The Ordinary Ride that Turned Extraordinary

The other morning, we were in merging in traffic on the freeway in Charlotte, which as usual, is under construction, and as usual, there was someone who failed to let me in. Obviously, I made it, but not without some teeth grinding and growling. 

After all, it was 8:30 and I was on my first cup of java with cream, no sugar. Sarah was in tow. We were on the way to school, and for some reason, I was not feeling my normal chipper self. Maybe it was the traffic. Maybe it was the fact that we were late again, our gold standard. It doesn't usually bother me though. It does, however, bother most others I've learned the hard way.

I am not a morning person- meaning I do not have an easy time hopping out of bed. Once up however, I'm "annoyingly cheery," an ex once told me. This morning was not really different from most mornings, only I was deflated. And I was letting things bother me that shouldn't. Ie. traffic, running out of peanut butter- things like that. To me, those are silly things that have no business influencing one's mood. 

Here I sat, gripping the wheel as if strangling wet clothes, letting all the wrinkles dance across my forehead while furrowing my brow, and not singing along with my favorite song on the radio. It was a self-inflicted misery. And I was the only one to blame. 

What happened next changed everything. 

I looked over to my right, and what I saw brought me to tears of joy. There was a teenage girl leaning her head against the window in the car she was riding in. Removed from the conversation in the front seat, she had soft red hair, with skin like ivory. She looked me dead in the eyes, and smiled a gentle smile- at me! Not at someone else. Not in response to what may have been playing through her ear buds, but she smiled directly at me. 

That's all I needed, and it just about melted my heart. That smile felt different- like a Godsend, like an angel had just smiled at me. In that singular moment, which probably lasted about 3 seconds, I felt loved. I felt worthy, noticed, appreciated, and relieved. I wasn't alone. Life wasn't that bad. And all it took was one small act of kindness.  (And it was from a teenager of all people!!!! They do have feelings! Gasp!)

She didn't pause to think whether or not she should smile at me. She didn't look the other way, pretending that she hadn't looked dead at me. There was no ignoring. Just a plain smile. And she will never know how her smile, her random act of kindness, improved me in that fleeting moment. 

Sure, we get that feeling from babies, and small children who are being dragged around by their rushing parents. Sometimes we might get an unprompted smile from someone across the room, someone in passing on the street, but not like that. 

That was intentional. 

Living intentionally is the only way to be grounded, to become your greatest you. I believe that we influence our moods, and we choose happiness, and it starts as small as a smile. 

 Because sometimes, that's all it takes. 

Empathy makes it challenging to smile when someone you know is sad, but that's what we need sometimes. It takes a special person to be able to do that. Those people are rare, and when you find one like that, you better cherish that relationship. 

Through broken hearts and tears, I've learned that there are some people who we are better off without, and others that I didn't value enough. It's funny how something as simple as a smile can drive thoughts like these. I'm so glad I had that moment. 

If I didn't ever feel sadness, I wouldn't value joy. 

My close friend, Charity tells me all the time, "You have to embrace the darkness. Without it you'd never know the light." She's right. 

I have never experienced a smile with impact like that before, and I thought I would share it. Who did you smile at today? I'd love to hear some responses to this. Have you ever experienced a moment like that? Tell us about it. 

Adoptive parents are clear indicators of human grace

I'm compelled to disclose some more of this story since I have kinda just left things hanging for the past year or so and let me tell you why. I went to my high school reunion last night- 20th to be exact, and I saw an old, and I mean old friend, Shannon. HAHA on old. We are clearly the same rotten age, and holding on tightly to our thirties as if dangling from a cliff overlooking the ocean on a James Bond flick from 1978. Actually, if I remember correctly, she is one year older than me, so she is clearly hanging on much tighter than me.

Anyway, she told me she read my entire blog, and I was shocked. I have no idea who reads this, unless you tell me, like she did. Moreover, I don't write this for the readership, although it's always nice to be complimented. It makes it seem more worthwhile, escaping the obvious reality that writing allows me to process all of this unfolding of truth (and lies).

I feel honored that anyone reads this, and my hopes are to write a book entailing the quest. I want somehow to incorporate the Godly perspective in all of this. Not sure how that will happen, but faithful that God will lead the way, if I just begin the typing.

