What Does It Mean to Have Faith?

“With only a 4th-grade education, Grandma Maggie’s world schooled her in the practicalities of life. Hardworking and unshakeable, she harbored neither self-pity nor arrogance for any aspect of her life. No matter what happened around her, she remained grounded. She was not a religious woman, but I would describe her as having a strong faith. The kind of faith that extends beyond the walls of a church or the pages of the Bible.”

– Excerpt from Walking Old Roads

If you and I were playing a word association game before I wrote Walking Old Roads, my answers would sound different than answers from my post-book writing perspective. If you had asked me to tell you the first word to pop into my head when I hear the word faith, I would have immediately said religion. I also would have told you that I would not use the word faith as a description of myself. I am not a religious person in that I find little comfort in organized religion. During the process of writing Walking Old Roads, I surprised myself by discovering I have a lot more faith than I ever thought possible. After authoring the book, the word popping into my mind in response to the prompt of faith is trust. Faith has many layers other than that of a religious context.

The dictionary defines faith as “sincerity of intentions … allegiance to duty; loyalty … belief in something for which there is no proof.” Faith requires a great deal of trust and trust is a key component of benevolence.

I came to understand a broader definition of faith when I was writing about my Grandma Maggie who I say has the kind of faith that extends beyond the pages of the Bible. As a wrote about her, I began to see similarities between her personality and mine. My devotion to a tidy home, my appreciation for everyday tasks performed with caring intention, and my desire for contentment remind me of my behavioral connection to one of my greatest role models. The way I sneeze after applying a generous sprinkling of ground black pepper jogs my memory of Grandma Maggie doing the same while standing at the stove in her modest kitchen. I began to see more faith in my existence as I searched my heritage and found the significance of being a benevolent person.

Even if I cannot immediately see proof of how a simple kind act can influence the world around me, I believe small actions matter. I strive to become the role models who influenced me in my youth. They, like us, were far from perfect, but they knew how to be part of a community. They understood the importance of contribution, how to be content with life, and how to trust the people around them. Not an easy task to accomplish these days. Remembering the world of yesterday helps me see the possibilities in having the faith to lift up my eyes and connect with the people right in front of me.

Who I am is a moving target and I can use past experiences to guide me into being a better person. I will get some things right, and I will get some things wrong. Grandma Maggie would have believed setting a good example for the benefit of generations to come to be a worthy effort. I still have work to do to repair my broken benevolence, but I know I have the level of faith necessary to start mending myself. I know I must be more trusting of others and more content with myself. No matter what type of healing you need, patience in the process goes a long way to getting there.

How do you answer when the person in your mirror asks, “What is faith?”

Originally published on BizCatalyst360.

Is Invisibility Chosen or Imposed?

A squeak to the right of the bell curve is a modest little dot. That’s me – the minuscule spec of a flawed perfectionist dangling her feet over a mid-life crisis. The date on my birth certificate pronounces me as a Baby Boomer, just barely. The end of a generational classification. Not the very end. I was born in February, not on December 31, 1964, at 11:59 p.m. Somewhere “out there” in the universe, an interesting person holds the honor of being the very last Boomer ever born. Not me. I am an average, run-of-the-mill Baby Boomer.

— Excerpt from Walking Old Roads, to be released mid to late 2023 —

I am a play-by-the-rules gal who does not strive to be the life of a party. I’m fine over here enjoying the entertainment provided by those who shine much louder than me. Performers need an audience, and I am happy to oblige. I’ve considered my life in the shadows of others to be my choice. As my generation peaks the hill and heads down the other side, I begin to question whether my choice to live in the comfortable peacefulness of quiet obscurity is good for me, or good for the generations that follow.

The pharmacy staff call her Miss Mary. “How are you today, Miss Mary, and what can we do for you?” Their happiness to see her, and their sincerity to help her, is legit. They connect to this woman in a way foreign to me. I tend to stay in my solitary bubble, avoiding eye contact and conversation unless necessary. Miss Mary begins joking with them about her aches and pains, and they tell her she is due for some vaccinations. She pretends to scold the pharmacist for experiencing too much enjoyment from the task of sticking her with needles. Everyone behind the counter is smiling and laughing as they enjoy a moment of fun together.

