Five Things - 1st Edition

Five Things* is brought to you via the inspiration of Bleubird. I stopped by her blog and loved the concept of the "10 Things" she shares. This week in particular it was a really good pause, in light of how quickly the sadness, tragedy kept rolling into the world we're in. I'll be attempting to post my five things every week; five things that let me pause and enjoy my week, and the little things that make it brighter. 

1. thredUP - Im attempting to only buy second hand clothes, twice per year (Spring/Summer and Fall/Winter). This site makes it easy to look awesome and cut down on waste. I purchased this bag as part of my Fall/Winter 2016 wardrobe.

2. Biscuit T Shirts - In light of my most recent bit of writing, I've been wearing my tee a lot more. Thank you to my gracious mother-in-law for gifting it to me. Also, really. Eat one.

3. Jack Kerouac, Mexico City Blues - Read some poetry.

4. Lush Cosmetics Bath Bombs - Also another mom-in-law gift, and an evening of bath bliss. Glass of wine (Malbec, preferable) not included, but required.

5. Peace

“If we have no peace, it is because we have forgotten that we belong to each other.”

— Mother Teresa

*Please note that the images in Five Things will most likely come from online sources, sites and good old fashioned Google Images. Unlike the the other images included in my writing, they won't be my own work.

Biscuits: Conflict of Interest

My family (like the maternal, paternal kind) believed very strongly in a lot of things, and one of those things is that being Southern is something to be incredibly proud of. Proud like you would be if your family is directly descended from George Washington and you had the Delaware crossing boat in a museum somewhere with your name on it. Just so we're clear, my family is not descended from George Washington, but more like the cast extras from a season of Justified. My family is Alabama red clay, balmy Gulf Coast humidity living, gimmie-that-old-timey-religion Southern. There are pictures of magnolias on the wall beside the mounted deer head in the house that sits on 80 acres of pine trees at the end of a 1.5 mile dusty dirt road that takes you by a herd of cows (my uncle owns those if you're curious), by a hog parlor (no, that's a real thing), and two double wide trailers that an industrious fellow pulled together and nailed mostly in line with giant sheets of plywood and tarps. Also there's the corn fields, pastures, and swampy spots. Paddle. Faster.

Speaking of Justified, you know that song you hear, the one that says you'll never leave Harlan County alive? Ok, life where I grew up is like that. Most people don't leave. And they're really damn happy about it. Also this might be the time I mention that the "town" I grew up in is called Howardtown. My last name is Howard. I was lucky enough to have that last name in Howardtown and it was also an alignment of the stars that my father's father owned the land this town was on. And my mother's father owned what he didn't. My grandfathers were feuding. That's right people, I used the word feuding in a context that does not involve the Hatfields and McCoys, or moonshine... although I feel quite certain moonshine could have improved the situation. Teetotalers does not even being to cover the opinion those two men have of alcohol. 

I did leave and so did my brother. And in leaving I started looking back, seeing my home town fade into the distance of the metaphorical rearview mirror of my life. I had struggled being there, growing there and never felt like I fit in. It was a relief to walk away, and as I started art school (which doesn't attract too many kids who grew up the way I did) I knew that I had the opportunity to truly rid myself of what I had struggled with for 17 years. That ridding wasn’t entirely negative. I learned a lot during this time that I hadn’t before, and I am proud of that. I learned more about myself as well. I learned that the way I had always thought, dressed, spoke, etc. wasn’t something I needed to change but just allow to be. Growing up, it had always felt like a burden that I wasn’t particularly attracted to men in trucks or having a family by the time I was 20, and finally I was in a place where it was ok to be different.

On the other hand, it did cause a problem for me. I have an identity issue. I also make good biscuits. Not sure what these two things have to do with one another? Yea, me either. Yet more often than not when I am in the center of my identity crisis I find myself thinking about biscuits, and how important it was to my mother, grandmothers and great-grandmothers that I learn how to make them. Biscuits, and cornbread. Also when paired with tomato gravy, it was a more than adequate dinner option. These things roll around in my head continuously. When I hear people talk about the South, and its changing cultural landscape (The New-New South, if you will), I feel both attracted to the concept and really very alienated. I’ve spent most of my life being raised as "old southern" and very much detaching myself from being southern at all. I know I'm not the first person to think like this, or be hesitant to identify with the term. It's a conflict of interest, so to speak.

Before I continue here let me address some things. I wasn’t raised with confederate flags flying outside my house, or being told that my race made me superior. I didn’t watch the Klan gather, use racial slurs and most likely would have been severely punished for doing so. My parents (despite the Southern Baptist stigma) are extremely aware that racism is alive and well, and that it is a core issue that has to be resolved. I was never once taught that I was any different or any better than another person. Period. In addition to the race conflict, my parents never drew any distinction between socioeconomic statuses either… But I watched grandfathers and uncles and cousins and others do so. I saw judgement in their eyes when my dad would talk about his black pastor friends and although I may have not been taught it, I observed many, many of the stigmas that the south deservingly carries.  