A lot of the time, I don't really know where it all comes from when I write. I don't speak eloquently. I'm not over the top intelligent, probably just average Jill based on my life choices. That's to be held for the second book. How NOT to Live Your Life by Buga Fairley. So I'll maintain that God uses me for this. I'm sure that someone is getting something out of it.

Back to the quest. I am not even sure where I left off, so I'll just tell you what's happened recently. Approximately six weeks ago I felt brave one day. But let me preface this with it started with me lying on the green couch wailing out to God that I didn't understand why this woman wouldn't talk to me. I laid there alone, sun beaming in directly at me through the naked window, cradling the phone and scolding it's power at the same time.

I had effectively, on a whim, decided that I would call my birth uncle (by marriage), who is a complete stranger to me.

The uncle has a name. It's Wayne. He is married to my birth mother's older sister, who is 8 years older. He was easily located because he owns a business and let's face it, Google makes everything easier. What did we ever do without it? Bing doesn't hold a candle, but that's beside the point.

It apparently was his cell phone, because the voice mail didn't mention the company name. I left a message.

Hello Wayne. My name is Brooke Fairley and I'm calling on a personal note. Please call me back when you have some time. I almost hung up without giving him my number. Choke it up to nervous jitters.

I hung up and decided that he would probably not call me back.

I laid on the green couch and cried. What had I just done? All the rules of adoptee to birth mother engagement say that this is the absolute wrong approach. They tell us that this sort of thing only pisses people off. Because of the shame brought onto the mothers and the high degree of privacy they maintain to achieve throughout the years, this abrupt calling of near relatives before ever speaking to the birth mother is a big no-no. The crippling fear of being found out has these mothers in knots. They go on for their whole lives, some of them, thinking that one day they will be found. Paralyzed by the very thought.

 I did it anyway.

You see, these women, went to undeniable lengths to hide their pregnancies. They couldn't face the harsh public eye. If subjected to it, they would be shunned and could lose everything.

That was the mentality.

The devil is a liar. He is out to steal, kill, and destroy. He stole the baby from the mothers. He killed any chance at happiness after having a baby for these mothers. And that asshole destroyed any chance of a relationship. I believe that the cruelty of the times was a direct result of his terrible doings. He instilled the fear, produced the anxiety, and discouraged mothers from keeping their babies by fueling the fires in the public eye.

God's answer was adoption. He gave the parents who could not have children the opportunity to be parents. Who knows if maybe God had previously decided to not allow those parents to have children. And through his loving grace gave them a second chance, answered their prayers, gave them children to love. It's my opinion that parents who adopt are the most loving of all. They take in a child that didn't come from their own womb, and love that child as if she were their own blood. They make an agreement with God (and with an agency likely) to take care of the child for the rest of their lives. That means unconditional love.

The Bible tells us that we are all adopted by God. Ephesians 1:5 says, God decided in advance to adopt us into his own family by bringing us to himself through Jesus Christ. This is what he wanted to do, and it gave him great pleasure.

I believe that adoption is the ultimate gift and lesson at the same time. Parents make a commitment to God and adoptees know what it feels like to be loved by people who weren't forced by law to love them. To be taken care of by these selfless people is the greatest gift. It is the ultimate gift of grace and it's human grace, which is something we don't see enough of.

So I waited on the couch, crying out to God in another moment of misunderstanding. I was letting the better part of me sink, and the questioning part of me rise and demand answers. So in my temporary insanity, I thought it would be OK to make that call that I knew in my heart was the wrong thing to do. And I had to live with myself.

You see, love doesn't make demands. And I was demanding that this woman confront me from all angles. I had now sunken to new lows by attempting to allow someone who may or may not have known about my birth, in on our little secret.

That was dangerous. But what did I have to lose? I guess, my integrity. The devil doesn't want us to have it. And I let him win that battle. Regretably so.

As the light was beaming on my face and I was holding the phone still against my chest, it rang. It was Wayne. The call went like this.

