Monday Notes

Monday Notes: Practicing What I Preach: Time Boundaries

~ kegarland ~ 66 Comments

My cousin called me a total of six times the day before my birthday and on the actual day, even though I texted that I would call him back later.

The same cousin typically speaks to his mother, once a day. But for five days, she was with me. This time, he was not only calling to see how she was faring on vacation, but also to inquire about me and why I wasn’t answering the phone, during dinner…in Aruba…every day. As a result, she tried to coax me to speak with him. One time, she said she would call and pass me the phone.

So, I told her, “I know how to use the cellphone, Auntie. I’ll call him later, like I already said.”

Another time, she tried to cajole me into answering by saying that “Someone very special, who you used to cut up with, wants to talk to you very badly,” while we were in process of hailing a cab to ride to downtown Aruba.

The same cousin asked his brother, who was with us on the island, if I was angry with him. I assured his brother I was not, that I was having an amazing time doing all of the things. Then, I dipped my blue tortilla chip into a ramekin of guacamole, enjoyed my appetizer, and cackled with my daughters and good friend.

My cousin called me again, and I ignored it.

After we sat down for my birthday dinner, at a beachside restaurant, where the sun lowered into oblivion, my aunt asked if I was going to call my cousin. That’s when I gave this speech:

“I am not angry. I am fine. I have chosen to pay attention to the 11 people who are in front of me today, to the people who spent lots of money to be with me. I think it’s important to do that. It took a lot of time and energy for everyone to be sitting here. I don’t think I should spend it talking on the cellphone to people who are not here. This is called a boundary, and I want to explain this to you before I have another drink when it won’t sound this nice.”

She laughed and said she understood.

The following day, I called my cousin. He was alive and well; his life did not implode because he couldn’t speak with me when he wanted to; neither did mine.

The example I’ve provided is called a time boundary. This year, I decided how I was going to spend my time on my birthday. Although I always appreciate the outpouring of well-wishes, I wasn’t going to be responding to texts and talking on the phone all day. I replied to most people late that night. Others, the next day. But here’s what this interaction reinforced:

  • Experts suggest you explain a boundary before enacting it. Maybe. A lot of examples I’ve seen require some lengthy speech with consequences. I don’t have the bandwidth for that right now. My cousin didn’t have to know what or why. His job was simple. Wait for me to call. However, my aunt was going to continue ignoring what I said, so I had to explain.
  • People don’t have to agree with your boundaries for you to create and enforce them. Obviously, my cousin had another agenda he thought I should follow. That’s fine. Other people’s agendas don’t negate what you choose for yourself.
  • People will try and manipulate you to do what they want. That’s their issue, not yours.
  • It is your responsibility to stick to the boundary. Had I answered the phone, I would have been sending a message to my cousin, his brother, and his mother that I was not serious about what I decided. Furthermore, it would have set the stage for future interactions.
  • You are obliged to enforce the boundary. That can look like re-stating what you already said or explaining (see bullet one).

Good luck boundary setting, good people! Please feel free to add more helpful suggestions about boundaries in the comments.

Monday Notes: A Post-Mother’s Day Message for the Motherless

~ kegarland ~ 70 Comments

Dear Motherless Child, 

I see you.

If you’ve just lost your mother, then a holiday, like Mother’s Day may seem strange. You’ll want to acknowledge that you, too, had a mother, good, bad, or otherwise. A woman birthed or adopted you and provided you with unconditional love. But now you’re in a different club. You may walk by aisles of Mother’s Day cards, their pinks and reds taunting you. You may feel inclined to buy one, forgetting you have no one for whom this would be appropriate. Or you may feel as if someone should buy you a card as recognition for your loss. Wouldn’t it be nice if Hallmark made a greeting card that began—I know it’s Mother’s Day, and you just lost yours…? But they don’t. The most you may have is Mother’s Day at church where you’re encouraged to partake in a new tradition, wearing a white carnation, symbolizing your mother’s death. 