Once the business of medication and vaccines is complete, they say their goodbyes, and Miss Mary and I head to the checkout. I love how everyone at this little pharmacy looks out for my mom. I use the same pharmacy, but they don’t know me unless I’m with Miss Mary. I have not cultivated a relationship with them the way she has. I have not made myself visible to them like she has. I would do well to learn from her example.

I start placing our purchases on the conveyor belt and Mom chimes in, “What’s wrong with me? I should be helping you with that.” I tell her it is fine. She converses with the cashier as I load the cart with our groceries. The cart helps steady Mom’s wobbly gait as we cross the parking lot at her pace. As I’m lifting the bags from the cart to the trunk, Mom chimes in again with more distress in her voice. “Here I go again. I’m sorry. I should be helping you with this. What’s the matter with me?” Once again, I assure her all is fine. What she thinks of as heavy lifting, is not in the slightest bit heavy for me.

I deposit the cart in the cart return, as the rules suggest. Meanwhile, Mom gets herself buckled into the passenger seat. My mind has moved on from our shopping task. Mom’s mind has not. I enter the car to find her upset and starting to cry. “I’m so useless. I can’t do anything for myself. I work you too hard. I just don’t like who I am anymore. I don’t even know why I’m still here.” The weight she carries is far heavier than the bags of groceries I lift each week during our outings. Baffled by the sudden turn of her mood, I respond with a question.

“Did you not see what just happened inside a few minutes ago at the pharmacy?” The genuine confusion in my voice and on my face catches her off guard. The crying stops as she searches for an answer to my question. I do not wait for her to figure it out. “You brought joy to every person in that pharmacy. You brightened their day. Think of all the unruly people they deal with on a regular basis. You made it all worthwhile for them. You did that. You do that for friends and strangers alike. You may think you are unimportant and unseen, but the people around you see and hear you. You set a good example for everyone watching. If that isn’t useful, then I don’t know what is.”

Miss Mary could not deny the facts. Her actions had made a difference in the lives of others. I get it though. As I age, I feel insignificant, without purpose, and invisible at times. I need to follow in Miss Mary’s unsteady footsteps. I need to be present and involved with the people right in front of me. It is my responsibility to teach the next generations the importance of connection in creating a community. I’ve heard claims that the younger generations ignore the worth of the Baby Boomers.

Is that true though? Do the younger generations ignore the presence of their elders, or are we making ourselves unseeable to them?

Originally published on BizCatalyst360 and Medium.com.

Who Is to Blame?

I am to blame. Society is fractured and it’s my fault. I chipped away at civility one encounter at a time, pointing a finger toward everyone else as I accused society of being meaner than it used to be. Gazing out my window and across my lawn, it occurred to me one day that society did not stop at my property line. I am part of the society to which I refer to as broken and unkind.

The year was 2020, and I had returned to the sanctuary of my home from a trip to the grocery store which meant dealing with thoughtless, rude people clogging up the aisles, and sharing the road with careless, indignant drivers. Impatient shoppers pushing me aside to get what they wanted was bad enough in a normal year. The violation of my personal space took on a whole new meaning at the beginning of the pandemic. Knowing how a regular upper respiratory illness tends to hit my lungs, I was a little anxious about inclusion in a statistic of which I wanted no part.

Returning to the safety of home, I closed the door to the world and breathed a sigh of relief. Washing the danger of illness off my hands, I looked up at the woman in the bathroom mirror and came face to face with the problem. I had become a meaner person than I used to be. The kind young woman who left the nest decades ago wearing a smile she meant was buried inside an embittered woman peering out of jaded eyes.

How can one average person like me be to blame for the degradation of humanity’s civility? The answer is lying right there in the question: Because I am average. I am not one; I am one of many.

