rus vanwestervelt

Good evening. It is 8:05 p.m.

I took this picture (above) today with my phone while my son and I were out running a few errands. We walked by this patch of grass, and pushing through was this little flower. So much hope and faith in such a tiny thing.

We endured four feet of snow, torrential rains, and hurricane-strength winds in the last four weeks. Yet, there is always the greatest signs of hope for recovery and everlasting love in the smallest of measures.

A tiny, yellow flower amidst blades of grass tinted with early-spring green. . . .I shall never have any reason to lose faith again.

My good friend Cara responded this morning to my post written a few days ago about “religious” vs. “spiritual.” She made some strong points, and I’m glad she took the time to share them. In brief, she noted the connotations associated with each term, and I agree that traditions are tied to “religious,” whereas “spiritual” suggests a more personal journey or experience (you can read the post and the comments here).

Cara writes,

I think there is a difference between a religious christian and a spiritual christian; the former follows a literal interpretation of christian dogma without thinking and the latter views it all as literature/philosophy and interprets its meaning for himself.

If I were to apply that definition alone to my journey, I would certainly say that I am more of a spiritual Christian than a religious one. But isn’t it possible to be both “religious” and “spiritual” at the same time? Can’t we blend the two in our personal journeys? I know Cara wasn’t saying that it had to be black and white, and maybe that’s where I want to focus for just a moment.

Cara refers to the extreme connotations associated with “religious,” which includes being judgmental. We need to do something about that. I see it in nearly every conversation I have with people about religion and spirituality. Heck, I fought it for so many years myself. We don’t want to come across as being judgmental, and we don’t want others thinking that we are “extreme” or trying to “convert” them to our “side.” So we keep quiet. We become closet Christians, afraid of being aligned with the Judgmentals.

How do we change that? How do we remove the stigma of being judgmental if we are to be proud of our religious faith? When I worked at an orthodox Jewish school about 10 years ago, I was absolutely blessed to work with several Rabbis who were gentle, loving, and not worried about what others thought. They were not concerned about converting me, judging me, or having pity on me. They embraced me without any of these things, and I cherished their respect. I learned a great deal from them, things I could have never learned if there was judgment.

I think we can change that by being proud of our religious and spiritual foundation, just like the Rabbis were, without “threatening” others with attempts to convert or be saved. We can change that by living strong, by loving fully, and without judgment.

Earlier tonight, Amy turned to me and said, “Why do you think you aren’t tempted to stray from your vegan diet this time?” I told her that I just made up my mind to do it. I didn’t “hope” for this time to be better or different; instead, I just decided that the time had come to stop searching and start living. I don’t judge other people’s eating habits, but many people have come to me and noticed that something’s different. I’m happier, better rested, more patient, and less stressed.  That’s what we need to do with our religion and our spirituality.

We need to Start Loving who we are, and Start Living a life without expecting anybody else to live as we have chosen.

I know I’ve talked about it before, but the first time I came to Christ, in July 1988, it was because of the way my housemate looked and acted after a revival. There was no judgment, no intimidation. Tim walked confidently in God’s light, and I wanted that. I wanted to stop the struggle, the fight, the search.

And now, nearly 22 years later, I can finally say with confidence:

I did.

I hope you all have a good beginning to the week. May you feel the confidence to walk with love and provide kindness along the way, to all you see.

Evening. It is 9:38 p.m.

He sits alone in his room, frustrated and sad–a misunderstood 11-year-old tired of trying to express his need to overcome the loss, to fill the void left by his father’s sudden death. His mother finds her ways: a boyfriend’s consoling kisses, a demanding job. His sister is always surrounded by her friends who make her forget altogether that he is gone. They infuse her life with much-needed fun and trivial mischief. Little time remains for her to dwell on his death.

But the boy has no girlfriend, no cadre of friends to surround him. Instead, he has his imagination, and it doesn’t take long for him to be terribly misunderstood by his mom and sister. They wonder what is wrong with him, why he withdraws, why he pretends to be a ferocious wild thing who has a tendency to bite them (they provoked him, though–to be sure). They ignore, push away, too busy with taking care of their own wounds.

Every Woman, daughter, and son for themselves, I guess.

So begins the movie Where The Wild Things Are, which I just watched yesterday and used with my advanced composition class. We talked at length about misunderstandings, watched the clip, and then wrote a bit more about the relevance of Max’s loneliness.

Not an easy subject on a Friday afternoon.

