Wins and Losses

I've been thinking a great deal about loss lately. And when I say "loss," you're conjuring up a negative connotation, aren't you? Yeah, me, too.

But I don't necessarily think that's always the case.

Over the past year and a half, I've lost nearly 70 pounds. On my way to 100, I'm morphing into a new human form. I've lost lots of jiggly fat, 6 dress sizes, and a Suburban full of clothes that no longer fit. I've lost physical discomfort, excessive sweating, painful red marks around my belly from too-tight waistbands, late-night bingeing urges, and granny panties.

But I've gained so much more. Self-confidence, self-awareness, strength, stamina, some hot new clothes, energy, and enthusiasm. The funny thing, though? I'm still exactly the same person -- I just look different. And by looking different, I feel different. I'm thinking about myself differently. I'm projecting myself differently. But I'm still the same old me.

We're in the process of "losing" the hometown we've known for 10 years -- the only home our kids truly remember. We're selling our house and we're going to lose our financial asses. Originally priced below what we paid, we've already dropped the ask by $20,000. The market has changed, our country is in a financial crisis. Our house is just one tiny piece of sand on a shore of financial instability. And before, this situation would have made me weepy and afraid. Now, I realize it is simply what it is. We lose money, we make money. We buy homes, we sell homes, we lose our asses on homes. We get the opportunity to follow some pretty big dreams. If those come at a cost, we're willing to pay it.

Life is too short to cling so tightly to the things that don't really matter in the long run.

This past year, we lost an integral piece of our lives -- friends we've had for many, many years. Friends who know us best, have seen us at our worst, and who decided they no longer trusted in us or wanted to be a part of our lives. It's a grand loss in so many ways. In fact, there is a friend-sized hole in my heart that may heal someday, but will always leave a scar. In this loss, I gained some perspective. I realized that I no longer wanted to walk on eggshells, to be accused of being wrong all the time, to wonder when the next explosion was going to occur, to be judged. I will always love my friend dearly, but we were no longer serving each other. It's been evident for some time now that we were heading down a one-way path... and that going back would not be easy. That it might, in fact, be impossible. Losing a beloved friendship is painful, searing, often times agonizing. But the good news is that we're both still alive, we're both still breathing, we're both still functioning, thriving, moving forward. She has a beautiful family and abundant blessings. Perhaps she'll find a friend who better meets her needs. Maybe she already has. We were good for each other once. She taught me many things -- is a critical piece of the 40-year-old that I am today. That history can never be relinquished. It will, in fact, be the basis for many of my tomorrows. Ultimately, that can't be considered a loss, even if it looks that way from the outside.

It's just an unexpected turn in the road.

Kahlil Gibran makes me smile and nod when he says, "When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight." I have been weeping for my friend. There was much happiness and laughter and joy and delight in our friendship. For that, I will always be grateful.

A few days ago, I finished "An Exact Replica of a Figment of My Imagination." Highly recommended by my dear friend, Mary, I was reluctant to read the account of a stillborn child. And now I can't get Elizabeth McCracken and Pudding out of my head. As the grieving author moves through the first few days after her infant son's death, she quotes, "You see, I'd thought he was a sure thing."

"I'd thought he was a sure thing."

So much of my life has been believing in the "sure thing," searching for the "big truth," the assurance that nothing will change. But everything changes. And it can happen in the blink of an eye. Elizabeth McCracken's loss is -- in my estimation -- the worst kind of loss possible. To outlive a child, I think, is the most devastating of tricks that can befall us on this earth. Inevitably, there are lessons to learn from that kind of loss. And they are lessons I never want to learn.

My children are home for the next four days. (Although they've only been back in school for two weeks, some higher power decided that now was a good time for a long weekend.) Yes, they'll drive me nuts. Yes, we'll laugh with crazy abandon. Yes, we'll run the gamut of emotions.

My fourteen-year-old will get sent to Planet Mean. That's where he goes when his jackass attitude goes over the top. Planet Mean is a place that looks shockingly similar to his bedroom, but there are no phones, no electronics, no Xbox Live. On Planet Mean, he gets to engage in some self-reflection -- he gets to think about why he is choosing to be a jerk and what might constitute a better choice. For hours at a time.

Gus will loiter around me aimlessly. I'll ask if there's something he needs, and he'll shake his head "no." He'll sidle off to the kitchen and grab a quick snack from the pantry. Then another. Then another. Then he might share a long-winded story with me about an iPhone app that is so relentlessly uninteresting I'd just as soon chew my own arm off than engage with it. Then he'll complain about his siblings being nasty to him and leaving him out of their reindeer games.

Mary Claire will inevitably have a high-drama moment. At some point in the next four days, she'll cry like the world is coming to an end because she's had to "break up" with a friend or because we won't let her have a sleepover with 15 other hormonal 10 and 11-year-old girls.