I am a drop in an ocean of people massive enough to effect change without realizing we have done so. I did not wound civility in an instant, and I did not wound it alone. Sure, we like to blame the ones in the spotlight. Politicians make it easy to lay all the blame on them. They are not without blame, but the average people have the numbers. Compared to our ocean of average people, politicians are nothing more than a single martini glass filled with self-serving lawyers and garnished with a narcissistic businessman who keeps stirring up the mix.

Humanity has not been injured just by politicians. It’s been injured by the masses. Picture a bell curve. There are a small number of extraordinarily good people on the right side (Mother Teresa, my grandmother-in-law Hazel, etc.) and a small number of unthinkably bad people on the left side (Hitler, Charles Manson, etc.). Most of us reside in the large area in the middle, in the land of average. Together we ordinary people have the power of numbers to turn the clock back to civility one encounter at a time.

Since that day in 2020, I’ve been in search of my lost benevolence. It took a while, but I found it on the front porches and neighborhood streets of the hometown that raised me.  I found it in grade school classrooms and under the shade of a tree on a playground. You can read about my discovery in Walking Old Roads, set for the bookshelves sometime in mid to late 2023. In the meantime, I’m trying a little each day to be a kinder version of myself and extend my definition of home beyond the boundaries of my property line.

I don’t want to play the blame game anymore. How about you?

Originally published on BizCatalyst360.

Allow Me to Introduce My Mid-Life Crisis

A hiccup comes out of nowhere. The sudden spasmatic jolt of my abdomen surprises me. An involuntary “hic” enters my ears, grabs onto my thoughts, and tosses me into the past. Landing in a heap of memories at my mom’s feet, my mind hears her say what she always says. “You’ve got the hiccups! You must be growing. The problem with my own hiccups is that I keep growing out instead of up.” The corniness of her tired old joke rattles about in my brain and lifts the corners of my mouth. The thoughtful residue of her voice fades as my smile descends into the realization that my growth is neither out nor up. I retreat inward, away from the complexities of us toward the solitary confinement of self-preservation. I reach for my morning cup of tea and apply the 10 Sips Rule to end my contemplative bout of hiccups.

My daily ritual of pulling back the curtain to peer at the degradation of society has begun. A shrewd chirping travels with purpose along the early morning sunbeam and coats the back of my neck with the confident assurance of a new day’s arrival. I bow my head to the small electronic window cupped in my left hand, ignore the warm optimism resting on my skin, and delve into a chilly virtual world. The mechanical movement of my index finger against the glass screen triggers the zombie-like detachment symptomatic of doom scrolling through trending reports of violence and corresponding hateful opinions pouring in from couches across the country. A storm brews out there beyond the birds and right here in my own heart. Nestled in the corner of my modern sofa sectional in the tree-lined urban neighborhood I call home, I cling to an imaginary bond with the worried minds of a scattered fellowship listening with me to the background noise of the morning anchor. Worming into our ears are the disturbing details of the angry mob of insurgents forever inscribed into the history books for deciding the storming of the White House sounded like a clever idea.

I press on the back arrow to move in the direction of a longing for kinder times to ease the foreboding pulse racing through my soul and I focus ten therapeutic minutes on the #CatsOfTwitter. Call me crazy, but I remember the whole nostalgic world of the past as a nicer place than the real, or virtual, realities of the 21st century. Fast approaching my sixth decade of life, my complexities live in a churning atmosphere measured on a teetertottering scale from calm to primal. Longing for the deliberate simplicity of a bird’s life and admiring the passion of misguided followers fighting for a shared belief is both understandable and confusing to me. I fear my anxiety is boiling up like the darkening sky of a Kansas thunderstorm into a dramatic release of anger. Or is it desperation? On second thought, do not call me crazy. I wear many hats, but crazy is not one of them.

A squeak to the right of the top of the bell curve is a modest little dot. That is me. The miniscule spec of a flawed perfectionist dangling her feet over a mid-life crisis. The date on my birth certificate pronounces me as a baby boomer, just barely. The end of a generational classification. Not the very end. I was born in February, not on December 31, 1964, at 11:59 p.m. Somewhere out there in the universe an interesting person holds the honor of being the very last boomer ever born. Not me. I am an average, run-of-the-mill baby boomer.

