High School: September 2001 versus 2016

I’m working at my  former high school for four months. I’m teaching all of these humans in the same desks I once sat in, fifteen years earlier. Doing so ruffles up  bits of memory not visited in years. Walking those halls in a different role conjures up endless thought.

First, a list.

Things I did as a teenager:

  • Role play Lord of the Rings in the woods of Palmer Park
  • Wear hand-made signs on my back to NSYNC CD releases
  • Use a wet finger to leave messages such as ‘Alana + JC 4ever’ in the dust on strangers’ cars
  • Hover outside the movie theater asking adults to buy rated R tickets for me
  • Buy pheromone wipes from The Icing and walk the mall hoping to attract boys
  • Play Barbie with my friend’s little sister’s amazing collection
  • Skip lunch to redo my hair and makeup in the school bathroom
  • Use public library computers to AIM with strangers
  • Ask my parents to drop me at Media Play for 3 hours so I could browse EVERYTHING
  • Drive aimlessly through town with friends to listen to CDs and ‘cruise Nevada’
  • Pass notes in class using code names and funky folding techniques
  • Stay up all night talking just to say we did and walk to breakfast in the morning

I’m not, well, proud of some of these things, and the list could get a lot less G-rated if  I dared, but it’s a snapshot of a space and time. My space and time.

Things I see teenagers doing today: ( Now, this is just at school and in front of ‘teachers’, so it’s not entirely comparable)

  • Plugging their phones in during class to charge
  • Sneaking looks at their phones when they think our backs our turned
  • Keeping their headphones on as accessories (simply off their ears during class)
  • Texting, snapchatting, taking selfies, hiding in bathroom stalls on their phones, etc.

But other than the obvious smartphone difference, which I’m writing about off the bat to get it out of the way,  the students remind me of the kid I was and the peers I went to school with. I don’t think fifteen years has changed the fundamentals of adolescence…much like my late 90s/early 2000s youth didn’t make 1980s teen movies any less poignant to me.

Every day, I see friends huddled at the same locker I used to use. They don’t hang up photos and redo their lip gloss there, however.  In between class chatter doesn’t seem as necessary, the socializing doesn’t seem as condensed, and the personalization of posessions doesn’t seem as common (decorated books and binders, anyone?) This  nuanced change is also probably because of technology – within our online worlds, we have our photos, our snippets of conversation, our personalized pages.

The athletes still wear their jersey on game days. But the pep rallies have gone…and in this, I think, lies a clue to what I’ve found to be the biggest difference between when I was a teenager and ‘kids these days’:

The primary difference is acceptance of a shitty world and uncertain future. 

I’m not insinuating our early 2000s pep rallies meant we were full of vigor and spirit…but in a trite sense, that’s how I remember us. Maybe we moaned about assemblies or tried to skip out them, but as a rule, they existed, and within them, we existed a cohesive group of peers. An us.

An us with a bright future, and little to fear.

Today, I taught a lesson about 9/11/2001. The students I taught were toddlers when it all happened. They accept it as the way the world was. When I told them about MY day on September 11th, 2001, I had their rapt attention. They gaped at me with some of things I said.

Fifteen years ago on September 11th, I sat in my high school’s computer lab, hearing bit by bit about the second plane hitting the Twin Towers.  As the bell rang, students spoke about it in the halls as we rushed to our next classes. My next teacher had a television, and we all watched with horror. By the end of the day, some of the boys were talking about enlisting in the military as soon as they turned 18. By the end of the week, half of the cars in the school parking lot sported American flags and United We Stand was written everywhere.

For those of us in high school on 9/11/2001, we recognize the feeling of the Before and the After. For those of us at school in April of 1999 when the Columbine shootings happened, we also felt the change of the Before and the After.

Today’s youth only know the After. And I feel bad for them.

Fundamentally, they are the same jumble of hormones and energy we all were, even if they don’t communicate the same old-fashioned way my friends and I did.

But their world-view is very altered from where I stood in my pre-2001 bubble. And in my pre-Columbine cocoon of safety at school, where nothing bad would ever, could ever, happen.

Now, it’s early September of 2016 and we’ve had to do a lock-down drill and a shelter in place drill at the high school I’m teaching in. These types of drills simply did not exist for me when I was there. The students roll their eyes at them, and huddle in the corner with the lights off, pretending there’s a shooter, and just….accepting the drill. Whatever. It’s part of life. And has been since they were babies.