Women who possess a nurturing gene may try to mother you. Their gestures will stem from kindness. Their heartstrings will lengthen and tug and wrap tightly around you, until you can’t breathe. But they will fail, because they are not your mother. As Mouse, a seven-year-old fictional character from the book Looking for Hope says, “there’s nothing like your own mother.” She’s right. Only the woman assigned to you knew the lilt in your voice when you were angry or excited. Only your mother knew when you needed a hug or extra encouragement. It is normal to have mixed feelings about others’ good intentions. Feeling grateful for other women who’ve served as proxy is understandable; wishing you had your own mother is also valid. The latter doesn’t make you ungrateful; it makes you sad and grieving. And that’s okay.

If it’s been a few years since your mother died, then the compassion some showed may have worn off. Friends and family may even suggest that you should “get over it,” as if losing one’s mother is akin to a bad breakup. However, even bad breakups can be hard to “get over.” Sometimes, bad breakups last years in the cells of your body and crevices of your brain. Shouldn’t losing one’s mother take a bit of time? Still, you’ll learn to have compassion for these people. They don’t get it. They don’t understand. Though we may suspect, not one of us knows how we will feel when our mother dies. Even if it’s an expected event, prompted by a terminal illness, or even if you hated her for trivial or grandiose reasons, no one understands the bundle of emotions that may bubble to the surface, threatening to erupt, until it happens. So, offer a smidge of grace for those who think you should “get over” your mother’s death. They simply don’t know.

Losing one’s mother, no matter your age, is not easy. But here’s what I hope for you. I hope these words are comforting. I hope you’ve found a space where other motherless children convene. I hope peace fills the void. 

Love,

a motherless child

RESOURCES

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Motherless Daughters

Blog Post about Motherless Daughters Retreat

Monday Notes: 4 Lessons Learned from Rotator Cuff/Bicep Tendon Surgery*

~ kegarland ~ 67 Comments

Guess who was released from physical therapy? That’s right. Me!

I convalesced for six weeks in a sling. I maintained physical therapy for nine weeks. Now, two months ahead of schedule, I’m back in the business of being me. And so, I have a few lessons learned or reinforced from this experience:

It’s okay to have a range of emotions.

I was angry when I tore my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. I was anxious at the idea of having surgery. I was sad that I wouldn’t be able to use my dominant arm to do everyday activities; things like blogging, revising my memoir, or grading online work. I was bothered by the idea that I had to sit around and…heal. But I didn’t allow others to force me into a space of gratitude, joy, or happiness. I didn’t allow others to invalidate my feelings.

I knew any emotion that surfaced would be fleeting, that I wouldn’t feel angry, anxious, sad, or bored forever, and I was right. Eventually, my emotions shifted. I was joyful on some days, and once I was able to exercise, less moody. Just to reiterate…it is totally fine to have a range of emotions, even if others are uncomfortable with you having them.

It’s okay to ask for help.

For various reasons, I have hyper-independent tendencies. I can do it myself, I often say, even if doing it myself is more challenging. However, there is no room for hyper-independence when you are one-handed. Showering and dressing require assistance.

And I didn’t like it.

Days after surgery, my voice shrank smaller and smaller each time I had to ask Dwight for another glass of water. But these circumstances left me with no choice. Over time, I grew more used to asking for help and not seeing it as a weakness. I’m not saying this has totally resolved itself, but I have accepted that receiving help is not bad. Sometimes, it’s necessary.

Listen to your body.

Part of what got me into this situation was not listening to my body. And what’s gotten me back to 100% is…listening to my body. Once I was out of the sling, I noticed that my shoulder ached when I slept. I didn’t reach out to the doctor or physical therapist to ask for advice. Instead, I put a pillow under it for support. Later, Dawn confirmed this was the right thing to do for all kinds of medical reasons. First, I listened to my body, then I did what I thought was best…in a lot of situations, this is the way toward strengthening your intuition.

Ultimately, I didn’t need Dawn to confirm if I was doing better. I learned to monitor my own progress. If I could move my arm higher, then I was doing well.

Healing is not just physical.

My husband has been amazing. I could write 1200 more words about how he has embodied the phrase in sickness and in health. He has done everything you’d think he is supposed to do because I couldn’t fend for myself.