Hello, this is Wayne. I am returning your call. 
Yes. Hello Wayne. Thank you for calling me back. Um... (long pause). This is a little awkward for me, and it probably will be for you. Are you available to talk for a little bit?
Yes. Sure. (sounding curious though puzzled)
Your sister in law, Colette, is my birth mother. In 1976 she had a baby, and gave her up for adoption. That's me. I'm the baby.

to be continued....

Paperwork Schmaperwerk

It has been months I've made any brazen attempts at knowing this strange woman who quite possibly begrudgingly carried me in her warm womb, then in a matter of six short, but painful hours, squeezed me through her birth canal and then left my life forever. The paperwork I have on my birth which is completely compiled in one tight paragraph, did not detail the nuances of childbirth and pregnancy the way most loving mothers would recall having their first born child- splashed with descriptive actions like 'felt your little kicks" and, "rubbing my belly," and the word glisten was perfectly absent. There is a simple, almost polite, completely sterile, three sentence paragraph with not a single comma. Bland and nondescript- as if baby birthing in 1976 was equal to a one-liner joke told by a Rodney Dangerfield impersonator in a seedy off off Broadway flat in NY's finest shitty neighborhood. I don't get it. Not one iota of detail surrounding the birth of a human being except a scientific description of my twisted right foot, and a suggested path to correction. Wow. That is one great book to read- about as informative and interesting as reading a printer manual in Mandarin.

I guess this disgusting lack of description is particularly deflating to someone like me for selfish reasons. I like to describe things. Nothing makes me more happy than to accurately and intricately outline a story. I like to know the juice, drink the juice, be the juice. The nitty gritty intrigues my mind, and I get off on being understood and explaining things to the point of undeniability. And when it is finished, you'll know because you will want more- like now. Like exactly now.

Truth be told, all of this driving desire to reunite with these perfect strangers is a combo of selfish determination and self-unawareness- self being the key descriptor. It's just not right to want to invade someones privacy for senseless reasons that only pertain to myself. Devilishly transparent, even putrid you might be thinking. Either way, I will get to the bottom of this if I have to think this thing into the ground and later excavate it. I hate to say this will be the death of me because I am hoping and praying that breath will be spoken into this relationship, but I have somewhat prepared for a slam in the face heart-wrenching NO, which is really what I've already been dealing with I suppose. The fact that these long lost people of mine, well formerly mine, in utero only, have not responded to my oddball requests and multiple letters to my birth mother, each more forceful than its predecessor, the fact that they have not responded in any form or fashion reminds me of Dumb and Dumber when Lloyd was told that there was one in a million chances that he would have a chance with the girl, and he jumped up, clicking his heels, and said, "You mean there is a chance!" Actually, in the movie I don't recall any leprechaun heel clicking moves in that scene, but there could have been. My memory isn't as good as yours probably.

I have turned into Lloyd. Great. Despite the very real truth that I love Dumb and Dumber with all my heart and even have a VHS copy of it in case the DVD accidentally cracks, I do not insist on insulting my intelligence like that, but I prefer to see the humor in most things uncomfortable.

Lucky for me (and Lloyd) there is hope- that small sliver of detail that people often forget about when the going gets rough. I plan to rely on that and faith for the rest of my life, and until either of those run out, I know in my heart that I will be fine. Period.

I will continue the elusive chase I imagine, until I feel satisfied with one answer, or until I am completely pushed off the face of the earth- whichever comes first.

I like to keep the stalking fresh and switch it up every now and then. Occasionally, banging through the keyboard by means of a random message sent on Facebook, not surprising at all if you think about it, considering 100,000,000,000 (too many zeros) people are finely in-tune with it's feed and consider posting to it a daily ritual, myself included.  I have not picked up the phone to call my birth aunt though lately; Melody is her name- to announce to her family on what sounded like a 1987 Radio Shack answering machine that I have been looking for them for quite some time, and that I believe that we are related. No return call. Twice I called, twice left messages, the second more direct than the first and probably more insistent on a return call, which was not honored nor probably appreciated, based on the response I got- which was zip, zilch, and zero all combined into a whopping bag of nothing.