So when I think about the fifteen years since I jaunted around my high school thinking I was hot shit, and I think about the students I see every day in 2016, I do notice the phones. I notice the changes in fashion, the changes in slang. That’s Teenage 101. That’s normal.

But when I see them faced with the world we now live in,  and their quiet acceptance that accompanies  it….I see the biggest change of all.

And I think it’s a damn shame this is the world we’re giving them.

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Apologies, but this is the only photo of me as a teenager I have in my WordPress archives except the Featured Image. Like I said, I thought I was hot s**t….

 

 

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Dear 31,

Dear 31,

Your predecessor haunted me. It followed me for months:

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three oh

30

thirty.

It screamed at me from writing homework – reflections and recollections and every single unanswered everything in my real life or fake life or would-be life or could-be life or should-be life or might-be life; it deafened me to new sounds.

I walked through Scotland’s haze with a ringing in my ears and a coffin in my back pocket.

30.

The drama pronounced itself in both circumstance and surroundings: I lived out my  grown-up dream of a creative writing degree in the city just a decade before I’d lived out my growing-up dream.

I pushed my toddler in a pram down the same roads I’d drunkenly stumbled through in the past. I came home in the evening to diapers and literary theory and a husband who’d just a decade before been sweeping me off my feet but now collected the dust of our stagnant relationship.

Panic overtook me in the most privileged guise imaginable; a married white woman,  mother to a healthy child, living in a European capital to pursue an arts degree, was having a case of existential malaise over the loss of a number, of a decade, of time.

I freaking loved my 20’s.

But then 30 came, and it went. And with it, the crisis.

Because 31, you taught me more than any other year of my life. I’ve never felt more like ME than any other year of my life.

Yes. I loved the freedom of my 20’s, the laughter, the chaos, and the possibility. But yes, the burden of unfulfilled potential still haunts me. The weight of choice still keeps me up at night. I often wonder how anyone sleeps, knowing the impact of each minute gesture. The power of our choices.

But 31, you’ve taught me those aspects of my personality aren’t a crisis, but the state of my soul, regardless of age.

The state of my soul has never been been more grounded in reality. In clarity. In understanding.

My 20’s were fun, but I lived in world of black and white. Eithers and ors. Nothings or everythings. Certainties.

Turning 30 wobbled me, spun me around on my axis, and landed me in a position where everything is a shade of grey.

And I’m fine with that, now.

I get it.

Life is colorful, but it’s never black or white.

The water of life is murky, and seldom clear, but refreshing nonetheless.

31, you’ve shown me I know who I am. What I’ll never be. And who I’ll always be (for better or worse).

Thank you, 31.

 

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Photo courtesy Unsplash

Dear 31,

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Home. Part One.

Scotland, 2013:

I rarely walked down Balcarres Street in the daylight. The number 23 bus took me directly  to my Edinburgh flat.

The night buses dropped me off on Morningside Road, a main thoroughfare, though still shuttered  and empty after nightfall (save a few pubs).

The 10 minute walk from Morningside Road was dark and residential. Pavement wound past a graveyard and adjacent to a mental hospital. Just up the hill sat the old asylum turned college, now an abandoned, wooded campus frequented during the day by hikers.  But at night, blackness.

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The woods on the hill in our Edinburgh neighborhood.

As my family’s year abroad neared an end and I prepared to finish my degree, I’d walk down this road with earbuds in and music loud. It took away much of the creepiness. John Mayer’s Paradise Valley is one of the albums of my Year of Writing Creatively (the other being, in all seriousness, Katy Perry’s Prism).

Mayer’s song “On the Way Home” resonated with me, especially with our Scottish adventure coming to an end. A sample lyric reads:

“The summer’s over, this town is closing.
They’re waving people out of the ocean.
We had the feeling like we were floating.
We never noticed where time was going.
Do you remember when we first got here?
The days were longer; the nights were hot here.
Now, it’s September; the engine’s started.
You’re empty-handed and heavy-hearted.
But just remember on the way home….
That you were never meant to feel alone.
It takes a little while, but you’ll be fine:
Another good time coming down the line.”

I’d climb up to our fourth floor flat and turn off the music…eventually.

I cried when I said goodbye to every place which made our/my time there…home. They were  never big things- the university campus, the church building, the friends I’d made – which brought out the tears. My tears were in the details of home. 

The Morningside Parish playgroup. ( I’d never park Alistair’s buggy in the foyer again.Sob.)