And George. George will be loud. George will be obnoxious. George will burp and say inappropriate things at the dinner table. He will argue with his siblings, he will "forget" to flush the toilet, and he will annoy his teenage brother so much that eventually, something will be thrown at his head.

But I'll take those moments. Every single one of them. Chris and I will revel in them. We'll sit together with our respective Kindles and Nooks ordering certain children to Planet Mean and talking others off the emotional ledge. Because losing any of that? That would be True Loss. The kind of loss that could only be measured in empty, endless days and an aching, gut-wrenching journey through a life void of what truly matters.

Money, houses, neighborhoods? Those are losses that can be replaced. Friendships? Never replaced, but always treasured.

I am celebrating my wins today. Chris, Sam, Mary Claire, Gus, and George... I am celebrating you.

Leap of Faith

It's official. Our house is on the market. In this tumultuous time of negative equity and rising interest rates, we've decided to forge ahead. It's a buyer's market, not a seller's. But at this juncture, we are paying keen attention to the signs the universe is laying at our feet. And, after all, we've never been known for our wise real estate investments or our impeccable timing.

Our local school referendum didn't pass in November, and with a five million dollar budget deficit knocking at the schoolhouse door, big changes are underway. Because this tribe gets the double-whammy--four kids in the system and a primary breadwinner employed by the system--the handwriting is on the wall.

It's time for us to move on. The tidal wave is coming, and we're seeking higher ground.

In so many ways, this is a good and powerful move for our family. Chris is finishing his doctoral dissertation and scouring the higher ed market for a professorship that will enable him to begin creating the public education reform that so desperately needs to be created. He is a pontificator and a "Big Idea" guy at heart--the classroom is where he belongs. He's an inspired teacher, an outside-the-box thinker who is wholeheartedly and passionately devoted to empowering and educating our youth. He is going where he belongs.

And as for us? Sam, Gus, Mary Claire, George, and me? We belong together. The six of us. Wherever we land.

Does moving break my heart in a million different ways? Yes.

Am I excited about the possibilities of new adventures and experiences? Yes.

Some days, the excitement wins. Some days, the sadness wins.

Indiana is the only home I've ever known. My family is here. My friends are here. My history is here. My heart is here. Leaving all that behind is too overwhelming to even think about in its entirety. I'm approaching it bit by bit by bit, biting off only the tiniest pieces so I can chew and digest them without losing my lunch.

My kids are alternately excited and apprehensive. The possibility of new experiences is alluring; the fear of the unknown, a bit paralyzing.

Sam wonders what will happen if things end up being "bad." When I ask him to define what "bad" means to him, he isn't sure. He's just worried about what might be "bad."

"What if things end up good?" I ask. "Have you ever heard of the glass being half-full instead of half-empty? What if we choose to create our own happiness wherever we are?"

And he shrugs and walks away, still a bit uncomfortable in his own teenage skin. He'll begin high school in a brand new place. I understand how daunting that is. But I remind myself--and him--that he's a good, easy-going kid. He's smart, he's athletic, he's charismatic, and--darn it--people like him. His location does not determine his success. He does.

Gus is ready to go. He's excited about the change, about creating whoever it is he wants to be. And as long as we move to a state that hasn't banned the sale of Doritos, he's onboard.

Mary Claire laments leaving her friends behind. I find little heartbreaking "goodbye" notes scattered throughout her bedroom. So we constantly encourage her to share her feelings and remind her of the friends she has yet to meet and make.

"What about Sally in South Dakota?"

"Or Tina in Tennessee?"

"Or Cathy in California?"

"Or Molly in Michigan?"

Our goofy antics make her turn down "The Rose" and smile through her tears, and I have to remind myself of Jenny's words of wisdom: "Guess what? You get to have friends in abundance, everywhere you go. You get to keep your friends here and make new ones there. You get to live in abundance, always."

George wants to know why we have to keep talking about it all the time. "Why do we have to talk about how we're going to have sad days, and then we're going to have an adventure, and then we're going to have sad days, and then we're going to have an adventure?! Seriously, can I just have some ice cream?"

But we talk--albeit ad nauseum at times--because we want our kids to know that change is scary and exciting all at once and that our emotions will run the gamut and that feeling a thousand different feelings during this process is normal and expected and okay and that facing unknown challenges will strengthen our character and bring us closer together and that in the end, all will be well.

And I truly believe in my heart of hearts that all will be well. Perhaps even better.

But then I think about who I'm going to share spinach and artichoke dip and book reviews with when Mary is not around...
and who I'm going to laugh until I cry with when Andi is five states away...
and who I'm going drink red wine with and bare my soul to when Jenny is no closer than a phone call...
and who is going to meet me at Panera when Nicole and Liz can't swing the 10-hour drive...
and who I'm going to cheer for the Colts with when Kristie's seats are filled with Indy locals...
and who is going to bring me Coffee Mate goodness when Brian's territory doesn't quite reach all the way across the country...
and who I'm going to order a Keoke coffee (with an extra shot of Kahlua) for when my mom is home in Greenfield...