But others’ love and care has also been integral. For example, my oldest daughter put some braids in my hair; my youngest daughter cooked dinner a few times, took my braids out, and detangled my hair; my sister talked to me daily for two weeks and sent money for lunch. My father-in-law texted me every day, until my two-week appointment.

A friend bought me the cutest and most comfy house shoes ever because she intentionally wanted me to be comfortable, while I “rested or wrote!” One friend talked to me once a week on my walk. Another friend sent me chocolates that spelled out a recovery message. A different friend picked me up and took me to the movies and lunch to relieve my boredom.

And of course, the blogging community has been instrumental in allowing me to share a range of emotions and offering well wishes publicly and privately.

Relationships are important to me, and I’m sure my healing process would’ve gone differently had friends and family not actively shown love and compassion.

* I promise this is my last post about my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. I’m about to go prep for my birthday trip 🥳

Monday Notes: 4 Similarities Between Physical Therapy and Mental Therapy

~ kegarland ~ 54 Comments

These days, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about all of the things, and one thing I’ve noticed is how similar physical and mental therapy are.

#1: Physical and emotional wounds require some type of healing.

This may seem like a ‘no, duh’ statement, but it really dawned on me during the last three months. If I told ya’ll I had no intention on going through physical therapy, you’d think I’d lost my mind. You’d google all of the information and comment or email me reasons why this was a bad decision. However, what do we do when folks are walking around in emotional pain? We offer toxic positivity, or we ignore their emotions. What we rarely do is say, hey, maybe you should try to heal that, so you can be whole again, so you can stop ruminating about the time that person did that thing. Like a physical wound, emotional wounds also require healing.

#2: Just because you feel better, doesn’t mean you’re healed; it just means you’re on your way.

Two weeks after surgery, I was doing so well, the doctor gave me some at-home exercises usually suggested for later. I felt a lot better and resumed my regular typing schedule. But my shoulder was fatigued and started to throb. I was able to swing my arm in a circle and do table slides, but typing all day was too much. I was still wounded. Emotional wounds are similar. We start doing self or professional therapy after a divorce (for example), and we think we’re ready to swipe left or right. The reality is there’s probably more healing to do, especially if for some reason, everyone you date reminds you of your ex.

#3: Just because you’re healed, doesn’t mean you should return to business as usual. In fact, you may need to develop some new habits altogether.

There is nothing I want more than to walk into a hot, steamy room, with a strong bass line playing in the background, while I perform beautiful āsanas. I miss Bhakti yoga. But I know it is not time. This is a little different than #2. Although I can return to yoga, I do not need to return the yoga I was doing before…not yet anyway. I have to do something different, something I used to think was boooring—restorative. Mental therapy is similar. For example, maybe your healing requires you to stop drinking alcohol. If that’s the case, it’s probably not a great idea to go back to that group you used to do shots with. This seems like common sense, but it’s not always. A lot of times, we want to return to the scene, but we’ve changed, and the scene has not. The scene is the scene.

#4: If you’re not careful, physical and emotional wounds risk re-injury.

The sling I was in served as a physical reminder that I was injured. The sling prevented me from using my hand or reaching too far. Once the sling was off, there was nothing stopping me. The first thing the physical therapist told me was to be careful of thinking I was fully healed. I still shouldn’t have reached for anything; otherwise, I could risk re-injury, and if that happened, I’d begin back at week seven. Mental therapy is a part of a healing journey, but there is no big black sling reminding you of your emotional wound. Oftentimes, the reminder comes in the form of people or experiences, like that family member who hasn’t grown or that place where the trauma occurred. If you’re not prepared, re-injury comes in the form of triggers. Suddenly, there’s a familiar smell that takes you back to being hurt. Just like a physical wound, you must be careful; you’re the only one who can protect yourself from being re-injured. Whatever those measures may be, you’re the one responsible for avoiding emotional pain.

I could only think of four of these, but if you have more, please share. I strongly believe we can help one another do better.

Monday Notes: Friday in Phoenix

~ kegarland ~ 82 Comments

My husband decided that he wanted to plan a surprise pre-birthday trip for me. The “surprise” part ended up being revealed for various reasons, but ultimately, he had planned to take me to see my favorite DJ, Roger Sanchez, who would be in Phoenix on March 24th.