Continue reading

Peak Experiences

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Near Monterey, California, 2013

I chased my one-year old through the sand as he toppled over, laughed, and stood back up again, rubbing sand in his palms and licking it off his lips, taking in each new sensation. We stood near the rough surf,  but far enough so Alistair didn’t fear the crash accompanying each wave. Instead we looked on in awe, together. Just us on this secluded strip of beach behind our cheap motel, far enough off Highway 1 to be deserted at 10 am. Certain logistics of our mother and son road trip from San Francisco to Los Angeles on the Pacific Coast Highway were fraught with difficulty. The cheap motel didn’t provide cribs, so I had to buy a pack-and-play. Caring for a toddler alone on such a long drive involved frequent stops, diaper changes, outfit switch-outs and forays into grocery stores for fruit pouches.

But something happened to me on that drive. We wound through coastal towns and over historic bridges, beside beach-side campgrounds and through high, twisting cliff tops. Alistair didn’t say much at his age, but I never felt alone. I sang music at the top of my lungs, stopped to take photos and take in fellow travelers. I listened to the birds and the seals and the wind.

We got back into L.A. after dark and with a crashing reality I sat in a gas station parking lot booking a hotel on Priceline. I GPS-ed my way through Los Angeles traffic to the hotel, adjacent to a shopping center with a parking lot the size of small town. Alistair, as usual with hotels, was beyond excited. I felt elated but wasn’t sure why. My exhausted body wrestled an over-tired toddler and worked out a major calf cramp from being in the car so long. But I got Alistair to sleep right away and I sat alone in the darkness of the hotel room in bliss.

The road trip had been magical. I felt renewed, more in touch with myself than in a long time. Infinite possibilities stood before me. I could do anything. Life was amazing. It didn’t matter how a messy life existed back in Moorhead,  waiting for me. In that moment, all was clear.

I’ve since learned what I experienced on that day in April of 2013 : a peak experience.

Abraham Maslow, of the hierarchy of needs fame, described peak experiences as occurring when a person “feels himself, more than other times, to be the responsible, active, creating center of his activities and of his perceptions. He feels more like a prime-mover, more self-determined (rather than caused, determined, helpless, dependent, passive, weak, bossed). He feels himself to be his own boss, fully responsible, fully volitional, with more ‘free-will’ than at other times, master of his fate, an agent.”

Maslow also said, “Think of the most wonderful experience of your life: the happiest moments, ecstatic moments, moments of rapture, perhaps from being in love, or from listening to music or suddenly ‘being hit’ by a book or painting, or from some creative moment.”

I’ve been considering my own dedication to the experience and pursual of peak experiences recently.

Everyone who knows me would probably agree I’m a sensation lover, a novelty seeker, and an experience-minded person, sometimes to the detriment of stability or comfort. But comfort, to me, is stifling. (In one sense of the word, that is; comfort can have different meanings.)

There is a song by American Authors which I don’t particularly love, but these lines always stands out to me:

“I guess I’m going home,

’cause all my cash is gone,

I spent it all trying to feel alive.

Go big or go home…”

The rest of the song eludes to the singer being adventurous, sleeping when he’s dead etc. So he’s….going big, yay! Oh wait…he can’t anymore. He’s going home.

And that, I feel, is the struggle. I don’t want to give in to the status quo. Life IS too short for that. I’ve been lucky enough to live with few regrets (but some I’m still trying to work through, such as moving my entire family to North Dakota after college).

Maslow speaks of being hit by a book as an example of a peak experience. This can happen for free at your house. It’s certainly happened to me (Harry Potter, seven times over). I’ve felt this even more through my life over movies.

I remember leaving the movie theater -Tinseltown- at age thirteen after watching Good Will Hunting. I cried in bed that night, feeling so ALIVE. I was never going to be a math genius – but when Matt Damon drove down the road to get Minnie Driver, I realized I could come from my own version of Southie and be anything I wanted to be and go anywhere I wanted to go. Life stretched before me.

(I could list movie examples all day. For example, I still can’t listen to Secret Garden by Bruce Springsteen without feeling the same deep emotions evoked from the Jerry Maguire movie soundtrack…..)