We came to some good points about loss of innocence and the archetypal “initiation” story, but I think it goes much deeper than that.

In the entire first part of the movie, Max (the suddenly orphaned boy), is desperately trying to return to innocence, return to a time when pain wasn’t permanent, and it was okay to be held and hugged as long as you needed it. Watching this opening clip several times, I started to wonder: Why do we give and receive our greatest hugs and gifts of kindness when we are newborns, infants and toddlers–and then again when we are in the final years of our lives? Why is it so hard to see the needs of our 11-year-olds and everyone else above and below in age?

It should not be so hard to put yourself aside, just for a moment or two, and show an act of kindness where it may (or may not be) needed or even expected.

When I saw this movie clip, I struggled to fight back the tears, as the kids in this scene are the same ages as my own children. What acts of kindness have they received lately? Why have I been so busy to take some time to put away the laptop and the Blackberry and just lie on the floor with my son, building cargo boats and police cars out of Lego blocks?

I’m thinking we let our busy lives get too much between us and our children.

No laptop, email, text message, voice mail, or spreadsheet is more important than your family, your kids, your loved ones. Show them kindness, and it will surely be returned.

Enjoy the rest of your weekend, Friends!

Rus

Namaste. It is 9:25 p.m.

Please allow me a moment to set aside the philosophic and deeper analysis of my life. Just for a moment, if you please.

When The Phantom of the Opera first came out in 1986, I was a little more than obsessed with both the show and the soundtrack. I saw the production several times, and I even directed a middle-school rendition of it. Most of the people who lived with me during those years conducted friendly Phantom interventions; they just could not take another hour of “Angel of Music,” “All I Ask of You,” and “Wishing You Were Somehow Here Again.” Thank goodness for headphones.

Now, more than 20 years later, Andrew Lloyd Webber’s sequel has opened, and just two days ago, the soundtrack of the sequel to Phantom, Love Never Dies, was released. I am in absolute heaven.

The plot line is brilliant, and the score is just as phenomenal as the first. I am certain — absolutely certain — that more interventions are just around the corner.

If you liked Phantom, and if you loved the music, I recommend you get Love Never Dies. Be sure to understand the plot before you listen, as it will enhance the experience tremendously.

Ok. Thank you for allowing me that little diversion. I just had to let you know. :)

Good evening…it is 6:37 9:11 10:02 p.m.

Tough day, but I’m getting through.

I wanted to spend a few minutes “thinking out loud” in tonight’s entry. I’ve been struggling with my writing direction, as you know. So….here we go. Just going to put this out there.

Here’s the deal. I love writing. I love my daybooks; I love working with other writers, established and just getting started; I love reading all things, including books on the art and craft of writing.

My very first essays written in elementary and junior high schools were on love, philosophic ramblings about the meaning of love, the sharing of it, and the various relationships individuals might have with one another. These were epic essays, sometimes 20 and 30 pages long, that analyzed every aspect of love imaginable. I was also inspired by my sixth-grade teacher, Jack Delaney, who introduced me to the writing process and the prospect of publishing my writing with a larger audience.

Years later, I threw them all away…by mistake.

In high school and college, I wrote journals with people. Friends, girlfriends, other writers, family…Like my essays, these were epic journals. And, very unfortunately, like my essays, the journals have disappeared.

It wasn’t until my first few years in teaching that I started to write longer manuscripts. Suddenly, I was in love with telling stories. By the time I was 27, I had finished writing my first full-length novel, and I was ready to conquer the world as the next Stephen King.

Trouble is, nobody liked what I wrote.

While I was working on that novel, though, something else happened that changed my life forever. In 1988, I experienced a rebirth with Christ. and in 1989, when my father passed away, I delivered the eulogy under the pressure of representing my siblings who spanned a 20-year period.

It was the best thing I had ever written, and I discovered a gift within me to use writing to heal, to inspire, to remember.

Since then, I’ve delivered several other eulogies and speeches, all feeling so comfortable in my role to help others with my words.

Somewhere between eulogies and graduation speeches, I wrote a second book. I loved it.

I was, again, my biggest fan.

Was I trying too hard? Did my audience expect something that I just wasn’t giving them?

I also completed graduate school around the same time. Earned my Master of Fine Arts in Creative Nonfiction. Some of my chapters in my dissertation were really solid. I struggled with my vision for the piece, though, and my mentors worked very hard to get me to a point that I could present my manuscript successfully.