A retired accountant with meager career success, above average intelligence, and basement level athleticism, I possess much empathy for nonhuman animals, and little patience for people who should know to be better. The summation of my life to date lands me and my contribution to the world somewhere in the land of average near the top of the bell curve of humanity. From my bird’s eye view of the past, present and future, the fading light within me is obvious and alarming. The diminishment of my instinctual need to do the right thing, to be likeable, to be smart, to be more than is possible for me to be, has progressed to an undeniable prominence.

My arm raises my plain white tea mug with automatic precision to my lips only to render a trance breaking disappointment to my tongue. The mug is empty, and the meteorologist is signing off with an optimistic, “Make it a great day!” Time to move on. People would say time is running out for my generation. I do not believe this statement is accurate. The continuous, flat movement of time has no life span. Opportunity runs out. Opportunity to seize the moment, to speak, to act, to appreciate … to remember. Opportunity to meet my full potential, before it is too late.

My travels along the perpetual stream of time have brought me to my half of a granite topped dual vanity in an enviable place of comfortable teeth-brushing, contented application of my public face, and the reassuring security of knowing the sink next to me belongs to more than just a wet toothbrush and well used mustache trimmer. My mind knows my cup is full, but my eyes see a plain, pale complexion of emptiness wearing the dark weight of guilt and doubt. I do not remember the last time the smile on my face meant the message it portrayed. The unassuming surface of me proclaims no statements of greatness. For half a century I have strived to please the world around me to find, in the end, the one most disappointed is the wee bit overweight, graying woman in the mirror.

I stare through the vacant image and watch the reflections of my seasons play out like the flickering trailer for a movie. I jump from snippet to snippet of pivotal moments and corresponding consequences. The naïve squirming of a small red-headed, freckle-faced child focused on the wonders of the world, unaware of the mirror’s existence. A young woman driven by expectations she thought were her own, seeing only herself until that moment of adulthood when the people standing next to her become visible all around her reflection. Mature eyes drifting through life as a spectator, trying to keep up as the next generation’s world speeds by without time for a caring glance. The proverbial circle of life.

I am not alone in front of the mirror. The future and the past are with me. Always have been. I just was not in the season to notice, until now. Over half a century old, I am on the downhill side of this ride, looking back at my past wondering what happened to the lovely young woman who left her parents’ nest wearing the smile of a kind heart and the hopeful ambition of making a positive contribution to the world. My mid-life crisis arrived in the form of a half-inch stripe of white traveling down the right side of my faded red hair and the unraveling of the mystery of my lost benevolence. I need to recharge my waning confidence and discover my value as I inch closer to becoming a senior citizen. Am I done becoming who I will be? Are my opportunities running out? How did I get here from there so fast?

My microscopic spec on the infinite road of time came about by way of the usual means. Like the genesis of your existence, I would guess. You and I are alike in as many ways as we are different. Our stories unfold this way and that along the journey between our respective beginnings and ends, comparable at birth, intersecting here and there in the middle, and if we are lucky, we will both leap across the generation gap to a new perspective before the inevitable crossing of the finish line. And we all know how life ends. The somber finale of an empty vessel lying six feet under in a field of faded remembrances.

My preferred finality will be in a drawer stacked inside a climate-controlled building. A room of filing cabinets filled with unalphabetized endings resting in an organized framework. A personal cell of eternity in a three-dimensional spreadsheet with my exact coordinates logged into a database somewhere in the ethereal abyss of the cloud. Seems appropriate for a retired accountant. We are who we are and that is part of who I am. It is no wonder an ending such as this appeals to me. For thirty years of my adult life equations ran through my brain, resulting in the footing and cross-footing of a life that matched and defined my persona. People plus places multiplied by passion and divided by perception. Gains and losses recorded in an emotional balance sheet of a life traveling toward a death.