I have also written the birth mother one snail mail letter, and two separate emails. None returned, so that is a clear indicator that Mr.M Daemon did not get a hold of them. I also have bombarded her friend, and my former friend who has assimilated to the non-responsiveness that the rest of the family is taking up. She unknowingly released the privied information to the search angel, Debi, who ultimately found my birth mother for me, in a very closed, and very sealed adoption dating back to the seventies. I just aged myself, but for the sake of the storyline, which is really my life story unfolding as you see it here, I will take it like a champ. The friend who outed my birth mother, probably got a tongue lashing and a cold shoulder after that, which might assign some truth into the character of my birth mother and her unassuming family. Well I honestly don't believe she told any one in her family other than her sister, and parents who visited her while she was in the maternity home which was and still is located in Charlotte.

One day soon, I might have a visit to the Florence Crittenton Home for unwed mothers. I might just have a visit this weekend. I'll take my camera and upload some pics of the joint since no one thought it was appropriate back then when I was born. I guess instead of creating memories, the birth mothers wanted to shove the memory of birthing a baby and giving it away to complete strangers to raise is something that was not especially camera worthy, and not exactly fond, and probably something that kept resurfacing at odd times throughout the years creating much pain and undue suffering.

But I guess back then, the idea was to keep the privacy of the adoptive parents at the forefront, and the rights of the birth parents practically abolished like the detailed descriptions were of the births and what led up to the births. That would include any real life situations that could have been addressed without having to give up a child.  Maybe that is the truth. Maybe if those thoughts were revisited for too long, ideas would form that would lead to different outcomes and different lives, affecting the world in a much easier, digestible light. Maybe, just maybe I would not be sitting here right now, typing this.

I am very thankful for my family. Do not get it twisted. I am truly blessed, but with that blessing came a very real interest, inherited if you will, and born deep into my soul in finding my people. I think anyone who takes that for granted has no idea what it is like to be the one who doesn't.

If it happens that we meet, that we exchange some open communication, some rhetoric is dialed up, maybe even some real life interaction, I don't know what I should expect because I have already formed in my mind what it will look like when it happens. That is a probably one of the only private things about this story of mine that I have remained sealed about. That too, will be revealed, as more is revealed, an unveiling of a mystery. That mystery holds the key to me. And by God, I am determined to get to the bottom of it- even if the outcome is devastatingly unfavorable. I can assume closure, and this chapter will be no longer an anomaly in this life.

My FINAL post...a happy ending

It dawned on me that my birth mother might find this blog now that she has my name. It would not be hard for her to find this since for some probably incredibly self-absorbed reason I have tweeted a post here and there. I can't explain why I feel compelled to share such a personal struggle with an often cold, heartless world, and even if I could, you most likely would not understand it unless you are adopted. In fact, I came to the realization that most people do not understand the dynamic of adoption- including the adoptees. I've noticed that many adoptees don't see the goodness in it, because they are sometimes too self-absorbed and reeling from the unknowns that they themselves do not find the truth in the matter- that adoption more often than not, stemmed from love in the purest form. It stemmed from a place in the heart that has boundless love and grace.

People don't realize that when we give something up, we are making room for something new and something better. That's how God describes brokenness. He says that he must break us to rebuild us. And how can I go my entire life thinking about why this woman gave me up without first realizing that had she not have, I would not know the people that I do, had the family that I have, or led the life that I've lived? How could I not have the  perspective that shows me that what I have been devoid of, was nothing that really made a difference in of itself to begin with? I would have never thought that I would come to this realization while sitting at my computer at work on a Monday morning.

I finally came full circle.