So, you see, here’s my issue– I want to see this New South that people are discussing, and even be a part of it. I obsess over southern artists and makers like Alabama Chain, Billy Reid and others. In fact I would say that most of my favorite artists (visual or otherwise) are from the state of Alabama. Yet at the same time, I feel that the things I love about being southern could very quickly bring up painful history for many, and not the warm, fuzzy nostalgia that it does for me (even for me those fuzzies are few and far between). 

I'm going to be attempting to work through this crisis and maybe even figure out how to be “new southern.” I can’t quite sort out why my heart and mind are fixated on this being a core item in my life that needs resolving, but somehow it is significant. Maybe it is the inherent need we all have for a culture that feels like home to us. Or maybe I just really like making biscuits.

Three Months

The last 3 months of 2015 were the hardest I have ever encountered in my independent, married, adult life. There were tough times in my childhood that are comparable (which of course fed into these 3 very difficult months, because that's how this kind of thing works), but nothing in my life has ever pushed me to the bottom of a pit like October - December of 2015. Tough times, folks. It wasn't pretty. 

When the cracks in my personally constructed exterior began to expand, I decided within myself (in a very me sort of way) that if I was going to shatter, then I was going to do it completely. That is who I am; all or nothing. It was time to shatter the walls of my glass container – the one that allowed people to see a shiny me, but never get close. I opened my heart, and my mind and finally, my mouth. I spoke, and listened and cried and begged. I begged for mercy. I begged for death. I begged for love. I begged for peace, and then for more death. In those three months of self-inflicted brutality, I learned a few things. I saw myself, and the patterns of my life for what they were. When I did, I went through the phases of passing my own judgement, handing down my death sentence and then... accepting grace. Grace from others, and myself and from God.  

This time in my life is not over, but it is transforming. Transforming. Transformation is the pattern that life follows, and the universe reminds us of each day. Night to morning. Evening to night. It is a cycle of transformation that continues around us and in us in such a way that we should never expect anything less from each minute, and day, and year. Each moment is about transformation. I can't say that I came to this conclusion with bright eyes and a full heart. It came through a process. A process of transformation. Here's some of the things that led to, and came with that process - 

1. When you see yourself and you know it is not who you should be, you can walk away from it. You should walk away from it.

"Just because people know you a certain way doesn't mean you can't move forward or change or risk something new. That is not hypocrisy. It's growth"
                                                                                                                  - Jen Hatmaker

I am allowed to change. You are allowed to change. You don't have to stay in that place you're in, and you don't have to think about those who expect you to. You're not falsifying the testimony of your life by choosing a new one. You are expanding your life.

I saw myself for who I was. I hated it. I hated me. That's not a place to linger in, my friend. That is a place to spur us to action in a new direction. It was not easy. I repeat, IT WAS NOT EASY. To admit and confess and open up and reveal was miserable. Painful in the most excruciating way. But it was right. It was right for me to do, and it was right for those that I love. It was right for the world around me. 

2. "1.) The truest thing about God is what He says about Himself, not what we think He is like.  2.) The truest thing about us is what God says about us, whether or not we believe it or  'feel' it to be true."        
                                                                                                     - Will Wyatt, Discovery

I think when I am on my death bed I will say that the knowledge that has taken me longest to learn is that God is not who I thought he was. He's not the God I was taught in my childhood. He is not the God I construct in my mind. He is not the God I assumed. He is so perfectly and uniquely himself and the sheer acknowledgement of that is the reason im alive right now. He is not who we think he is. He is who he says he is.

The second longest lesson will be who he says I am. I am among those who believe they are worthless in every way. Every. Way. If I were to describe to you the ways in which I believe that my taking up space on this planet is as useless and detrimental as the landfills we slowly suffocate it with, then I would only be giving you a glimpse of the opinion I have of myself. This is not a cry for sympathy. This is my reality. But, my reality can change. My reality can change and come to terms with God's. His reality looks very different than mine, and to say I feel the power, freedom of that in each day now is to say I feel transformation in a way that I've never felt it before. 

These things move me forward. They have carried me through the last few months, and I suspect will be the mantra of my year in 2016. I want to break the patterns of my previous life, and create new ones. I want them to contrast as strongly as giving up a fast-food cheeseburger and eating only what you grow from the dirt (this is actually a bit literal in my life, but we'll keep that for another time). The essence of who I am, the person I buried under years of walls can emerge in a new way and in a beautiful way. I am loved. I am valued. I am strong. I will love, I will value and I will give strength. 