In the simplest of terms, it comes down to this: I love all types of writing, but I continue to meet with the greatest success when writing to inspire, heal, or remember a loved one.

I see the writing on the wall (ugh–no pun intended); I’m not a mainstream, genre novelist. I am not a hardcore journalist.

I am a writer of inspiration, of hope, of healing, of remembering. This is my calling.

It seems so…..natural, doesn’t it? With nearly every attempt at writing, it is my inspiring pieces that get the most positive feedback. It’s what comes most naturally to me, too.

Then where’s the struggle?

Maybe there isn’t one anymore. Maybe I just worked that out enough to put into words what I’ve been pondering all this time. I can’t be the next Stephen King or hope for Tom Clancy-type advances in the millions. I just need to write the type of writing I do best, and let the rest fall into place.

Time for some rest. I leave you with a little Hugh Prather to ponder…

In my mind, I keep moving what happens in my life from the credit to the debit column and back again. I can’t decide whether an event benefited or hurt me. But in my confusion, it’s all the same, because as long as the past preoccupies me, the presence of God means nothing.

Lord, give me the strength to let this go and begin anew, to write words of celebration and inspiration today, and to guide others to be strengthened in Your love. . . . <3

Good evening. It is 8:11 p.m.

The fact that I did not write in my blog yesterday would have been devastating 22 days ago. I would have seen this as a failure to complete anything, and it would have derailed me to, perhaps, abandon this journey.

But this is not 22 days ago.

Instead, I am here now, ready to share news and insights with you.

Before I tell you about two people I had the honor of seeing today, I want to share another incident that happened.

In the evening class that I teach, my students turned in their papers two weeks ago, and I was returning them tonight. I had all but one paper to hand back, simply because I had neglected to pull it from her email. I went to apologize to her for not having it, and she looked at me rather incredulously and handed me her paper. “I’m really sorry,” she said. “I never sent it. I was hoping I could turn it in tonight.” It took me a moment to realize that I didn’t miss the email at all. I never had it to begin with.

Now, I was presented with two options: be critical of the fact that she did not turn it in until now, or be grateful that I hadn’t missed it, and accept her work graciously.

I chose the latter, and she seemed relieved.

Later, after class ended, a few students hung around talking about potential topics for their I-Search projects. She was one of them, and she contributed freely to the conversation. In fact, we came up with a possible team project that she seemed excited about.

I can guarantee you that, if I chose the former, and I disciplined her for being late, she would have left the room as soon as class was dismissed, grateful that we were finally done.

I am absolutely certain that, a month ago, I would have, at the very least, shown shades of disappointment to make her feel bad about being so late.

Who am I to admonish her for being late? What gives me the power to close doors, to make her feel badly about turning in the paper late? Who am I to judge?

Kindness, love, support, belief, faith, hope. These should be our reactions. They create opportunities, foster a stronger environment, provide fertile ground for discussion.

* * *

Now: I want to tell you about two people that I talked with today. Extraordinary events in every way.

The first was with a friend that I had not seen in five years. She was a student of mine in 2005; she had taken the very class that I am now teaching on Wednesday evenings. It was beyond wonderful to see her. We did not have much time to talk, but our conversation was both personal and enlightening. Much has happened in the five years since we last saw each other at the end of that semester. We talked about the deaths of our parents as much as we talked about priorities in our lives. We were so comfortable talking, even with so much time passing between us.

I don’t know why I was surprised by this, though. Our conversation was real, genuine, regardless of the various differences between us. What mattered was that we have a genuine respect for each other, and that made our conversations universal. In other words, it was about the other person, and not about ourselves.

How many times do we do that with others? We are more focused on what we’re thinking and less on what the other person is saying or doing. I can’t tell you how many conversations have been enriched in the last three weeks because I have done two things:

1. I did not interrupt, and
2. I established eye contact.

These simple things can change the whole tone of a conversation between two people. They immediately let the other person know that you care about what they are saying, and you value their words.

Try it. The next time you have a conversation, face to face, with a friend, family member, or colleague, don’t interrupt and establish eye contact. I guarantee one of two things will happen: either you will have a better conversation or you will scare the person you are with, who will be wondering what’s gotten in to you….

My bet’s on the better conversation. :)

The second person I talked with today made a statement that I understand fully. She said,

It’s not like I’m religious or anything, but every time I read about that non-profit group helping those sick kids, It’s like a boost in my faith.

I’ve probably heard this comment hundreds of times before, where people say they are not religious, but they have great faith.