I realize now that whatever it was that I felt I needed so badly in my life, my birth mother, my blood relatives, my history, never really mattered in the first place. I never needed what I didn't have, and I think that's what God was trying to tell me all this time I have been writing this blog and doing this search, acting as if it was a rescue. I never needed to be saved, and neither did Colette. We were separated for a reason that God had planned. We needed to be taught some of the most valuable of all lessons. I can't speak for her, but I can speak for myself. I think he was trying to generate some gratitude from me- gratitude that I have always had what I needed when I needed it, and for as long as I needed it. That's my gift in all of this. I am finally beginning to understand the lesson at hand- the lifelong lesson, and they are always lifelong in my opinion. We can never have too much knowledge, too much understanding, too much grace. I have received it, and I thank God for giving me this gift that never ceases to fill hearts- the gift of gratitude, of gratefulness, of thankfulness, of grace. And boy do I need all I can get of grace. But in order for me to be able to receive God's gifts in my life, I needed to be thankful for what I have already been given- which is a life of wonderful blessings. I have a wonderful family, a beautiful daughter. I have a great job. I have a house, a car, and I attend a wonderful church that I feel so happy to be a part of. But the things that matter most...matters of the heart, those are the true blessings- the intangibles- happiness, love, gratitude, peace, joy, generosity, kindness, understanding of others, cheer, consideration of others.

So as of right now this second, I have finally realized that I do not need to know the reasons for my lifelong separation from the woman who gave birth to me. It doesn't matter. It was a loving plan that God had made for me. It was His way of saying, "I love you, my child," as he continually does for all of us. It's unfortunate that we don't pay enough attention to His whispers. I am so glad that I finally heard Him say, "You are MY child, Brooke."

I think I can probably retire this blog now. So it's with great pleasure and peace in my heart that I can bid you au revoir...

Unless I hear from Colette of course, and I will fill you in then...

The Card

Tomorrow is the day that we've all been waiting for

For my birthday, which is Thursday, and I'm not telling you how old I am, but with a little digging in my blog you could very easily find out if you cared enough, I am going to mail a card to my birth mother. It's not going to be something long and drawn out. It won't be a tear jerker like my previous letters. Nope. Instead,  it will be something short and sweet and to the point. It will more resemble an invitation than anything else. It's time.

You should have seen me at Harris Teeter last night trying to find an appropriate card. It was like watching nursing home residents in their wheelchairs argue about who jumped who in line at 4:30 when the white clothed people ring the cowbell. Some of them hit with their canes, others with their stuffed animals. Either way, it's pretty freaking funny. As you can imagine, there wasn't much to choose from. Had it been cheese that I was looking for, I would have had a much rougher time deciding. There's this nifty, but not thrifty, gift shop here in Charlotte, that has an incredible array of paper products and fun gift ideas that would have sufficiently done the job (thanks Paper Skyscraper for not being in Mint Hill), but as it were, I was there, in Mint Hill, where I loathingly reside, and as I tell people routinely, Mint Hill just doesn't have much to choose from (in anything, men included). There were two cards that I had to choose from. Both were tinging on the side of cheesy and both were altogether pretty lame. One of them made mention of faith, courage, and strength- three of my favorite attributes in people and aliens. The other, had the words inside, "you are thought of more often than you think." I was leaning towards that one, but it had a picture of a cheesy telephone drawn on it, and it looked like something you could pick up at the stab-n-grab on the way to the beach. I decided against it. I got the semi-cheesy one that mentioned courage. I liked what it said. And I had no choice. I would probably go to Paper Skyscraper this afternoon had I not taken the bus today. Taking the bus is economical, but not practical when you are a single mom. Oh well. I refuse to let my lack of a proper card hold me back from finally sending the card. In fact, I think I will just go straight to Walgreens when I get to my car and buy a new card there since they might have a better selection. I'm going to look really silly and really chintzy returning a Hallmark card to Harris Teeter. Who cares? I'm sure I've looked much worse. Just ask anyone I know. I've toppled the charts on looking stupid. I am a hall of famer.

So this is what my note will say verbatim:

For my birthday this year, I wanted to give something precious away, and since I already lost my virginity, I thought I would invite you to join in my life. I think we've been separated long enough. Don't you? I am ready now. I hope you are too. But if you are not, I will hunt you down and kill your family.

OK, no. That's not what it will say verbatim. But it sounded pretty damn funny. Instead I think I will say this:

For my birthday this year, I decided I would send out the best invitation ever to only one person. We have been separated long enough. I'm ready to invite you into my life. I hope you are ready to join. It will only cost you $500/Mo. with no down payment payable in equal installments by the 5th of the month.