From the moment of conception, life creeps towards death, the speed of encroachment determined by a constant grapple between choice management and uncontrollable forces of fate. The landscape of life varies as society travels alongside me through the decades, changing with exponential rapidness. Will society leave me behind or will there be a place for an aging baby boomer in our future world of growing distrust? A credible concern made more ominous by the realization it is my fault the world is now a meaner place. Somewhere along the way, I misplaced my own benevolence. I do not like people very much and that feels wrong. My circle is shrinking. Of the billions of people in the world, there are only about six I wish to speak to in person; another five I reach out to via texting, and a handful I prefer to keep within waving distance while my Google assistant screens the rest. Insincere conversations, intrusive encounters, and disrespectful experiences replay with randomness in my mind leaving no doubt as to how I lost my benevolence.

Chased by the urgency of knowing I can do nothing to repair society without first repairing myself, the real mystery lies in how I ever became kindhearted in the first place. How was my compassion sparked and can I compel lightning to strike again? My quest begins with the family, friends, and community credited with molding me into the lovely kindhearted young woman who soared from the nest on the wings of hope, wearing a smile she meant. My hometown raised me to be a compassionate, thoughtful human being. So begins my journey back to the past to walk my old roads and examine the causality of me, influenced by a perspective born from a lifetime of flawed perfectionism.

Not long ago, someone asked me, “Is your life interesting enough for this?” Now look who is wearing the crazy hat. Of course, my life is not interesting enough for this. My position on the bell curve firmly entrenches me among the throngs of average people trying to make the most of time and opportunity. I am not extraordinary, but I am to blame for the degradation of society. I will say it again. It is my fault the world is a meaner place. To be honest though, I have not wounded civility in an instant and I have not wounded it alone. Journey with me in search of the creation of the benevolence I have lost. Let us begin with a story of discovering how the circle of my life started with my earliest influencers, two people walking arm in arm down a sidewalk in front of a little house on Fifth Street in a small, quiet Kansas town. Let us see where my story takes us.

The Beige Sheep of the Family

“Tammy Cullou! And how are you?”

The old farmer’s sing song voice greeted me with a smile each morning during harvest, in a small Oklahoma town along the custom combining trail. With less than a decade under my belt, any adult could be labelled old and location was of little consequence to summertime play.

I have never known the proper spelling or meaning of cullou; if there is a meaning at all. The simplest answer may lie in the arrangement of letters creating the necessary number of syllables and rhyming with the word ‘you’. Regardless, Tammy Cullou is the only real nickname ever bestowed upon me.

Lost in the crowd, I am the silent beige backdrop for the exhibition of more colorful people. If there were such a thing as the beige sheep of the family, that would be me. My family members are recognized and remembered. Everywhere they go. Entering local cafés with Mom nowadays means impromptu reunions with bygone faces. Expressions transform at the moment of recognition. Lightened by a comforting connection to the past, they reminisce about life as it was.

“I remember when Scotty …”. The starting phrase of many a conversation as acquaintances recollect fond tales of my Dad. His name was Glen, but his town knew him as Scotty. My eyes communicate in silence with the approaching server, passing along the message that we’re going to need a few minutes. Smiling at the scene playing out in the restaurant aisle, my role as audience to my family’s curtain calls brings a proud kind of joy to my heart.

Mom is no stranger to the appointment of a distinctive stamp either. She was dubbed Weezy by her comrades somewhere along the life trail. A fun-loving substitute for the name Louise. A reference of friendship extended with a playful appreciation for a special person.

And then there is my brother; the encapsulation of our parents’ best traits. Dad’s calm temperament and olive skin tone. Mom’s height and open mindedness. Likeability is in my brother’s DNA. The wordplay of referring to their only son as Number One Son escaped me for many youthful years. Oh, how my self-doubt thrived in the nickname laden shadow of my older brother.

Jealousy develops early and romps carefree until knowledge arrives to apply the discipline of reason. His is a name I am now proud to drop as a conversation starter. “My brother Don worked at the fire department there …” Before I can finish my thought with, “maybe you know him”, an enthusiastic interruption has already begun. “Big Don! Yea, I know Big Don! You don’t look anything like him.”