What’s worse is that I’ve probably said the same thing many hundreds more times.

Here was my variation:

I’m not religious; I’m spiritual.

When she said this to me, I had this sudden flashback of the countless times I’ve proclaimed this to others. And then, I realized the fear we have in proclaiming our faith, whatever that may be in.

We are afraid to say that we are religious. We are afraid to say that we believe in something. We are afraid to use words like Christian and Jesus Christ and God. Instead, we talk around it; we say that we have faith. We say that we “believe,” but we’re afraid to talk openly about Christianity, Jesus Christ, or God.

Why is that? What is the root of the fear? Is it because of persecution? Judgment? A separation from others?

Are we afraid that we will lose friends if we openly state that we are Christians? And if we lose them, were they through-and-through friends to begin with?

I understand that people don’t like religion “shoved down” their throat. But there’s a big difference between making a general statement about your faith and trying to coax others to convert. Somewhere along the way, I think these two concepts merged and struck fear in both the believers and the non-believers alike. One group is afraid to admit any religious faith, and the other group is perched and ready to cry foul when any of these words are mentioned in their presence.

Maybe if we judged less and listened more, looked at others more intently, and better respected another’s right to be (or not be) religious, all of our relationships would strengthen, thus presenting new opportunities for kindness and love.

It’s not a pipe dream, folks. Not a fantasy or some wack-o dream. It’s simple. It’s do-able. It’s needed in our world.

Right now.

Wonderful evening. It is 9:53 p.m.

There’s a good chance that I won’t be writing in the morning, as I need to be at school early for a publication upload. I’ll be around later in the day, though.

Just a few quick things about the day, and then it’s off to bed.

First, I can tell the questions are working deep within me about my writing and how I will resolve these issues of being spread too thin. I have spent most of the afternoon and early evening in quiet contemplation, allowing the feelings to come and go. There are the insecurities, for sure, that make themselves terribly present. As soon as I get excited about the idea of developing a plan for my writing, the inner critic surfaces and reminds me that this is no different than any other time I’ve been down this road (well, never this intensely traveled, but a meandering of sorts about what I want to do).

This is nothing but pure fear. Fear of the unknown. Fear of failure. Fear of judgment. Fear of ridicule. It is what has stopped me every step of the way, until now.

Two things happened today to help me get through this.

First: I was listening to a Christian satellite station on Sirius Radio this afternoon, and Phil Johnson was talking about the need for individuals to really embrace our Christianity boldly, shout it to the world from the rooftops, our blessed, barbaric yawp, and let the world know we’re not afraid to talk about our faith in regular, everyday settings. This simple concept is helping me understand my own fear, my own trepidation from making a commitment and shouting that blessed and barbaric yawp to the masses.

I do not dignify my inner critic and its suppressive voice.

I’m not afraid. . . .I’m not afraid. . . .

Second: I received an anonymous letter today from Boston. It was both supportive and literary, and I read it over and over again in the post office, grinning, thrilled to receive these words. I have several students in that area, but the handwriting in the actual letter seemed much more mature. At first, I wanted to learn who wrote these beautiful words.

But then a greater thought transcended this desire to reveal the writer. With a name suddenly comes further questions, perhaps evaluations, judgments, and then more questions. The words on the page become secondary to the individual. Believe me, it’s not that I diminish the beauty of the individual who sent this letter; rather, I cherish the greater message and the sharing of these words. Tonight, I feel great support and encouragement that in my own journey, I am not alone.

I am not alone. . . .

Enjoy the evening and the early morning, Friends. What glorious moments these are.

Good morning. It is 5:24 a.m.

Halfway point is here. But does that even mean anything anymore?

When I started this journey 20 days ago, it was all about getting to day 40. In fact, I’ve been asked recently by several people about how challenging it might be to hold on for the final 20 days. Now that I’ve reached this point, though, the question that is evolving is, will I ever go back to the way things were? Will I resume eating unhealthily, and will I be glued to Facebook 24/7?

It is seeming increasingly unlikely that I will return willingly to any of those old habits. The further I move away from them, the clearer it seems to me that I have turned a corner in my life. This was the entire purpose of the journey — to still the waters and refocus, to ask the tough questions about the things that have held me back in the past, and to confront my spirituality head-on.

So where am I at this once-defined halfway point?

I understand how strong fear is, and how it has driven most of my decisions in my life.

I also understand love is stronger.

I understand how strong and injurious the inner critic can be.

I also understand how stronger forgiveness is.