Another ‘free’ peak experience I’ve been consistently hung up on is love. Maslow would concur love invokes incredible peak experience potential. Some of the times I’ve felt most brave, most myself, and the most clarity is regarding matters of romantic love and maternal love for my son. When I started dating my now-husband Alex, I felt I practically floated through life. I was riding a cloud of elation from his flat to my flat, and the town we lived in took on a character of its own. Edinburgh, Scotland will forever equal LOVE to me because of this connotation. The city doesn’t provide clarity to me the way Maslow’s peak experience theory would suggest, but it does evoke the emotion of the true peak experience which occurred there, when I fell head-over-heels for Alex. I just get off the plane there and feel like a better version of myself.

I’m not a drinker, a smoker or a drug taker. When people say they get ‘high on life’ , though, I understand what they mean. Because life is where the genuine ecstasy comes from. It can be hard, and sometimes life feels like lurching from one doldrum to another with some tragedy and unfairness thrown in. But peak experiences can be sought and lived, and they make life out of day-to-day living.

I want to live a life full of peak experiences. I urge others to do the same.

( And what’s healthy for the soul is healthy for the mind and body, too.)

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One of my first and most profound peak experience occurred while traveling to California with my best friend our first year of college. This adventure seemed epic enough to warrant its own blog post, Where Dreams and Hobbits Come True….

P.S. Here’s a better video than the American Authors’ one about the same kind of thing (if you like EDM) :

Of Peaks and Troughs

As I drove home after dropping my father off at his house after our week’s vacation, I was singing along to the radio and felt so happy, tears sprang to my eyes and I thought ‘Wow, I’m crying tears of happiness!’ I came home and relaxed in bed, reveling in the week of joy from a roadtrip with my dad and my three year-old son, Alistair.

Alistair and my husband, reunited after seven days, were out playing. They came to wake me up and I smiled at the joy on Alistair’s face, reflected in my own soul.

Then my husband, Alex, came over and gently told me he’d taken a few phone calls in the past hour.

My dad arrived home to find his beloved cat Curious dead under the couch.

My mom, living in a group home due to bipolar disorder, had set her bedroom on fire and had to be dragged out in an apparent suicide attempt. She was back in the mental health ward.

All of a sudden I was crying again, but the anguish felt out of proportion. More severe. Cats die all the time. People lose pets. My mom has been involved in episodes like this in the past. Pull yourself together, Alana!  But I cried and cried, and it all felt so cruel.

How had I been so incredibly happy just hours before?

Our vacation wasn’t perfect. It started with a banking mistake leading to a gracious bail out by Alex (thanks, honey). My mobile phone broke, our day in Boulder consisted mostly of rain, and we left Alistair’s traveling tablet in a South Dakota hotel. Oops.

But these things didn’t phase me much at all, because the rest of the vacation felt….perfect. The mountains rejuvenated me, experiencing the joy of a road trip through my son’s eyes was magical, and the quality time with he and my dad made every wee pit stop an adventure. Theme parks, national monuments, friends, spontaneous stops in America’s heartland.

Joy, and a crash back to reality .

The post-vacation blues are nothing new to me; I always get them. I’m a wanderer, and feel best seeking novelty and experience. Going home is always a let down to my traveler’s spirit.

But this felt stronger, no doubt due to the nature of the bad news I received.

I almost didn’t want to let myself feel my mom’s sorrow. I usually take it on right away, anguish at what she must have been feeling. What she is feeling in the hospital.  How unfair mental illness is.  How it’s robbed she and my dad, my husband and I of a normal life. I cried, but I tried to avoid taking on the pain. I didn’t want it. I wanted the joy. But I couldn’t find it.

I kept thinking of my dad, walking in to see his beloved cats and finding one dead. Curious, who moved up with him to North Dakota  from Colorado. Curious, the rescue, the recluse, but one of my dad’s companions. I tried not to think of it too much. I just let myself cry and then I went to the gym, where I cried some more to my friend.

I avoided praying. I always do when things get rough. I was full of praise to God for the amazing experience of the road trip earlier, but nothing came to me later today.

I watched my husband’s own reaction to the events. Although he did everything right taking care of our dad’s cats, his sadness was overwhelming him (from my perspective). What was meant to be a joyful reunion with his wife and son, stolen from him.

But that’s the thing.

Life.

Ups and downs, peaks and troughs. There isn’t joy without sorrow, as everyone says. But it’s true. Today I felt both, and the juxtaposition has never felt more real. The pendulum of events…with little control over one end.