I take this as a compliment in the sense that I would rather not be referred to as Big. In spite of my preferences, Big Tammy was indeed a moniker assigned to me by an aunt during my college days. No, she wasn’t calling me fat. I weighed in at about 110 pounds on a heavy day. Big Tammy was born to clarify conversations, to differentiate Tammy the person from Tammy the dog. She blamed her grandchildren for picking the name Tammy for the dog. I can neither confirm nor deny the accuracy of her assertion.

Beige sheep tend to be quietly tolerant, reliable and dependable. Beige sheep are grade A prime house and pet sitters. Hence, Big Tammy cared for Little Tammy on several occasions. The dog and I agreed not to talk about it. Think I’ll stick to the label defined only by my memory of the shy little red headed girl whose presence inspired the creation of a nickname.

“Tammy Cullou! And how are you?”

I’m fine, thanks. The memory of my nickname smiles in my mind, dotting my canvas with a tiny speck of color.

Originally published at Medium.com on 2-5-2020.

Relationship Success May Not Lead to Marriage

“Before you can become part of our child mentoring program, you will need to see a counselor.”

Her statement hit me like a hard slap in the face knocking my ego out of the chair and onto the floor. The young woman sitting behind the desk of authority wielded her sharp words with surprising ease. My mind was baffled by the blow. I had entered the interview with the confidence of a woman proud of her accomplishments and comfortable in her own skin. I had truly believed that I could be a positive influence on a young mind. What had I done wrong?

Regaining my composure from its fall to the floor, I could only reply with a single word. “Why?”

“You have not had a relationship with a man that has ended successfully. I think you could benefit from some counseling.”

By the end of the twenty-minute drive home, my state of confusion mutated through a haze of disbelief until defensiveness could finally get a grip on the situation. What the hell does marital status have to do with volunteering for a mentoring program? Staring at the naked ring finger on my left hand, not even a tan line existed to remind me of a temporary marital achievement. Never had my eyes fallen upon a kneeling suitor offering a ring of commitment.

My analytical mind automatically began sorting my life into pros and cons. The pros column was a strong contender. High school valedictorian, college graduate, passed the CPA exam and was on the way up in the ranks of an accounting career. I owned my own house, mowed my own yard, obediently served my cat, had a handful of good friends and an excellent relationship with my parents.

I was squarely in the middle of one of life’s sunshine and happiness moments. My current state of contentment left the cons column almost void of negativity. According to the mentoring gatekeeper, being single was a con, and I was most definitely single. No noise at all on the prospective husband radar. Dead silence.

I find a peaceful clarity in silence. Not all relationships are meant to last a lifetime. Marrying solely because I was on the downhill slide to thirty is not my definition of success. Liking the person staring back at you in the mirror every morning, that is the pinnacle of success.

Dating is sort of like a try before you buy process. If you know he’s not the right fit, then breaking up means the dating process is working properly, and might I add, successfully. Some relationships are not meant to be. It’s nice if both parties see the ill-fitting image in the mirror. Mutual break ups do happen once in a while. I had one once.

Some people are the universal blood donors of the relationship world. Compatible with many. Quickly and easily matched with another. My relationship blood type is rare. Finding a compatibility match is not so simple. My deliberate nature prefers a bullseye to okay, that’s close enough.

The agony of being hurt or hurting another is a more typical relationship scenario. Painful as those times were, I say with immense gratitude to those who broke my heart, “Thank you for seeing what I couldn’t see and having the courage to end the relationship before I developed a tan line on this pristinely naked ring finger on my left hand.”

Yeah, I think I could have been an excellent role model for a young girl. Life is about choices and having the self-worth to think independently of the path dictated by that which society deems the norm. Don’t get me wrong. Having another human being legally obligated to reside with you is fulfilling. I love sharing life with my husband.

Yes, I did eventually find a compatible partner. And, I never did heed that young woman’s advice and go see a counselor. My head was in a good place. Why would I want to mess with that? Turns out all those allegedly failed relationships were leading me to my perfect match. The flip side of failure is the hand of fate presenting you with a different opportunity.