I have been listening to and following DJ Roger Sanchez’s music for at least five years. On any given day, his house music beats blare from my Jeep. Our previous neighbors used to bang on the wall when a mix reverberated too loudly. Sanchez has produced Grammy-award winning songs, to which I know all the lyrics, even the Spanish ones. I. love. Roger. Sanchez.

So, when Dwight said he was taking me to see this DJ in flipping person, I just about lost my mind.

Next, my husband said he was also buying me an outfit to attend this event. Dwight is the most well-dressed man you will ever meet. His clothing choices are carefully choreographed ensembles, with levels of detail most people ignore. He has bought me outfits before, but it’s been without me. This time, I was going to choose whatever I wanted, with no spending limit.

Dude.

For almost a decade, I’ve been explicitly fleshing out what it means to be authentic. I’ve learned that how one dresses is a part of self-expression, and self-expression is directly linked to being oneself. I scoured Sanchez’s social media to see how people dressed. T-shirt and jeans or shorts would’ve been fine. But not this time and not for me. I wanted to wear sequins, sequins shorts to be exact.

“I don’t think the whole outfit should be sequins,” my fashion-savvy husband said.

I value his advice, but this time, I had to ignore it. Every day, we have the choice to be our authentic selves, and this was my opportunity. Not only were the blouse and shorts sequins, but also the shoes and fanny pack!

A couple weeks prior to our flight, I contacted my cousin, who I haven’t seen in a few years to let him know we’d be in Phoenix. Then, I remembered that Krystle, a blogger I’ve been talking to via social media lives in the city, too, so we arranged to see one another.

Ya’ll. I was so excited that I started packing four days before our flight.

Have you ever had a day where everything was perfect—where the birds chirped a little louder, where the sun shone a little brighter? Well, that’s how last Friday was.

That morning, Krystle, my cousin, Dwight, and I ate at Breakfast Bitch, a place where rap and R&B play in surround sound, a place where waitstaff sing the “Happy Birthday” song with a microphone and a boombox. This place was as extra as my sequins outfit.

Meeting Krystle for the first time wasn’t weird. Our conversation flowed, just like it had over the years in the DM. I was immediately reminded of why we need to flow with life, instead of resisting reality. What I mean is this: I needed to focus on the people who were in front of me, not overanalyze why a few friends I’ve known for decades had neglected to ask how I was faring after surgery.

Later, I treated Dwight and my cousin to dinner at a tapas restaurant called Pa’La. My husband enjoys fine dining and I had scheduled this part of the trip as a show of gratitude for taking care of me while I had been convalescing. The food was amazing, fresh, and ethically sourced. We enjoyed ourselves.

Then, it was time to see DJ Roger Sanchez.

Man.

I am not easily impressed when it comes to experiences. I am not the one to fanout because I’m in the presence of a celebrity DJ. However, as soon as Sanchez showed up, I thought I was going to faint. But I didn’t. I composed myself and danced and sweated for nearly three hours. I sang along with hits typically heard in the confines of my car and home. That night, I was satisfied with life and love.

Typically, I have a well-thought-out inspirational lesson. Usually, I wait a couple weeks after an event, so I can consider what I want to convey.

But not this time.

I hope what I’m saying is clear and that you glean what you may from this latest slice of my life. I hope this story inspires you in ways that matter to you.

Monday Notes: Boredom

~ kegarland ~ 88 Comments

The days are long with repetition as I heal my rotator cuff. It doesn’t matter what time the alarm screams, each morning is the same—an amalgamation of waking, walking, and stretching, so I’ve turned it off. The time I awake to face the world is irrelevant.

I’ve been here before. I was raised as an only child, who couldn’t leave the house to play with others. It was up to me to entertain myself in a room full of adults, or in a room by myself, so I learned to fill the day with made-up activities. And when I exhausted the list of events: “playing school” with dolls and teddy bears or reading books two years above my age level, I’d sigh heavily and proclaim to my mother, “I’m bored.”

“If you’re bored, then you must be a boring person,” she’d reply, turning the situation on its head. For decades, I’d perceived her response as a comment on my flawed personality. But now, I get it. It was a call to be creative.