This is all just personal to my own experience….something no one but me can fully  appreciate. But as our tumultuous world turns, one doesn’t have to look far to know the peaks and troughs everyone faces. Death, murder, divorce, illness. Every day people are experiencing sadness far worse than my bad day.

Which is why I feel compelled to experience joy even more. And spread the word,  to anyone who reads this,  to seek joy as well. And make sure to help create joy for others. One thing I know is that helping others find joy results in a much greater increase of your own.

May your days be full of tears of joy, so when the tears of sadness come, they aren’t alone, and are diluted by their predecessors.

The very least that you deserve

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What do I encapsulate here as a joy-filled preschooler? Knowing I’m loved and with people I love and reveling in that security. It’s the very least that I deserved.

You deserve to be loved, by others and yourself. You are worthy of that love.  And if you aren’t finding that love in your current circumstance, you can change that.  As I learned in mindfulness- we cannot control what happens to us but we can control our own actions. Our freedom lies in the space between stimuli and response.

My two-year old is obsessed with the song “Shake it Off” by Taylor Swift, and singing it all the time has gotten me thinking about the concept of self-love and how it relates to how others treat us.

My son and I shake our shoulders as we sing, “And the haters gonna hate, hate, hate, hate, hate….and the fakers gonna fake, fake, fake, fake….heartbreakers gonna break, break, break, break….just shake it off, shake it off, ooh ooh.”

This is so much easier (sung) than done.

And when I’m feeling really down on my current life, which is sometimes full of literal and figurative haters, fakers, heartbreakers and players, I need to find the strength from something other than the present. I wish it could always be pulled from inside my soul, but I’m not at that point yet.

Today someone called me a name. I don’t think anyone deserves to be labeled through name calling. It’s easily acknowledged to be a petty way to make a point, but the sting is the same. And we’ve all done it. But today I was on the receiving end and it helped fuel some righteous indignation. Which isn’t always good, but it usually feels good at the time.

I decided I needed to dig deeper. I needed to think about self worth and how mine was formed.

All of our life experiences differ, but I believe that there is a level at which we all deserve to be treated. A certain level of love and respect owed to us, by ourselves and our loved ones. It’s the very least that we deserve.

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We all deserve to have parents who will paint our vanity our favorite shade of pink, even if they don’t know how or don’t have the means to actually put a mirror in the vanity. Face it, this is just a pink dresser with two talons.  But it’s also a perfect encapsulation of the 90’s, with an Uncle Joey and Michelle poster, a Strabwerry Shortcake, and a “Talk to the hand.”  But I was so loved. We all deserve to have people who will paint our bedrooms our favorite color, and we need to appreciate the effort and look less at the missing pieces.

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We all deserve to have friends who will come and play dolls on our couch, despite the cushions seemingly have been sat upon by centuries of bums. Those friends who judgeth not how the seat cushions are white and the seatbacks a tacky 80’s  (maybe even 70s; it was old) pattern, now indiscernible. We deserve to have friends who love us despite our yellow walls and who aren’t afraid to be with us, no matter where we live, because they like to spend time with us. We matter more than our possessions, and those who care more about things deserve pity (although they’d prefer presents).

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We all deserve to have friends who will go to Wal Mart with us on a school night to pick up the newest Nsync CD. Heck, we all probably had friends who did that. What we REALLY all deserve are friends who will go with us to Wal Mart on a school night to pick up the newest  Nsync CD WITH HAND WRITTEN SIGNS ON OUR BACKS. Nothing says “I love you” like walking around shamelessly with a girl who has “JC’s Only Space Cowgirl” taped to her back.  The less-informed shoppers may have wondered what “I’ll Be Good for Justin” really meant. Perhaps people thought we were cult members. They would probably be right. Everyone a deserves a friend to share in pop culture obsession, and late night phone calls and early morning ticket lines and terribly written fan fiction. Everyone deserves a BFF.  Everyone deserves a BFF who you know so well, you no longer recognize each other’s stupid ideas because they’re one and the the same.

I wonder who took that photo.

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Everyone deserves a person who will be there for you in the bad times. A person who will take care of you when they can barely take care of themselves. A person who will protect you with all of their power from their own personal demons. A person who loves you so much, they do whatever they can to be healthy so they can be the best version of themselves for you.