Early on in the interview process that day so long ago, the young woman behind the desk of authority had proudly told me she was engaged to be married. I applauded her good fortune with sincere congratulations. I wonder sometimes if her marriage turned out to be the successful relationship she deemed the significant measure of a sound mind or the pale mark of failure tattooed on an empty ring finger.

Originally published at Medium.com on 11-3-2019.

The Void of Loss Is a Time Bandit

Two years have passed since I witnessed my Dad’s last rattling breath escape his 82 year old body. For almost a year after he crossed to the other side, his last moment of life haunted me as I closed my eyes to sleep. Emotional recovery from the loss of a parent happened in the requisite amount of time, in no unusual way. As time passed, bad memories faded, and good ones rose up into view. Time helps us forget, and remember. Time bears productive fruit, relaxes our burdens and sometimes hesitates long enough to bring clarity to the forefront.

Believing in Yourself

It was the beginning of a weekday like any other in the mid 1980’s. Dad had left for work and Mom was in the kitchen cleaning up after breakfast. The day’s college classes awaited my arrival as the early morning time marched forward at a consistent pace. Standing in front of the dresser mirror in my bedroom, the ritual of applying makeup and fixing my hair was performed with mechanical thoughtlessness. As my eyes locked with the reflection staring back at me, time slowed down.

In an instant, the young woman in the mirror compelled me to see the truth and understand the certainty of what must be done. Time hesitated and the fog of complacency lifted. I had to break up with my boyfriend and it had to be done that day. The decision was not as instantaneous as it seemed, of course. Sudden revelations are rarely without a certain amount of expectation. Flapping red flags had been ignored for some time now.

Irrefutable proof was not in my possession, but the firm finger of circumstantial evidence pointed to the probability that he was cheating on me and his pledge to AA. Two giant boulders blocking the rocky path ahead, the latter somehow more daunting than the former. It was not time that woke me from the slumber of accepting the status quo. Believing that I deserved better and realizing I could make that desire a reality are the heroes of my fate.

Time is merely a vessel pretending to have power over life. A chameleon erroneously credited for days dragging, years racing, wounds healing and youth stolen. Time is a void most visible during periods of loss when truth cannot be ignored. The emptiness in your heart, the fluttering in your stomach, the panic that sets in when you ask yourself, “What do I do now?”

For years I equated loss solely with heartbreak, not understanding the psychological culprit causing the pain of sadness. Loss is a void in time. The choice to fill the void and escape sadness belongs to you, not the ticking of a clock.

An Unexpected Loss

The trickery perpetrated by time revealed its true nature to me in the days following the CPA exam. The emptiness, the fluttering and the panic were inexplicably mounting inside me. Why was this happening? I hadn’t lost a loved one. No one was breaking up with me. Nothing bad was hurtling in my direction. My gaze was drawn to the accounting books on the table. These study materials had been my constant companion, the center of my life, for months and now it was over. With a certain cavalier arrogance, the books were saying, “It’s not you, it’s me. Our relationship has run its course and we’re moving on without you.”

What do I do now? The familiar daily routine of work, household chores and studying had derailed. Sadness and a feeling of desperation took center stage as I searched ahead and behind for a new, or perhaps an old, fulcrum to bring balance back to my purpose in life. I was trapped in a void in the infinite existence of time. Lost in an interval when life is on pause while time continues to move forward.

For those unfortunate souls unable to move on and open new doors, loss can be an inescapable black hole. For me, it’s a temporary dark cloud challenging me to find an alternate means to light the path. Loss is a void and voids can be filled. Look at the opportunities surrounding you, reach out to those who share in your loss, help a stranger or a friend. Find your direction.

The power of healing doesn’t belong to time. Overcoming loss is up to you. Understand, accept and discover or time will move on without you.

Originally published at Medium.com on 7-22-2019.