Women Who Inspire - My Mother

I am not a parent but I would venture to say it's not easy. Through the years of noting the lines around the eyes and the tension migraines on the way to swim meets, I feel safe to say it's a tough gig. I've also noticed the mother daughter dynamic can be especially complicated. There are dramatic arguments, unsolicited fashion advice, and so much estrogen. Just. So. Much.

I wish I could say that in my own life it is/was the classic like-mother-like-daughter duo. In our family, it's more like-mother-like-son. I am like my dad. When the talks of life had to happen, it all came from my dad. He could simply look at me, and I would know everything I needed to know. My dad gave me the gift of understanding. My mother gave me grit.

She is tough. She is very, very tough. She comes from Oklahoma by way of parents who were equally tough and landed her in the balmy south. My mom now has a complex mix of western practicality and southerness. She's more than happy to remind you of proper wardrobe etiquette ("What do you mean that you wore your sweatpants out of the house? Are you ill?!"). On the other hand, she's not a real fan of being called, "Darlin,' " by the general public. You're a cashier at HomeDepot, sir. Let's all be professional. 

Her toughness gives her a backbone, which she then instilled into her children. Don't waver when it is hard. Hard means you grow. Don't doubt what you know to be true. Think. It doesn't matter your circumstances, you always think. Think of others. Think of your beliefs. Think of consequences - both positive and negative. "Think, Meagan Ashley!" As an adult I can still hear her voice saying those words to me. 

What I love most in her is that she does think. I love that there was never an idea she held so sacred that she didn't think it through. I am grateful that she taught me the same. I am grateful that I saw her face every difficult challenge without flinching. I am thankful for the arched eyebrow and insistence on using my double name. Thankful that I had a mom who said what was true and not what I wanted to hear. I am grateful that she pushed me beyond where my laid-back nature and attitude would have taken me. I am thankful that she is the strongest and most challenging woman I know. I am thankful for her. 

I Want to Quit

There it is. In big letters up there in the title. I want to quit. Quit. Stop. Drop it like a hot potato and never look back. Dunzo. Someone cue up the play-off music because this speech has gone too long and I need to be escorted off the stage. 

Here's the thing – I am not a quitter. I don't quit things. Like, ever. Bad habits? I am committed. Morning routine? Can't live without it. Same shoes with every outfit? Um, yes and I am never giving them up. Dove soap? Is there any other soap out there? The Bearded Wonder swears that if there were anyone more committed to consistency and all around same-ness, the world would cease. (He puts up with this really gracefully, by the way. Someone send that man a hundred bucks and a gift card to the local liquor store.) For me, not quitting something means that you've invested yourself, your time, energy, efforts and heart into something that you're willing to go back to again and again. No. Matter. What. 

So what's different about this time? To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure. It's like one day I was in the moment with this thing, and I hit a wall. I couldn't get beyond it. I couldn't see around it. It shut down my creativity, and then it felt as though it cut off my ability to expand. I feel trapped, and I'm not good at confined spaces.

This week I've faced it more than ever. I've faced it on my own, with a week's worth of nights alone staring at my ceiling, begging the heavens for direction. The fuzzy dog snores on his dad's side of the bed, and I churn in uncertainty. I don't know what to do. I catch myself wondering what the graceful decision is. I am as clueless now as when I first collided with this wall. I wish for his advice, but I think this is a decision I need to make. I want to quit. But... I'm not a quitter... 

Friends With Benefits

“. . . Never again use another person's body or emotions as a scratching post for your own unfulfilled yearnings.”   

Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert

I always forgot socks. Always. He spent a tremendous amount of time teasing me about it, and I spent a lot of time complaining about the ice cube he called his dorm room. Eventually he just began providing socks when I walked in the door so I could stop the same complaints. As a rule I still really hate socks, and I am pretty sure that he'd still make fun of me for it. 

I never showed up without my socks because I took a serious interest in a relationship, but because I needed something from him (Boy, college me was a real treat!). Looking back, I couldn't have been more selfish. I am appalled at the lack of respect I had for this person. Although I treasured that space because it allowed me to avoid, it was very destructive overall. When I was there, I wasn't lonely and I didn't have to deal with whatever it was I was going to think about when I was alone. But instead I undervalued a person.

Recently it occurred to me that friendships can take on their own spin of the friends with benefits dynamic. It's that person you only text/call/email/ask to coffee when your issues overwhelm you, but you never really take on the responsibility of asking about their's. You vent and leave. Over and over. This benefits you because you get to express outside your realm, without actually  having to deal with the core problems you're facing. We essentially ask them to play bellhop to the whims of our emotional baggage.

I am fairly certain there's been about 20 movies made about how the classic friends with benefits type relationship doesn't work. You'd think that we'd catch on, or at the very least pretend we know better. But we don't. We don't because we like knowing there's an option in our life that lets us remove ourselves from our reality, glean some sort of satisfaction and then go back to life as usual without any personal investment whatsoever.

