbolized a huge moment for Simba and his pride — we see this happen at the beginning of the movie when Mufasa (who? Mu-fa-saaaaaaa!) and his babymama present Simba himself as the future of their community. The story that follows reveals Simba alternatingly worship and openly defy his father’s well-meaning but at times authoritarian method of parenting, punctuated by Mufasa’s untimely death at the hands of Scar.

That moment is pivotal in Simba’s life in a way that is real for a lot of people who lose a parent early — we see him blame himself, fall apart at the seams, run away from everything, and ultimately find that the roots his father gave him kept him…. well… rooted, for lack of a better term. When he finally returns to his previous life, he does so by drawing strength from the parent he lost and finds healing in reconciling his past with his future.

Finally, at the end of the movie when Rafiki hoists Simba and Nala’s cub into the air, Simba’s story has come full circle: death has been overcome by life, and now Simba finds himself in his father’s shoes.

Yes, I know this is a Disney cartoon… But I lost my dad at 19, and I draw a lot of meaning from Simba and Mufasa’s story. He was only 48, and he died of a heart attack. It was all very sudden, and looking back on Simba’s path after losing his father I can relate to the path Simba took for healing. I blamed myself; I blamed God. I ran away from everyone and everything, and in the process created a new life full of people and things that did not speak of or hold any memory of him. Circumstances brought me home, figuratively and literally, and it was at that time I realized that my dad’s life and memory was a legacy — not something that was meant to be stuffed in a shoebox and pushed into the wayback of my mind.  I eventually returned to the part of me that was passed down from my father, and learned that it would be those roots that would bring healing.

And then… On Tuesday, lying on the table in the ultrasound office, I learned something that made every bit of suffering I had experienced through the death of my father resonant. I learned that I was having a boy.

Now, don’t get me wrong here, folks: if my belly buddy was a girl, I would have been completely over the moon. I would have loved my baby girl with all of my heart and I feel like it’s something that would have brought my mother and I closer in the way that only bringing another generation of women into the world can. But this baby boy, Baby L, is a connection to my father, even if he looks or acts nothing like him. My father’s blood — my blood — pumps through his veins, and when the day comes that Baby L makes his appearance in the outside world, my journey of loss and acceptance will have come full circle.

Why? Because through death, I entedered the darkest place I have ever experienced. It was a brick wall that I figuratively stood in front of and stared at until I finally gathered the courage to scale, and it took every ounce of  strength I had to climb over the other side.

In about 4-4.5 months, I’ll face another dark place — a battle every woman faces when bringing her child into the world. It will be a brick wall that I’ll stare down until I gather the courage and strength to scale that one, too. I faced death that first time, and now I’ll face life. But life always overcomes.

A lot can happen in 6 months.

I can’t believe I’ve neglected this blog for six months.

Actually, I can. A lot has happened, some of which with me personally (guess what? I’m pregnant! 4.5 months along, actually), some of which with family and loved ones that I can’t really delve into.

A lot has happened in the world, too. Benign stuff, like the world practically freezing over during January (hello, THREE weeks of enough snow to shut down the state of Alabama??!) and horrifying, terrible stuff like the Earthquake in Japan.

I’m not going to lie and say I was spending time away from here shoveling elderly people’s driveways or trying to come up with a way to get over to Tokyo for relief efforts (as much as I would love to)… Or even that I was writing the next great American novel or nesting like a fiend in preparation for Baby L’s impending arrival. I could be really gross and tell you that I spent 4.5 of the last 6 months in a haze of morning sickness and fatigue (which I did, natch), but really my silence is due more to a re-evaluation of my priorities more than anything else.

I try to keep the mush to a minimum around here, but there’s no way to explain this without a few rainbows and unicorn farts along the way. When two little pink lines popped up on the home pregnancy test I took three hours before Thanksgiving dinner, the entire axis of my world shifted. In the days and weeks that followed, a lot of things became clear to me that weren’t clear before: what I wanted for myself out of life, for my family, for my son (surprise! It’s a boy!!) to learn about the world and everything in it. Basically, when I discovered that the next 18 years of my life are going to be monopolized by raising a hopefully productive member of society it became clear to me which parts of my life would remain and which parts would fall away.