Lost and Found Beyond Tears

My soul aches for freedom as invisible chains slowly tighten, binding me to my fate. Tears no longer form; the well is dry. Circumstances have created an imbalance. Obligations are heavier than dreams. I can feel my despair building deep inside my chest, rising up and collecting into a mass that threatens to choke out everything that once defined me.

The smoldering black smoke of once brightly shining dreams rise from the burned-out ash at my feet. The swirling reminders of my failures enter my body with each breath and fill my lungs with a suffocating anguish. Everyone and no one are sorry. The sacrifices I make allow others to turn away and live life freely.

Empathy dictates my path and uses me up. The choice is made by my own hand, my conscience knows the difference between right and wrong. The cost of meeting the needs of others is depleting me. Life floats out of reach into space as I grow weary of my existence. To survive in my world, I fear I must die and be resurrected as someone I don’t wish to be. Survival may depend on the assimilation of my core into society’s collective norm.

I am beaten down and defeated by the world. Fight and determination are waning exponentially as people need more, and more, and more; my conscience has chosen my place of servitude. I don’t know how to balance dreams and obligations and I am lost beyond my tears. In between the waves drowning my soul, I gasp for air and reach for my life preserver.

Are my meager efforts to achieve my goals extending the life or the death of my dreams? Is the act of trying synonymous with persistence or foolishness?

Alas, this too shall pass, and anguish will give way to acceptance. The clouds will drift by with the passage of time and sunshine will be the reward for patience. My soul calms as a sense of purpose rises from the ashes. I know the difference between right and wrong … and that’s a good thing.

Though others may benefit from my actions, the choice remains mine. My life is how I make it. Obligations are heavier than dreams. The weight of responsibility shines a light on character and ignites emotions. Fulfilling obligations lifts that heavy weight and fills the heart with the knowledge that sacrifice is worthy. Contentment rises from promises honored.

Time and circumstance affect, but do not decide, the history of me. Reflections of my past are for me to create. Darkness reveals the brightest of lights. Aspirations provide direction, but empathy is the muse found beyond my tears.

Originally published at Medium.com on 4-30-2019.

No Sir, You Are Not a Burden

Wearily slumped over in a wheelchair, the elderly man I see is tired and filled with despair. His wrinkled face rests in calloused hands as the anguish inside of him gives way to tears. He is uncertain of the future and has lost the pride and strength of his past. He has forgotten the importance of his history and sees no purpose in his present. His dependence on others leaves him believing he is a burden, his confidence eroding bit by bit with each reluctant request for help. His journey is not solitary though he feels detached from the world that flows around him.

Many others travel along this same path. A fact of life that brings little comfort to protect against the fear and sadness that infiltrates his heart and mind. He clings to the memory of who he was, not realizing the value of who he is. Raise your head, look in my eyes and allow me to sincerely remind you of your worth. You never stop being a role model to your children. The strength and determination you have exhibited as time rages an assault on your flesh continue to inspire the lives you touch.

The person you were is not who you see in the mirror, but the man you remember is not gone. That man is alive in the kind heart, the moral fiber and the mindful fortitude of the children he nurtured into conscientious adults. Your generation has guided my generation through temper tantrums and teenage angst, preparing us for the responsibilities of adulthood. In childhood we emulated you, in young adulthood, we admired your work ethic and commitment to family and community.

The sacrifices you made to serve your country and your family were not in vain. As sons, husbands, and fathers, your generation has laid the groundwork for who we are. Your unwavering diligence to remain on the path of integrity and honor has not gone unnoticed. The mark you have made on the world is a solid foundation of principled reliability.

We see you. We know you. And our memories are long.

The legacy that you will leave behind is not that of a weak man. We come from strong people. Are you a burden? No sir, you are not a burden and you are not alone. Your presence continues to add value to our lives as you accept life with grace and dignity. Dry your tears and hold your head high. Be proud of your hard-earned wrinkles and confident in the strength of your calloused hands.

It is an honor and a privilege to stand beside you. The watchful eyes of the next generations are upon us as we follow in your footsteps, shaping their character as they journey along the path to adulthood.

Originally published at Medium.com on 4-15-2019.