However, I’m no longer nine; I’m 49. Throughout the years, I’ve learned how not to be a boring person. Yet, today, I. am. bored. My mother’s words reverberate. It’s funny how an interpretation of a parental lesson can echo in one’s brain, well after the parent ceases to exist. But this is different. I have plenty of ideas and few ways to execute them. No one ever outlined the appropriate protocol for a person who has an overactive mind but no access to manifest her ideas. What should a writer, who doesn’t have full functioning of her dominant hand do with an abundance of time?

Boredom is the uncomfortable state of wanting to engage in satisfying activity, but being able to do it.

Brené Brown, Atlas of the Heart

It is 8:30 in the morning, and the day will be long with routine. I venture downstairs where my husband has prepared a berry smoothie. I’m grateful, but I miss the anticipation of making it myself. I slowly sip its purpleness, savoring separate flavors: the tanginess of the berries lingers on the back of my tongue; the sweetness of the protein powder hits the tip. These are the things I notice now that I have time. It sounds poetic, but it is not. It is boredom expressed as imagery.

Dwight laces my green and gold sneakers. It’s time for my walk. There is the dog with the hazel brown eyes; they peer at me like a sad girl. There is the guy who jogs every day. I wonder if he’s met his goal. Here is a neighbor with a mustard yellow pick-up truck; he backs into his driveway and gives me the proverbial head nod that Black people know well. There is the green bag of poo that has sat next to the bushes for the last two weeks. Someone’s footprint has dented its side.

When I return home, I’m glad I didn’t choose to receive short-term disability. Working gives me something to do. Part of my day is filled with grading student assignments. I hope dictation accurately interprets my feedback. The other day, a comment with the word titties almost sneaked away into the ethers. Simply. Simply. Simply, I said, trying to correct it, before using my left hand to delete the inappropriateness and to peck out the correct letters.

My amygdala begs me to fly, to find an adventure. We don’t have to be here, it whispers. But I cannot drive, so I rely on dreams. I fade away to last summer’s European trip. I tuck away the corn-maze of a city that was Piazzale Roma; in my mind’s eye, there is no confusion; I ignore Venice’s overpriced taxi rides. I romanticize memories and wish myself there again, aimlessly searching for our gondola ride. I find it and float, as an Italian man in a striped black-and-white shirt sings, while rocking me back-and-forth over the dark black water that lulls me to sleep.

An ache in my shoulder awakens me.

Convalescing is boring, but it is necessary. I convince myself this will be over before I know it, just like childhood memories of teaching teddy bears and adult experiences with European excursions. One day, I’ll be back to manifesting my wildest desires. But until then, I scroll social media and watch a stranger dance to Beyoncé’s “Cuff It.” I roll my eyes at their pedestrian attempts, slightly envious that today, I cannot replicate their movements.

One day, I will. One day, I’ll be back doing what I want. In the meantime, I stare out the window at the same squirrel chasing the same nuts under the same tree.

Post-script: I wrote this two weeks after my surgery on February 6, 2023. I’ve started physical therapy and have entered a new type of boredom, one that comes with doing 30 minutes of PT three times a day 🙃

Monday Notes: *23

~ kegarland ~ 57 Comments

Initially, the number 23 used to frequently appear on digital clocks, not just at home, but also abroad or at other people’s houses. Sometimes when I happened to glance at the time, it would read 5:23. The number urged me to pay attention. To what, I was never sure. The purpose wasn’t readily clear. It’s not like a bag of money would fall from the sky or a genie would appear asking for my three wishes. There was just an overwhelming sense that I should be mindful.

So, when I moved from Middle Georgia back to Florida, with little confidence in that decision, I looked for a sign. One day, while driving on the major street adjacent to our townhome, I noticed the bus was number 23. And that did it for me. The same way people find solace in praying to an all-knowing presence that they believe exists, is the way I learned to find comfort when seeing the number 23. Recognizing the number 23 bus right outside of my home helped me to feel as if I had made the proper decision. I was in the “right” place.

