Handing it over

I did something really hard.

I mean, unbelievably, unfathomable, big time hard.

I handed over a decision.

A big one too.

Not just "what's for supper?" but a life shaping "you decide what's best" kind of decision.

You see, I had it in my head that we had to move. If you saw my house you'd understand that to me it was a have to not want to. It didn't help matters that my children's school was closing and my kids were school-less. And the school that they would now be sent to was unacceptable.

So the discussions began. And by discussions I mean that I talked my husband's ear off teling him what I wanted him to agree to without ever really listening to him--and that's how most all our discussions go.

Summer started, cleaning/packing began, and we started looking for a place to go.

Budget tight, must haves high.

We looked at lots of places and I fel in love with parts of all of them.

And he was silent.

I didn't ask how he felt about any place, I just made my own plans in my head.

And oh my head!

It was spinning and whirling and running and making so much noise! I had driven myself to stress levels that should never be allowed in any human. I was making myself sick.

Summer's racing by and I haven't decided! And now we have to go away for a week! A whole week of not looking talking hunting seeing!

And it was a great week. I saw sides of my husband and son I didn't know existed. But I was still stressed.

I prayed and prayed, wore out my knees praying that week. "Where should I move, where should I put my kids in school, what should I decide?" I didn't feel like I was getting any answer.

But I was feeling even more stressed. My body was rebeling against me! What was I going to do?

And then, in a moment of clairity, I thought about Forest. No, he doesn't have a perfect track record regarding decisions, but he also loves me and wants what's best for our family. And, he doesn't get stressed.

So we got back from our week, and I left for my week.

But before I left, I asked him to please decide for me. That I couldn't do it anymore. And then I said the scary thing. I said that I would go along non-grudgingly with whatever decision he made.

We've been a part of each other's lives for close to eight years now.

This was the first time I've put a decision like this in his hands.

Why, oh why didn't I do this sooner?

So I'm staying in house I hated and my kids are going to the school I thought was unacceptable. But he tells me that it'll all be ok, and I believe him.

And this, my friends, is a really big step for me.

The fabric of stories

Before I can write my stories, I must talk about who makes up a story. My story isn't my story. It is the story of all of those who touch my life. And it's all of their stories too. Starting before I was born, my mother's story was mine, I had nothing to tell, but her story wouldn't be the same without me. My parents story made me into who I am. Every story I may tell weaves  it's way back to them. And my stories would be so dry and boring if I couldn't tell my boys' stories too. And their stories wouldn't be here if it weren't for my stories.

Of course now, probably the most influential parts of my stories are shared. His stories and my stories are one story together. The only time they aren't the same is when we are apart, but they are still held together by some mighty strong threads. And then, when we are together again, we share, laugh, cry, and our stories become one again. Yes, perspective makes our same stories completely different but that gives us something to share and to strengthen those threads.

The other thing that accompanies stories and all who tell them is bad plots. Those little things make life unpleasant. The things that someone has done, done to us, or done without regard to us. That which makes us feel guilty, although we've done nothing wrong. The things we don't want in our stories because we don't want anyone to know about it. But while we hide others' secrets, our stories suffer. We aren't allowing sympathy or empathy into our lives. We are closed off and isolated. We can't fully live when we are hiding other people's character flaws, when we allow non founded guilt to keep others out, when we forget how to forgive and love.

So when I start to tell a story and wonder if it's mine to tell I realize without a doubt that it has to be mine, bad plot lines and all. That if the story is in, has changed, or is working in my life, then it's my story too. I do know that some things are truly better off not said, shared, and that there are times when I should check before including your part of my story, but I'm not going to hide from the story.

 I wouldn't be Annie without your stories, and I hope that my stories make up a little part of you too.

Long time no read

I was told this weekend that I ought to write more. Or at all for that matter. I'm not sure if this person enjoys my writing or just knows that sometimes I need to let it out.

Truth is, blogging feels great. I love to write. Every day in my little head I must write a million pages. But I don't bother to write them. That overwhelming voice telling me that no one cares what I have to say; that I'm better off being anonymous, quiet.

But I do have good stories and I ought to write them before I forget them. I mean, my stars, I just spent the past two weeks of my life doing some great things! Maybe I'm being selfish by not telling my stories. I don't want anyone to know just what I've done and how great it was. I let one person catch me being myself and she has to go and tell everyone how great I am and about the "gifts" I have. Please. I just do what I can. I'm not a humble person, but don't praise me for just being Annie- cause let me tell you, a lot of the time being Annie is no picnic.

 

So I guess I might just start writing again. An English teacher-in-training does not have the luxury of being shy about her writing. You'll just have to forgive me if the stories don't seem interesting to you or are poorly written, it's just me being unsure of my words. I don't have the grace, knowledge, and vocabulary as some folks, but I always write from my heart and if I can always do that, then maybe you'll know my joy, too.  I know that if I want to count my life as a success, I must live it, insecurities and all.