I understand I can’t do anything about the past but let it go.

I also understand that all things are possible through Him who strengthens me.

I understand that self-punishment is never healthy, nor helpful.

I also understand that self-love allows me to love others more healthily.

I want to thank all of you for your wonderful comments, both public and private, about this weekend’s posts. I am grateful for your support, kind words, and advice. You have helped me stay strong through this stage as I ask the tough questions about where my energies will flow. This weekend, I put my creative cards on the table. In my mind and in my heart, they are all aces. To give any one of them up would be to give away a gift from God. I will continue to work through this in the coming days, and for as long as it takes.

Again, though, your help along the way is an absolute blessing. Thank you.

On to a good Monday. I hope each of you awakes with the vision of a brand new day in all its glory. . . .

It is 11:23 a.m.

Just found this nugget from Hugh Prather’s 365 Thoughts (excerpted from Nov. 4):

A sure way to stay unhappy is to hold tightly to the past that we have painstakingly accumulated. One reason little children are so happy and have such boundless energy is that they have very little past to drag behind them. This allows their minds to function as designed. They process the present, which is the dwelling place of the Divine.

So…Is that the key? Simply forget everything that has defined me as an artist and writer to this point and begin anew?

And if so, what direction to take?

(copyright 2010, Rus VanWestervelt, taken at Goucher College, Towson, MD October 2009)

Good morning. Blessed Sunday! It is 6:43 a.m.

I wanted to share with you part two of yesterday’s post. I’m sorry I didn’t get to it last night, but after coming home from Holland’s meet (she had her best meet of the season with placing second and third in floor and vault, respectively), we all just enjoyed the rest of the day relaxing. I really enjoyed the laziness of the afternoon and evening. Much needed for all of us, I think.

Yesterday I talked about the “major setback” that is already old news and a part of my past. I don’t know if I’ve ever been able to do that before. Writing it and sharing it with all of you was very good for me and helped in that process to move on. I thank you for your words of support, both public and private, that strengthened me. It is wonderful to feel such love and faith in the friends around me. “Grateful” is a word that simply doesn’t begin to describe my appreciation. . . .I thank you.

Onward to part two — something that has come about as a natural outcome of this journey: who I am as a writer, as an artist.

Many years ago, my mentor at Towson (State) University gave me a copy of Hugh Prather’s Notes to Myself. Great stuff on these pages, but one passage really spoke to me. In fact, 23 years later, I find myself pondering its meaning as much now as I did then.

Here’s the passage:

There is a part of me that wants to write, a part that wants to theorize, a part that wants to sculpt, a part that wants to teach. . . .To force myself into a single role, to decide to be just one thing in life, would kill off large parts of me. Rather, I recognize that I live now and only now, and I will do what I want to do this moment and not what I decided was best for me yesterday.

No single passage has ever captured my philosophy toward life more succinctly. Yet, no passage has ever caused me such internal debate and frustration in whether this is rationalization for procrastination, a sure sign of Attention-Deficit Disorder, or an acceptable way to go through life.

I have been accused of all of these things and more. I have been called a hedonist. I was also diagnosed in my youth (very early 1970′s) as a “genius on a roller coaster,” whatever that means. Psychiatrists told my parents that, for my entire life, I would go through periods of great productivity and energy, and other times I would be just the opposite.

Great. Way to label the kid with no hope or strategy to get off the crazy ride, huh?

So this is what I am left with. I’ve written two book-length manuscripts of fiction, I have a degree in creative nonfiction, I have a fairly consistent blog that focuses on living a better, more genuine life, I am a photographer, and I love the outdoors. I play the guitar and piano, but neither well. I draw, paint, sketch, and carve. I am a teacher at the high school, undergraduate, and graduate levels. I have started a foundation helping teens struggling with anxiety and depression, and I have my own small publishing press.

Each of these is compromised by the work and time I put into the other activities. I could be a better novelist, OR creative nonfiction writer, OR inspiring writer, OR photographer, OR musician, OR artist, OR educator, OR activist for mental-health issues, OR a small publisher.

Each compromises the other. As a result, both novels are unpublished, I’ve had very few of my creative nonfiction pieces picked up, I’ve done nothing with my blog entries, I am not photographing life as I see it more often, I am not good enough in my music to ever play with others, etc. etc.

Do I continue on in this vein, as Prather suggests? After all–is “success” defined by our products or by the way we live our lives? Or do I narrow the playing field, focus on just one or two, and allow them to thrive while the others wilt away?