Similarly, when I began my job at a community college, I was unsure the institution was right for me, that this was the “right” place for my skillset. Once again on my way to work, I noticed the bus that dropped students off right in front of the college was bus 23. When I noticed the number this time, it wasn’t comforting. It was confirming. At that moment, I had to trust, have faith, and believe I was where I was supposed to be. The reason would be revealed later.

And so, I came to rely on these two numbers as guidance.

On January 20th, I had surgery on my rotator cuff and bicep tendon. The weeks before were filled with nausea and heart palpitations; otherwise known as panic attacks. I’d never had surgery before. The days before were filled with rumination of the unknown; otherwise known as anxiety. I’d never had surgery before. Was I making the right decision? How would I know? The night before, I asked for a sign that everything would be okay, that this was the right decision. I’ve learned to trust that if I ask for a sign, then I will be given a sign, and that my job is to believe that it really is a sign.

The morning of my surgery, Dwight and I sat side-by-side on a hard hospital loveseat. We waited for my eight-digit patient number to appear on the monitor, signaling it was my turn. One-by-one, we watched as nurses called each patient to their fate. Name, the nurse would say, confirming that what the person said matched what was listed on the wristband. What are you here for? the nurse asked, validating that the patient could adequately describe their procedure. Then, the two would walk away toward an unknown place, beyond two double doors, making my stomach twist into knots. I’d never had surgery before. I sat in the crook of Dwight’s arm, trying to hide the tears that crept down my cheek, betraying any sense of internal strength.

Then, it was my turn.

I told her my name and described why I was there. I followed her toward the double doors.

“Do you need to use the bathroom?” she asked.

I hadn’t eaten anything since nine o’clock the night before, so there was no need.

“We’re going right over there to that room,” she said. “Number 23.”

I wanted to wrap my arms around her taut, stocky body. But I knew I couldn’t. I knew this nurse who had just met me two minutes prior wouldn’t understand how much seeing those two digits meant to me. But still I tried.

“That’s my birth day,” I said, with as much nonchalance as I could muster.

The nurse looked at my file, as if to verify, that my birthdate did, indeed, include the numbers two and three, and then she said, “Hmmmph.”

That’s when I knew I was in the right place, and that no matter what happened, everything was going to be okay.

~ February 3, 2023

*Post-script: I started to title this “Why I don’t feel the need to name the unknown,” but I didn’t want to get into a religious debate 😉

Monday Notes: I Don’t Want your Child (or Dog)!

~ kegarland ~ 61 Comments

I vibe with dogs and kids. That’s the way I’ve always been. If you have a dog and 24 hours, then we’ll probably be besties. The same applies if you have a child under 12. He, she, or they will be my best friend by the time I leave your home. I’ve accepted this about myself; however, those outside of my immediate circle don’t know this information, and thus, problems arise. Sometimes, people think I want their kid and dog, or at least that’s how they act.

When I visited my in-laws, my youngest niece attached herself to me as soon as I arrived. We’d never met, yet she stuck by my side and offered me a snaggle-tooth grin every time I looked her way. She followed me around the house and said she wanted to come home with me. She sat beside me at church and whispered jokes.

“Does anyone want to give their life to Christ?” the pastor asked.

“She does,” she shouted, pointing at me and trying to raise my hand.

“Oh yeaaaah?” the pastor’s eyes brightened.

“No. No,” I assured him, and then to my niece, “you trying to get me in trouble…at church???” I teased, giving her a side-eye.

She returned a gapped-tooth smile.

She insisted on sitting next to me at dinner, her mother on the opposite side of the table. “You like your Aunt Kathy?” she asked, through a tight grin.

When we returned home, she began calling me “Mama,” instead of Aunt Kathy.

“You don’t even know her name,” her father said, clearly bothered by her instant affinity.

I remained quiet as insecurity filled the air. Children don’t have to know your name. All they have to feel is safe and seen. It’s a vibe. I don’t want your child I wanted to holler. She’s clearly starving for attention. Instead, I lay on the couch and pretended to be sleepy, in hopes that she’d leave me alone and perhaps spare her parents the sound of her eight-year-old voice calling me mama.

The next day, she cried and hid under the table because she didn’t want me to leave.