OK, no again. But that would be so funny. It will be short and you get the gist. I don't plan on letting her off the hook so easily by telling her that I forgive her for letting me go, even though I'm not mad or hurt. She doesn't need to know everything yet. I also don't plan on telling her about Sarah, but I will include a picture of us together. I think a picture says a thousand words and a few cuss words in the mix in braille if you throw up a bird, which I don't intend on doing. But that would be kinda funny too. I'm beginning to see a pattern here. White couch here I come.

Lastly, and on a more sincere note, I would like to say that I welcome a relationship with my birth mother, and despite having made a mockery of my life and of adoption in general, by writing a blog for my peers and the world to see and gawk at, I truly do care about the outcome. I did this for one main reason- to document my search for other adoptees who are in limbo and in search themselves and feel isolated in that they don't have many peers who can relate to their situation, nor understand, and it has ultimately become a creative outlet for me to express my feelings without cussing someone out, which is never good.

I will post a video of myself dropping the letter in the mailbox at work tomorrow, provided I can get someone to video it. My timing might be off by one day because I don't know how long it will take for the letter to get from Crown Town to J-Vegas, but we shall see. It's been almost 36 years, she can wait one more day. Crap, I ended up telling you anyway. I can't keep a secret to save my life.

Garbage in Garbage out

Dedicated to my dear, very old (lol) friend, Chris.

As I realize that there is so much more to life than what meets the eye, I can't help but notice one of the most important of all characteristics of life lessons- one that is often learned late, and more often unfortunately, when it's too late: the ability to let things go. Most of what I know about, what I write about later, comes from life lessons. I fear to say that life lessons aren't learned from a book because anyone who writes most likely reads and anyone who reads knows that you can become quite enlightened from reading the feelings of those who write about them. So it's with delicate measures that I make the verbal assumption that learning's playground is hands on and the curve is ever changing. (I'll expand more later on this.)

Since my house has been torn up, my pysche has been in conjunction, crumbling as well, as has Sarah's I've determined. At least that's the only thing I can blame for her awful behavior recently. Maybe it's the fact that I have made spoiling children look like a work of art. Either way, I've noticed that there are lots of times in my life that I have not let the right things go, and slipped on the heels of the unscrupulous all too many times.

The sheer stress of making difficult decisions alone has just about put me in an early grave. But what I've noticed is, that it's not the decisions that are tough to make, it's recognizing and associating the value of the accompanying factors that lead up to the decision making time that distract us from making right choices. For example, your mind remembers numbers in one basic way. It's called chunking. It trains itself to break up numbers into small recognizable numbers which enables it to remember longer numbers easier than if you were to try to remember one long number. Telephone numbers are a perfect example of chunking. If you look at your daily decision making routines in that way, you can account for all the contributing factors that divide and conquer your mind, which ultimately influence your decision.

My outlook is ever changing, and it's only when I have moments of clarity and distinction that I can realize that it's not the actual problem that stems the unwanted results, it's my way of chunking out the underlying issues. I have always been a believer in fate, in destination, which would only allow me to believe that things will ultimately be OK. One would think that would negate any feelings of uncertainty, any unruly feelings altogether, which brings me to the final point in thought.

We live in a constant emotional state as we allow ourselves to. There is not a feeling in the world that will supply us with a correct answer- because there are no right and wrong answers. What is right to you might be wrong to me, and vice versa. There is and there is not, and it is all according to you. That is life. In math, your equations will either end up right or wrong, but there are lots of equations that even the latest and greatest could never solve. Everything is contradictory, and we are all human. That is one of the hardest lessons to learn.

If I can keep my mind in this state, I will be fine. Who knows what I will feel in five minutes. hahahahahahahaha. Point proven.

Change your Lens dude.

How I wish there was a Starbucks in my neighborhood. No, actually, let's make it in my house, and on my nightstand right this second. Don't you wish you could just think something up, and it would happen? Some people say that you can. They call it the the law of reciprocity, which in essence, really means, that what you exert comes back to you. I don't know if I believe all that crap, but one thing is for certain. The people that you surround yourself with will undoubtedly change your outcomes if you let them. We will obviously have many outcomes in our lives because nothing stays the same, nothing is permanent, and life is a constant motion.