Therein lies the dilemma of my ages.

I’m going to take the next few days to stop skating over this issue and work toward a decision on how I am going to live my life — not that a simple decision can be made in a few days, but I’ve not taken the time to still the waters long enough to explore it fully.

Do I become a writer of fiction? nonfiction? inspirational? Do I combine these somehow? Do I continue on works that are near completion or begin anew? What is my niche? How will I be able to make the biggest impact with my audience? What is the best contribution I can make to my society?

What do I really want to do? What is the best use of my time?

I’m exhausted just thinking about it. I’ll be back later.

Namaste. It is 5:31 a.m.

I know…Saturday morning, and I’m writing earlier than I usually do on a weekday. Holland has a gymnastics competition in Laurel this morning; timed warm-ups begin at 8, so we’ll be on the road by 6:20 a.m.

Well, I wouldn’t exactly call yesterday a pivotal day, but I do think that there were some major events — two to be exact — that took me by surprise. One was a natural outcome of this journey that I am on; the other was a major setback that, fortunately, I managed to control before I let it consume all of me.

I’ll forgo all the drama and begin with the major setback.

Prior to my decision to begin this journey, Friday afternoons and evenings were, for some reason, tough for me. I could feel sadness creeping in, an unassigned melancholy that I couldn’t attach to an event, anniversary, or upcoming concern. It was just there, and I couldn’t do much about it at all. Given the time to reflect on these bouts of sadness on Fridays, I think that it might have been caused by the simple shifting of gears; after running hard all week at school and in the evenings for numerous responsibilities, I was looking forward to the calmer two days ahead. The sadness could have just been a part of that transition of relaxing, taking the time to reflect a little, and giving my body, my mind, my soul, the permission to get off auto pilot and go solo for a few days.

I’m not entirely convinced that it was all related to that “taking over” of the controls, but I’m fairly certain of it.

Yesterday, though, all of that came back. It might have been triggered by the two straight weeks of classes after not having a normal week of school since the second week of December. My birthday on Wednesday — turning 45 — might have had something to do with it, although I’m not usually hung up on age or the significance of turning one year older with the coming and going of a 24-hour period.

They might have all been cameo roles, in the background, feeling a little neglected that I was no longer paying them any kind of notice.

Then I received a phone call, and it seemed to trigger their sudden call to the stage, and they became major players in how the next few hours would go.

In the scheme of things, it really was no big deal. An individual had called to let me know a letter I was supposed to share with him last week listed a sensitive date for an appeal hearing. The hearing was scheduled for March 4; he received the letter (from me) on March 5.

He was not angry with me, and the majority of the blame rests on the individuals who sent the notice to the wrong location anyway. But the damage was done. I screwed up. Something I chose not to do caused an inconvenience in someone else’s life.

I know–writing about it now doesn’t make it seem like a big deal. And it’s not. Everything was worked out within five minutes of getting the call. But the inner critic seized that opportunity, that small, insignificant event, and ran with it.

For the next few hours, I felt horrible. I started doubting myself, my 40-day journey, my decision to become a vegan. All of it was on the line to be destroyed as a self-punishment for this mistake.

It is absolutely unbelievable how strong negativity can be and how it can feed on your weaknesses, no matter how small or insignificant they might be.

I did four things to stop the derail.

First, I combated the negative self-speak head-on with allowing myself to throw this pity party within the rules of my new journey.  I immediately went to eat to use food as a comfort as well as a punishment. But what I allowed myself to eat were all vegan foods.

Second, I didn’t let it feed on me internally. Amy had been out for a few hours with Madelyn and Braeden for Madelyn’s soccer game, and as soon as she came home and we sat down, I actually talked about this with her. I shared what I was feeling, and put it on the table. I’ve never really done that before.

Third, I told myself that I have the ability to control this, to recognize the negativity for what it is (and is not), allowed it to come, and then gave it permission to go.

Fourth, I gave it all to God, thanked Him for his sacrifices, accepted my weakness, and allowed his strength and love to fill me.

I know, I know. All this for a silly phone call about something I neglected to do.

Here’s the point: If we don’t recognize the need to do this, then that negative self-speak accumulates within you, eats at you, and makes you believe that this is truly who you are: a worthless person who fails at everything you do.

This is how I have allowed such little things to consume me in the past. Now I know what I must do to release them.

Time to run to the competition. I’ll write more later today/tonight about the other major event. Have a wonderful day, everyone. :) <3