In this photo, my mom was just home from her first long-term stay in a mental hospital. I was 17. Both my mom and dad sacrificed so much so I could live a normal life while my mom was an hour away in an institution, and totally not my mom during that time. I was scared and confused, but I was also so well taken care of. My dad did everything he could to take care of my mom and myself and he all of a sudden had to be both parents! My mom worked so hard out of love for us to get better and get home to us, and she did. (But mad props to my friend Kristi who more or less moved in that summer)

Having witnessed how difficult mental illness can be, I know everyone deserves to be loved so completely they can disappear for months on end (in their brains) and those who love them will be there like they never went away. I saw this in many manifestations. My dad took care of my mom. My dad took care of me. My mom took care of me. I took care of my mom. I took care of my dad. We all loved each other enough to care for each other in the darkest of times.

Everyone deserves love like that.

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This is my mom a few months later, so you can note the comparison. She bounced back with a lot of therapy, and medication, and mental health care. But her motivation was her love for us.

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Everyone deserves to have experiences so perfect they will just as fun to talk about a decade later. Everyone deserves to have magical moments.  These usually have to be created yourself, and it makes them all the more rewarding. When I look at this picture of myself at 19, about to go to an Oscar party, I don’t see sparkles or curly hair. Well, I do. But what I really see is satisfaction, pride and confidence.  My best friend and I made this happen because we wanted it badly enough.  We worked for it. We dreamed about it. We turned our passion into an experience we will never, ever forget.  Everyone deserves at least one Oscar party in their life. It will look differently for everyone.  But everyone deserves to have those perfect moments as a human. They are short moments, but they make life. They’re worth it.

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We all deserve to grow up with someone, to change WITH someone, at some point in our lives. It doesn’t have to be siblings, or spouses, or family. It can be friends. We all deserve the experience of growth with a companion by our side to make the changes manageable. With my best friend, we went from taping signs on our backs to traveling the world.  We didn’t just travel to places like California or Europe. We also travelled together to Adams, North Dakota.  This photo is in my grandmother’s house in a town the size a few blocks. But my best friend and I found some defining moments there, amongst the gravel and the humidity and the lack of people. Sometimes it’s not where you are, but who you’re with, and I feel we all deserve to have someone to help us come-of-age.

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Everyone deserves to be protected. Everyone deserves to know that there’s one person who has their back, not matter what. Everyone deserves to know that someone will help them get through the day. That someone will be on their side. Everyone deserves to have one person who they can count on for anything. Everyone deserves that unconditional love.  When my son is in his father’s arms, or mine, he feels safe. He deserves that safety. He deserves to know that we will care for him and he can count on us. He deserves to know that we will pick him up when he falls, that we will be his biggest supporter and cheerleader and confidante.

Not everyone has that in parents. Not everyone has that in families. But everyone deserves, in some capacity, to have a person they can count on for the big stuff and the big emotions.

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Everyone deserves a kindred spirit. A person who comes into your life when you least expect it, but connects with you at your soul. Everyone deserves that one person who knows where you’re coming from, and doesn’t judge you, because they just…understand. Everyone deserves that person who has similar hopes and similar fears, to help make life’s journey less lonely, for both of you, hopefully.  Everyone deserves to make friends past adolescence, sometimes when you least expect it. I met this dear friend when I was 29, and I’m sure we’ll be giving each other advice at 79.  Everyone deserves a friend who is borderless, where time and space apart become meaningless. Everyone deserves to know they have kindred spirits out there in the world and they’re on each other’s side.

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Everyone deserves to bring joy to another. And everyone deserves to belong. Is nothing sweeter than seeing someone else happy because of your actions? Because of your words?  Because of your unspoken bond, conveyed through looks and sentences, meaningless to others?  There is happiness in inclusiveness, but also happiness in exclusivity. Of being theirs and them being yours. Of belonging. We all deserve to belong somewhere. And we all deserve to belong ‘to’ each other. The connections that forge us together lead us to great lengths for others’ happiness. And somehow their happiness is our own. It’s even more important in some ways.  Since becoming a mother, I get far more joy from taking my son to playgroup than I do from wheeling him around a store to shop. Both make me happy, but the act which he prefers makes all the difference to my day. I understand holidays and celebrations much more as a parent. The anticipation of seeing his joy makes me want to put up Christmas decorations in October. But I refrain. There are plenty of  less ridiculous opportunities to bring him and others joy, and to enlarge my circle of belonging.

We are all worthy and deserving. Life isn’t always going to hand us what we deserve. It’s often completely unfair. But I’m learning on my journey to wholeness that we as humans deserve to do our best to carve out the relationships which help us be happy, healthy people.