I learned this lesson the hard way in many cases, especially recently. I happen to be very trusting person, thus probably naive to the world and its many inhabitants. There are those who want to bring process improvement, who are driven by matters of the heart, who are not hesitant to help, and not thinking in terms of dollar signs, but genuinely want to help one another. And you have those who want to save the world, but who want and expect to get rich doing so, and instead of climbing the mountain with a walking stick, they climb over people instead, squashing them like ants on a sidewalk. And there are those who don't care period. They don't genuinely care about themselves, others, or anything for that matter. In their twisted mind they are "helping, " but the truth of the matter is, they are doing just the opposite. They are making matters worse. I wouldn't say that there are 3 types of people in the world because I'm not a fan of stereotyping. But I would say that people are often mislead. We are guilty of doing it, and we are victims of it.

I believe that setbacks are just lessons learned. Some happen to be more biting than others, but they are all the same whether we want to believe it or not. We should all try to constantly clean our lenses, and if you want to think in terms of the bigger picture, one could say that we all need to be viewing our setbacks as welcomed times for us to grow and learn and morph. It's all in your outlook. No problem is too big. None is worse than another. It's all relevant, and it's real, and you are always capable of fixing whatever it is that plagues you just by cleaning your lens. And while you might not be able to change the actual outcome or actually put the broken pieces back together because maybe some are missing, maybe some are cracked, you are able and capable of changing the way you let the brokeness affect you as a whole. You can choose to be aware of your surroundings or  be self aware.


Now I know you are thinking, "Brooke, that's bullshit. A 4 year old daughter who has Spinibifida is not comparable to your pipes in your house being shaken up a little. A terminally ill mother of 6 young children is nowhere near the likes of a car breaking down or a missed school bus, or a computer virus that shuts down your website." And while you might be thinking that they are not related, not in the same category of pain, same lines of stress, or in comparison by any means, they are all relative, and all manageable.

How we deal with stressors in our lives that have potential to rip away layers of our very beings is most important. The way we react can often lead to our outcomes, and the people we involve ourselves with can interfere with healthy reactions regularly. This is a very sensitive topic for many people in the world today. Whiners and nay sayers will tell you over and over again that it can't be done, that there is no way, that you are naive in your thinking. And you will start believing their lies. So before you get entangled with people who don't think positively, and don't clean their lenses often, politely remove yourself from their realm. It's OK to withdraw. Your services have been rendered long enough. And some people you can never change. But you can always, always change yourself.

I have peace in my heart because I know that God is working on me and for me. You can always know that God is working in your behalf even when you don't see it. Often times you won't. And often times you will not understand your adversity. But if you embrace your adversity, you will grow in ways that you would have never thought possible especially,  "in that situation." But always know that He is working on your behalf- the silent partner. I owe it to God. Without him, nothing is possible.

Final Thought

A couple days ago a co-worker of mine, who I consider to be a real friend, because we meet at the mind quite frequently, and our hearts seem to be in sync also, told me something that resonated in me. She said that God can't fix your heart if you don't give him all the pieces. I think that says it all for now. I love our "smoke breaks" (Neither of us smoke. Smoking is yucky.)

The Voices that Brought me to 13

While lying under the soft, thick covers of the twin bed I was very uncomfortably and against my will, but insisted upon sharing with my daughter, Sarah, on Valentine's Day during a sleep over at my aunt and uncle's house, I had a great and wonderful feeling come over me from something that most people would find small and insignificant. I was lying there, straight as an arrow, blindly looking straight up at a seemingly never ending ceiling. Without vision correction, I am legally blind, I just recently learned at an optometrist visit. I laid there stiff as a board as if I was a corpse in a coffin six feet under with saddened family members stomping on the ground above me. There was no room for elbows or bent knees because of the impending little arms and legs that curled up beside me, leaving me practically dangling from the edge. As I laid there, thinking about the day that had ended and mentally preparing for the future 6:30am alarm, I was lucky enough to have a feeling come across me that many people probably wish they had more often.

I felt like I was again at home, not my current home I share with Sarah, but my parent's home that I grew up in- that home that they sold in 1999. That was the home that we grew up in. This feeling that was spreading throughout my body and mind was almost overwhelming. And what it stemmed from, was something routine and ordinary, but to me, was out of the ordinary, and felt extraordinary.