And then I have to stop thinking and Simply Be.

Because I know who will be with me.

Sam. Gus. Mary Claire. George. Chris. Even stinky Maggie and Lucy, my lazy, work-from-home compadres.

And I know that no matter how many miles separate us, Jenny will still yell, "WHAT?!" when she answers my phone calls and Shmee will still send me snarky emails and Amy will still be my biggest cheerleader and Jocey will grow up and know that her Beautiful Great Aunt Katrina loves her from miles away and the irreplaceable long-distance friendship I have with Jody will be a model for all my other vital and life-sustaining relationships.

So many things remain the same in the face of change.

And I give thanks for the modern technologies--the Internet, Skype, Facebook, email, text, mobile... (That almost sounded like an ExactTarget ad, didn't it?)--that will allow me to remain connected with those I must leave behind (physically, maybe, but never, ever emotionally). And I will relish the days when I can drive (or fly) home to wrap my arms around those whose lives are irrevocably intertwined with mine. When I can feel my friends' kind and warm hearts beating in time with my own as we hug and hug and then hug some more.

Today is a sad day for me. The lock box is on the door, the yard sign comes tomorrow. Today, there are tears in abundance, tissues in the trash can, and ears that are tired from weeping to my loved ones on the phone. Today, I sit in my grungy old bathrobe eating leftover homemade chicken noodle soup while I enjoy the comforts of home in the home that will soon be someone else's.

But tomorrow, there are new possibilities, new horizons. Tomorrow, we get to create new lives full of wonder and promise and love.

And abundance. Always, abundance.

Let the adventure begin.

Letter to a Friend

My dearest, beautiful, sexy, sassy, smart, exasperating, loving, irreverent, dirty, compassionate, stylish, best friend, Stacy,

Tomorrow, you begin.

After 6 months of sometimes frantic, often paralyzing, always exciting preparation, you leave for the adventure of a lifetime.

Africa.

Since the day Flowered Bag met Gear Head and we fell madly, irrevocably, unapologetically, irreversibly in love, you've wanted to journey to the Dark Continent. From your home decor to your shoe selection, Africa has been a part of you for as long as I can remember. Zebras, and giraffes, and monkeys -- oh, my!

Life has taken us so many places together. Now, as you journey to the far ends of the earth, my heart is with you -- locked safely in your own. As you brave the Nairobi airport, I will be there beside you, standing ready with my sweet Karate moves and distracting Jazz Hands. When you teach wound care to those who never knew it was an option, I will support you with my imagined medical prowess. After all, you know I was almost a doctor. If only that damn Organic Chemistry requirement hadn't reared its ugly head...

Physically, however, I will be here, standing guard. What your three precious children might need, I promise I will provide. They are, after all, like my own. Always have been and always will be. Fear not, my friend. They are wrapped safely in my arms and in the arms of those others who love them most. And nothing compares to the soft, safe arms of doting grandparents and forever friends.

When you return, I will be itching to sit around the fire pit and listen to all your stories. Perhaps we'll have Dave Matthews and Lady Gaga in the background. Maybe it will be Michael Jackson. ("Hey, Pretty Baby, with the high heels on...") But I will listen with rapt attention and red wine and will bear witness to the transformation in your life. Because, indeed, there will be transformation. You will come back the same... yet vastly different. And your ever-expansive heart will be bursting with tales of adventure, of healing, of love, of a world bigger than either of us might ever have imagined.

Please bring your giggling, giddy husband back safely with lots of trophies and tales. (Tales, of course, not punctuated with contractions.) My husband will miss his best friend, will also wait with Scotch and cigarette in hand to hear about his pinpoint shotgun accuracy and stories of the Bush. (Not that bush -- those stories will come after the 2nd Scotch, of course.) Together, they will scratch themselves and slosh their drinks and laugh too loudly and stoke the fire into a raging inferno. And, as always, all will be well.

One month away from you is a lifetime. I will miss you fiercely, will think about you constantly, will pray for you daily, will undoubtedly shed a few tears when I realize how very far away you are. But still, you will be beside me -- just as you always are, as you always have been, as you forever will be.

Before you go, I must wish you Godspeed. (You knew it was inevitable.) We can both laugh at my irreverent and convenient semantic choice, but ultimately, we both know that our one shared God will be holding you tightly with both hands as your plane takes off for worlds unknown, as your souls and hearts are forever altered, changed, expanded.

You will be the finest of teachers. You always have been. Your beauty, grace, wisdom, wit, and love will bring you an entourage of devoted followers in an unknown land.

Your adventure awaits.

I love you with my entire heart and soul, my friend. When you find the best hill upon which Ethan and George can raise monkeys as their babies, call me. After all, those monkey-grandbabies will be ours to love and cherish someday.

Holding you gently in my heart until your safe and triumphant return --

XOXO,
Katrina