To be clear, I want to say that we all need a safe place to land and a person that lets us put all of the stuff inside us out on the table. I think it is an essential need within a person to know that there's a sounding board, and secret keeper in their life. I am not saying that is wrong. What I am saying is that taking, taking and taking in a relationship is wrong. Showing up on anyone's metaphorical or literal doorstep in any relational capacity to only take what you need and leave is wrong. If this person is your friend, your parent, your coworker, your partner, it doesn't matter.  What matters is mutual investment.  

How many people are we not investing in that are continuously investing in us? How often are we depriving them of their sounding board by using their time without giving it back? I see this in my own life, and it makes me feel like the selfish person I was back in that college dorm room. I don't like seeing that, because I want to be better than that. I want to pursue relationships that offer mutual satisfaction, no matter how much I want to just toss my junk on someone's lap and bail. That shouldn't even be an option anymore. It won't be an option anymore. 

Giving Grace

Giving grace doesn't come easily to me, and honestly I don't see it coming that easily for others either. That's not a judgement to be taken harshly, just an observation of the human behavior. Giving grace is hard because we need people to meet us halfway, to come through in the tough times, to do what they say they will and in the glare of reality that doesn't always happen.  

Repeat offenders are hardest for me. I'm generally able to say, "Hey I get where you're coming from in this situation but next time can we get on the same page so I'm not (insert proper sentiment i.e disappointed, confused, let down, hung out to dry)," in the first or second instance. But repeatedly doing it again and again breeds resentment in me that becomes so personal. I will strive to create some frame of reference to work through, but that only lasts me so long before I write you off in the moment when you probably least need me to. 

Without really thinking through "giving grace" in this context, about a year ago I tattooed the word grace on the inside of my left forearm. It was originally a reminder to myself that I have been given grace and to not dwell in guilt or shame. Albeit still a great reminder of that fact, as I continue to face guilt everyday (another topic for another time) the true reality of what this ink on my arm means in my day to day has been transformed by the struggle I explained above. 

The word in my skin is a constant reminder that to function compassionately and with consistent kindness requires the practice of giving grace... giving it... And giving it again. And waking up the next day when I've been knocked on my metaphorical butt (also my not so metaphorical butt if you know my real life struggles), to rinse and repeat the grace giving practice again. 

My goal for this is that giving grace is as much a part of my character and the fabric of my life as it is now bonded to my skin. It's not going anywhere. It's there, an ever present reminder of who I want to be and what I want to offer to the people around me.  

The Problem & The Attitude

Throughout the whole of last week I was trapped in my house by the frozen wasteland that Nashville had become. I huddled under a blanket and whined extensively about cold toes and the lack of sunshine. I was whiney about the weather. Whiney about my coffee getting cold. Whiney about my internet connection. Whiney about a problem I was/am/oh-my-God-I-forever-will-have at work. My work goes where I go, and last week it went to the pit of, "Please go die a slow and painful death. Thanks, and have a great day!"  

I arrived at my desk at 6:55am on Thursday and started opening the 452 billion tabs I use throughout they day when I froze. In that moment Momentum slapped me across the face with this quote -  

  "The problem is not the problem. The problem is your attitude about the problem."  

*sigh* Curses.

 If looks could kill, my glare would have melted my MacBook Air and I would owe my boss an awkward explanation. I slumped my head forward onto my desk and cried out in overly-dramatic anguish. Why does the problem have to be my problem because I'm not even the problem in the first place?! Like... Seriously?! 

Well as all of you out there who are more mature than me know, you can make yourself part of the problem you're facing by only having a problem with it, and camping out there. You struggle and churn, and whine about it to the point where the problem becomes everything your whole little world rests on. You become one with the problem, promise it a life long relationship full of fights and no resolutions. You're bonded by angst like that creepy ex-boyfriend your parents locked out of the house. 

This doesn't solve anything. Nada. Zilch. Noodle. It makes you miserable and your attitude sours faster than last year's milk. And at that moment, your attitude becomes the problem. In your own life, you've doubled your issues. Tripled them even, depending on if that attitude takes you down the road of lashing out, doing bad work or not thinking creatively. You're increasing your own issues by not observing the problem, creating a frame of reference for it and then choosing a path to a solution. As much as we all hate to admit it, sometimes we really are our own worst enemy when it comes to our attitude. 

A word to the wise - don't do what I did. Don't make your problem worse by choosing a problematic attitude. Choose a different one. It's not easy, and isn't a magic cure-all to the root problem but by golly it will reduce the churn. You might have to choose this new attitude by sheer force of will, God's honest truth and a beer immediately following 5:01pm but it can be done. Should be done. And in my case, will be done.