Which is a long way around saying that the focus of this blog is going to change for the foreseeable future. Maybe not the general topic posts (like the ones on friendships, etc), but the ones on writing and the like. I’m pretty much shelving myself for a while and focusing my energies on my body, my education, my creative endeavors (visual arts, primarily), and the world I’m bringing my little boy into. The things that remain, even when the superfluous things in my world continue to fall away (novel writing, the indie music scene).

So, cheers! Hello again, blogosphere. Nice to see you.

For anyone that is curious, I’m due in August. I feel great, Dad to be is over the moon, and L is a nice, big, strong boy who is already practicing his ninja skillz in Mommy’s tummy.

Passive Aggression, Part Deux

After my post yesterday, I got exactly what I expected and was lambasted to Peru and back only have like 12 viewers a day, so I got an unsurprising amount of feedback — or lack thereof.

One thing that I did catch from IRL and OL readers alike is how commonly Passive Aggression is misunderstood and misused. After doing a little digging around, this is what I found:

“Passive-aggressive behavior is marked by a desire to avoid conflict and keep relationships running smoothly, even if that means ignoring your own feelings and needs. In time, however, resentment and anger can seep out through procrastination, memory lapses, complaining, stubbornness, sarcasm and inefficiency.” Source

It’s common to misuse Passive Aggression in lots of different ways — either using it to label someone that is simply non-confrontational, or using it as a misnomer for someone who is actually overtly or covertly aggressive.

Whatever you call it, however, the bigger issue is this:

I could totally relate to that description in a way that gave me a big, humble pie flavored dose of self awareness.

I may not be one of those shrinking violet, consummate victim types that seem to ooze passive aggression in every conversation and every commitment, but I recognize those patterns in my own life.

So what am I going to do with this knowledge? First, I thought it would be good to share it here, given my tirade yesterday.

Next, I’m going to focus a little more on how I deal with my aggression. I see it primarily in my marriage and in my closest relationships, where everything seems like a clash of wills, so I guess I’ll start there. Saying ‘no’ more, saying something when I’m mad or when my feelings are hurt.

See, for me the root of it is in needing to feel self-reliant and cooperative — I need so much to be liked, and I need to feel like I’m not burdening anybody by asking for help. I need to feel like I have a hard surface, that I’m not hemorrhaging emotion all the time because I get my feelings hurt easily. So I continue to agree to do things, I continue to pile things on my plate, on and on and on until I crash and burn. I grin and bear jabs at my weight, my appearance, my awkwardness. Then, even though *I* was the one that agreed to do something, I begin to grow frustrated with the people who are now depending on me.

Then I start slinging things back at people. I stop answering phone calls, I barely scrape by generally unprepared in the things I don’t particularly care to do but feel completely obligated to. I regret ever agreeing to do anything.

So, there you have it, folks. A nice, hot, steaming slice of humble pie.

Passive Aggressive Friends

Excuse me while I step up onto my soap box.

This is probably going to get me flamed to high heavens and back, but I can’t do much about that, can I? At least I know that it won’t be my PA friends flaming me — they’ll probably just never speak to me again.

Anyhow! Everybody’s got ‘em, and nine times out of ten they’re great! It’s just when you hit pockets of turbulence that things go from zero to difficult REALLY quick.

…And that’s when things get frustrating.

The problem I have is this: I have a healthy relationship with conflict. It doesn’t scare me — as a matter of fact, sometimes friction can create big, beautiful things (iron sharpens iron, and all that). I’m not confrontational and I don’t look for arguments, but having opposing viewpoints with people I love and respect is something that I’ve come to expect out of life. (Especially since I tend to have liberal views and live in the great state of ALABAMA. I’m just sayin’). So it’s especially frustrating to find myself in these awkward tangles with the PA folks in my life because it ends up like this:

I say something potentially offensive (it happens. frequently).

PA friend takes offense and either a) stops speaking to me or b) goes the snappy, spiteful route and attempts to make me miserable courtesy of cheap shots and lame, rude one liners.

I ask PA friend what the deal is. They respond with shock that I would ever think that they were mad at me. I must be crazy!

I, being an idiot, believe them. They continue either ignoring me or driving me nuts with their peanut gallery commentary, and I continue to be mystified.

Or, consider if you will, situation number two:

PA friend makes half-hearted jokes relating to information they’re trying to dig out of me about something.