You know how sometimes when you are lying in bed and your eyes are open, but the room is pitch black, and you are somehow mentally transported to your childhood bedroom by just the way the light is hitting a wall? You lay there imagining your closet door hanging open with its built in blinds that as a child you always envisioned was concealing some form of monster or ghost. And you can picture your chest sitting there against the wall right beside your bed draped with your trinkets and childhood jewelry box or mementos that your grandfather who died when you were 13 had given you, but somehow during your lifetime you managed to regrettably lose. Perhaps they were stolen by a friend or worse, your brother's friend. Perhaps  misplaced in a move and unknowingly left in a dusty moving box in the attic, and had you known they were there, they might be currently sitting proudly atop your new dresser that you bought yourself with your first real paycheck from your first real salaried job. Whatever the scenario might be for you, you know that you will never forget your childhood bedroom no matter how many times you might paint it a disastrous orange or adorn it with unsightly hair band posters which rivaled a neighboring Kirk Cameron in a blue blazer and white t-shirt poster, all stuck to the walls with some yellow, greasy silly putty knock off that never really did the trick, so you resorted back to the old stand by- scotch tape. It worked every time.

As I was frozen, mentally trans juxtaposed in my alternate reality that now mostly provides me with fond memories, there was nothing I could do to get myself out of this state of mind. There was nothing I wanted to do. I enjoyed it. It was like I was 13 again, only I was happy.

My early teen years were particularly painful because of mean girls at school mostly, accompanied by the obvious hormonal changes that alter even the sweetest of little girls' demeanour, and there were days I felt like committing suicide. I would never do that, but the thought of being dead meant not having to deal with mean three-way calls and sitting down at the lunch table and having every single person at the table get up and walk away. I will never forget how painful that was. Those people who stood up with their brown lunch trays probably don't even remember doing it, maybe they don't even remember my name.

What brought me back to that awkward time of my life, minus the awkward, was something so trivial. I could hear from downstairs the voices of my Aunt Linda, my Mom, and my Uncle Neil. They were talking and the TV was almost drowning out their conversation. That's all it was- the sound of men and women talking that was traveling up the stairs to my room above. It's been almost fifteen years since I have been in an upstairs room and heard adults talking below me. The house that my parents bought after we moved from that house didn't have an upstairs room that I slept in. I mostly slept in the basement apartment or on the same level as they did.

Who would have thought that something so small, so insignificant, would have invoked such feeling. I would love to have that feeling everyday. But as it is, I don't think I will. It felt good to reminisce though. I love moments like that. You can't replicate the feeling of family. You can, however, appreciate what you have when you have it. It's in those moments that I feel most alive, most grateful.

9/14/11 creativity should not be squandered

I am starting to believe that creativity is a gift from God. I've always wondered what gifts I've had, other than being a really good bullshitter. Having been known for having the gift of gab for most of my life, starting at the ripe-old age of 7 when my second grade teacher would often make handwritten notes to my mom on my tri-folded report card, donning the school crest in the traditional all-American colors of red, white, and blue- after all, it is called Myers Park Traditional, still to this day. (In fact, I have been toying with sending Sarah there next year, if I can get her in.) She would say things like, "Talks too much," or "If only we could get Brooke to focus as much on her schoolwork as she does on gabbing to her neighbors." No one pointed out to Mrs. James that was an incomplete sentence, especially not me.
My GOG- gift of gab has had its ramifications. I have either been the life of the party, causing many nights of senseless groundation while I was in my teenage years. Well, it was senseless in the regard that I was doing dumb things, and always got caught. On the other hand, I was also occasionally the social outcast, having always spoken my mind, and at the age of 17, it is never appropriate for a young woman to speak her mind, simply because she doesn't have enough worldly knowledge to sufficiently and succinctly express any opinions she might have prematurely formed, without realizing. Everyone knows that when you are a teenager, you know everything. You can't tell a teenage girl anything. She already knows. Little did I really know. Little do I still know. Maybe that's a clue as to why I am so intrigued with elderly people, and enjoy their presence and likewise accompanying stories.