Fast forward years later, and I met a three-year-old cousin, who hadn’t seen me since she was born. At first, she was shy, as many tots are, but eventually, after I began asking her questions, in Spanish and English, and wiping her runny nose, she warmed up, so did her parents’ ten-year-old dog.

Her parents and I went to a store, where I asked, “Do you like toys?”

Her head bobbed up and down.

“Good. Let’s go look at some,” I suggested. “You wanna go look at toys?” I asked with my hand outstretched.

More head bobbing.

“We’re gonna go look at toys,” I announced to her mother, and then she put her tiny hand in mine and we traipsed away toward Barbie and them.

We picked over Pepa the Pig trinkets and a box of Marvel bowling pins. “You like those?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said quietly.

“What’s that?” she asked.

“A skate…”

“Issa skateboard,” her mother said. “You know how to use a skateboard?” she had found us and decided she’d show her child around the toy aisle. As her mother showed her how to kick and push, I slowly slipped away because it started to feel a lot like my niece and her mother years ago. It felt like insecurity, as if she didn’t really want her daughter to be with or like me, even though she was and did.

I thought I was tripping, projecting even, until we returned to the house where the mother’s dog greeted me at the door as if we were old friends. He barked for me to pick him up, and feed him the attention he, too, craved and lacked since his doggy parents had had a baby and become mommy and daddy to a human.

He sat on my lap and we played a game where my fingers came close enough to his mouth for him to snap at them, but not really catch them. He barked and snarled and wagged his tail with happiness. Like the toy aisle, where she skated her way back into her child’s view, the mother made cute clicking noises to distract her pet from my lap and from the fun, but it didn’t work. Instead, he settled down right next to my thigh, licked my hand, and then fell into a deep sleep with a slight snore.

My cousin, the mother’s husband, laughed at the sight, and said, “You gotta new Mama now, huh,” while his wife looked on fuming.

Again, I wanted to yell, I don’t want your child (or your dog). I just don’t mind offering a little attention.

But of course, I didn’t say this. Again, I shied away from the dog and the child and made as little eye contact with both.

I hope you hear the empathy in between these narratives: I’m a mother, and I wouldn’t want one of my daughters calling someone else mother. I’ve owned a dog, and I wouldn’t want my dog sidling up to someone else as if he didn’t have an owner. However, I also understand children and dogs. They both need constant attention, something that is oftentimes impossible in today’s busy world. And if I happen to be around for a couple days, I’m happy to offer it.

At the same time, I understand the careful balance of human beingness that has to be in place. I’ll only indulge if everyone is comfortable in the situation, but sometimes, ego makes that impossible.

Monday Notes: Therapy Every Day

~ kegarland ~ 85 Comments

“You want your friends to do therapy,” my goddaughter said. “And that’s too hard.”

            I had just shared the details of a failed friendship, and my goddaughter’s words made sense. You see, I’ve spent the last eight years in self-therapy. I allow my intuition to lead me to a new concept, then I research who the “leading authority” is on that idea, and then I read his or her work. For example, attempting to understand my oldest daughter and her choice of boyfriend(s), led me to the concept of codependence, which led me to Melody Beattie’s work, which led me to read The New Codependency. Consequently, I began to understand myself and how I’d embodied similar traits.

            This is normal for me. I not only read about concepts that reveal a deeper understanding of myself, but I also apply them. When I realized I’d lived much of my young adult and adult life sans boundaries, I read about and learned how to create and enforce them, so I could show up as a healthier version of myself. This is a part of how I live, so I can function in new ways.

            The problem is, as my goddaughter pointed out, everyone is not like this, and sometimes, it impacts how I relate. A lot of times, I’m having a conversation that is normal for me, but difficult for others. In essence, I’m asking others to dig deeper than they care to, than they usually do. I’ve asked friends to think about how they interact with me in relationship, and especially for those my age, it’s quite a challenge. I’ve had friends who’d rather end the relationship than to stop and figure out how to engage in a better way or to consider how I may have felt in situations. This is too hard, a friend recently told me. The this to which she referred was understanding that she never initiates a phone call with me.