I take their jokes at face value, they get their feelings hurt because I didn’t catch onto their well hidden probing for affirmation of some sort.

I just don’t think I’m smart enough for PA friends. Sure, I have book smarts. But when it comes to social stuff, I’m a bit of a buffoon. I’m usually too loud, knocking stuff over with my purse, accidentally stepping on people’s toes (figuratively and literally), the whole nine yards. How do my PA friends expect me to catch on when they’re mad at me??! Usually it’s just an effort not to send a snot rocket in someone’s direction when I’m laughing (way too loud) at something funny. And with the whole probing thing… Nine times out of ten it’s over things that I’ll just tell them if they come straight out and ask — I’m just not clever enough for the subtext.

So! What to take from this post? Nothing at all, except for what you see here.

If you’re one of my PA friends, and you’re reading this thinking “is she writing this about ME??!” Honestly, look at what you’re reading: a blog post authored by me about the horrors of passive aggression. Do you honestly think I lack enough self-awareness to write a passive aggressive blog tirade about YOU, my lovely little PA friend? Please. Give me a little credit! Do yourself a favor and take this blog post as exactly what it is: a tirade about being confused over conversations with no one in particular that go over my head.

I will now step down from my soapbox. I bid you good day.

A few links this afternoon

1) Just in case you live under a rock,  this week is Banned Books Week. If you check out my blog roll on the side, most of my friends have been posting beautifully written blogs about their favorite banned books, so check them out! There was one blog post in particular that I actually found while poking around on Twitter that really stuck out to me:

Why I Think Adults Should Shut the Bleep Up

2) Hipster-esque posturing and intellectual smugness aside, I found this really interesting as well, bullets number 1 and 2 in particular (to be honest, from 3 on kind of lost me), but the thing that really generated a lot of thought for me was this:

“The artists… are like art critics doing art — they’re better about their art than with it, better on their art than in it.”

 As a writer, it’s so easy to spend hours learning about the craft, talking about books read recently and picking them apart, participating in writer’s forums discussing voice and style. But how much of that translates into our writing? How much time do we spend thinking about it as opposed to actually doing it?

It also kind of fit in with this blog post I discovered earlier this morning (along with 3QD’s point 2). The two of these posts together raised a question in me that I find interesting, something that every writer must ask themselves at some point in their career:

Why do I write?

Do I write because I need to? Because I need a way to process what I observe around me on a daily basis?

Or do I write because I want to publish?

All very good food for thought. More on this later!

Question of the day:

Why do YOU write?

This is my life.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder… right? RIGHT?

I hope so, because by now you guys should LOVE me.

Unfortunately, I know the internet usually goes in the opposite direction. As a lot of you know, I started my internship a month ago and I’ve had a really hard time adjusting my new schedule around work, homework, and my home life. After a month of daily anxiety attacks (no, seriously), lack of sleep and general grumpiness, I finally feel like my old, normal, connected-to-the-universe self again. I had to make some sacrifices to make some room on my plate for the things that meant the most to me (namely, my marriage, school, work, and writing) and as much as I’d love to say I was able to keep all my friendships in tact, I’m worried that I might have lost a few in the process.

But, alas. If they were only hanging around because what I could do for them, they’re not really friends — right?

That’s what I’m telling myself anyway. And truth be told? The people who have loved me through the past month (my wonderful writer’s groups have been HUGE support for me) and repeatedly forgiven me for dropping the ball (looking at you, Crystal!) are the people who see past all of that and know that my continual crying and freaking out and being irresponsible isn’t typically a part of my MO.

So, I feel like these freakouts and mea culpas are coming far too often recently, but this is my life right now. But you know what? I’m totally optimistic about this fall. In two weeks I’m headed to the Auburn Writer’s Conference, November 1 begins National Novel Writing Month and holds my most favorite holiday ever (TURKEY DAY!!), December begins Advent — one of the most beautiful traditions my religion offers, and January holds the promise of a new year, my 25th birthday, and the National Championships.

But if by some chance I HAVE dropped the ball with you, know that I haven’t forgotten and I’m working on restitiution as we speak. I appreciate all of you so much for sticking around even though I haven’t posted anything new in like, ten billion years (okay, more like two weeks).

Here’s to hoping for brighter days!