            For a while, friends’ responses felt personal. Each situation seemed as if the person didn’t want to see my point of view, or as if they believed that what I was saying was ridiculous—as if I’d asked them to do drugs in the alley. They’d cross their eyes and fumble their words, until we were no longer communicating effectively. Now, I realize their reaction wasn’t personal. People are made up of their childhood and adolescent backgrounds and how they’ve learned to handle situations from those foundational times. Many people project, instead of reflect.

            And, as my goddaughter told me, “Most people don’t want to do what the therapist says, much less read something on their own and follow through with that.”

            “Hmmmph,” I said. “That’s interesting. I do therapy every day.” Therapy is not just for the therapist’s office. Just like yoga isn’t just for the mat, and practicing religions isn’t just for the church, synagogue, or mosque. It’s a daily practice and part of my life. Meaning, I will look at myself several times over in a situation, before I accuse someone else of being the problem. I’m always willing to take ownership, and subsequently, do better, if my doing better is a requirement for maintaining a bond.

            But again, everyone isn’t like this. Everyone isn’t interested in examining their life or taking steps to improve. My goddaughter reinforced something else the day we talked. “It’s okay if they don’t,” she said. “Everyone’s different.”

            You can only change you is an idea I consistently reiterate on this blog, and I stand by it. I will continue to do “therapy every day,” with a primary goal to improve myself. However, I also know from experience that changing me for the better also changes those around me, whether they consciously know it or not.  

Monday Notes: Intentionality

~ kegarland ~ 90 Comments

Intention is what you intend or plan to do. Intention is doing something on purpose.

When my daughters were younger, I made sure to not only spend time with them separately, but also together. Although they are the same gender, they have distinct personalities, and one way to honor that I saw them as individuals, was to plan different activities with each of them. For example, my youngest loved plants and animals, so if we visited a new city, I’d take her to a botanical garden. My oldest likes to eat, so we frequented restaurants. The relationship I developed with them (and that we continue to have) was and is intentional.

Being intentional takes effort. It doesn’t just happen. The relationship I currently have with my husband is an example. We wake up each day with the intent to be married and committed to one another. We spend every Sunday together: we choose a breakfast spot; we grocery shop; we have conversation. If one of my husband’s friends wants to do something with him on a Sunday, he declines; I do the same. We are dedicated to cultivating and maintaining a relationship. We are intentional with this commitment.

In addition to my daughters and spouse, I’m intentional with friends. One way I’ve done this is to be as honest as possible. If I see the relationship is faltering, then I say something. I want to ensure that friends know I care about our friendship, and if any way possible, I’d like to continue being friends. In my opinion, a friendship you care about is one where you can raise important issues, such as why there may have been a lag in communication or why you haven’t seen the person. Next, you can intentionally create space for the friendship to shift, grow, or dissipate.

Another way I’m intentional with friends is scheduling time to talk or be with them. Sometimes, my life is busy. Other times, I’ve built in time to be quiet and rest. In between, I am intentional about with whom I talk to and when. Most of my friends are similar; they are busy. And if we want to engage in authentic conversations, we schedule a chat. I have a standing Zoom “appointment” with a friend I’ve known since first grade. My sister, who I consider a friend, oftentimes has to schedule weeks ahead to speak with me. I have a host of friends who have to look at their calendars, so we can choose a date to meet in person and have hours long conversations. We are intentional about interacting and communing.

But everyone doesn’t see the value in intentionality.

A friend recently proclaimed scheduling time to speak as “weird.”  “I schedule an appointment to go to the doctor. I don’t schedule an appointment to speak to friends. I can just call you in the car or whenever.”

This reaction isn’t frequent, but when it is, I assure people who disagree that it’s not weird, and we’re all different. While some see being intentional as something cold and unfeeling, I see it as the opposite. In my opinion, it makes the person that much more special. I’d much rather know someone carved out a piece of time to listen to me, than to be yelling at drivers, their kids, or practicing lines for a show (as one friend used to do), while I share the latest details of my life. The latter seems like fitting someone into existing distractions, while the former seems, well, a bit more intentional.

I know this is a matter of perspective, so let me know what you think in the comments.