February 7, 1995

19 years ago on this date, I rolled into San Antonio, Texas for the first time. It wasn't as cold as it is today, but it was foggy and damp--and at 4 a.m., it was too dark to see what lay in front of me.

I was moving with a friend, an ex-co-worker whose adopted mother lived here. I was in a dead-end job, working in marketing for a casino in Laughlin, Nevada that was in financial peril. (How awful does that look on your resume, less than two years out of college, that you handled advertising for an enterprise that was going belly up?) I had broken up with my four-year boyfriend a few months earlier, unwilling to settle for marrying in my early twenties into a family of funeral home owners.  

It was the one time in my life, that I can recall, in which I had virtually nothing to lose. It was my opportunity to try out a brand new, unfamiliar place.  I had a roommate, we had an apartment, and our furniture posessions were compatible. I had enough to pay a couple months' rent, gas up, and eat. What else did I need?

19 years later, I marvel on this life that has slowly unfolded, revealed itself like the city did as the sun arose and the fog cleared. Unknown, and rather unimpressive at first. But you have to get in it, work in it, meet people, eat and drink with friends, get lost, explore. Mind you, I had never lived in a city larger than around 30,000 people!  

And I did explore. I met my soul mate later that year and married him in 1998. I got iobs--waiting tables on the Riverwalk at first, just to make money. Then other jobs--seven different employers, two of them comprising 13 of my 19 years here.  I still have friends from nearly every job. I've had two beautiful kids here.  I've lost two loved ones since I've lived here--my sister and my son. I've hurt deeply here.  I've bought my first house here, traveled to great places from here, and witnessed the unfolding of September 11, 2001. I've experienced more fear, pain, joy, stress, laughter and awakenings here than any other place on Earth. Here.

Facebook has been celebrating its ten-year anniversary lately by culling photos and posts from everyone's pages and making individual slide shows. Besides being a bit quick, ithe videos are also a stark reminder of how little Facebook really captures the whole of our lives, due to our own self-editing. We're entitled to that. But, as I look back at my last 19 years in San Antonio, the beauty lies in the unvarnished version of this extraordinary life I've lived. Evidence lies in the many friends I have on and off Facebook, in the photos I do and do not share, the thoughts I post and the thoughts I keep to myself.  If I could build that video, it would truly be exquisite.

How blessed I am for this life.

Groundhog Day Resolutions

Happy Groundhog Day...um, plus one.  It's an exciting time, for those of us in the minority who maintain that Groundhog Day is a much better day to start resolutions than January 1.  It's perfect, really.  The gym has cleared of all of those "January oners" who vowed to exercise.  The Super Bowl is over, so you can safely swear off hot wings. And the cold weather is closer to gone (at least in South Texas), so you can commune with nature more, if that's on your list. 

The other advantage of implementing your resolve on February 2 instead of January 1 is that you have a whole month to hear others' resolution lists, giving you the fodder to think about yours carefully while you pay off Christmas and get back into the post-holiday groove of normal life.  January is the hunkering-down month, the nothing-special month, perfect for reflecting and making notes. Much better, really, than trying to reflect while the frenzy of holidays and relatives clouds your judgment.  I wrote a little down almost every day, allowing myself the luxury of time to think about my priorities. 

So, after a month of rumination, here is my list:

Look up.  This was inspired by an acquaintance and fellow alumni of my graduate English program.  It means to keep your eyes and your heart open and ready for "amazing little discoveries."  This acquaintance, writer and designer Alyson Wagner, sent me a wonderful New Year's e-card that she designed with this image, an uplifting discovery she made on a winter walk.  It was perfect medicine for my lost feelings of "what is next?" 

 

 

1) Keep writing.  As I mentioned, I have felt so lost lately without my little one to write about.  It's ironic that once my grief over his death started to subside, a deep grief for the loss of the words that Dylan helped me create has overtaken me.  But I've always been a writer, of different sorts (persuasive and informational)--I was just too afraid to let the good stuff out, the stuff that doesn't garner a paycheck but pays so much more.  And the subject matter--unconditional love, loss, having your soul refined by a traumatic experience--is still relevant, will always be relevant.  I just need to render it through the lens of my life going forward. Part of this resolution is changing the name of the blog to stop dwelling on the disease that no longer exists.  I am in the next part of my life, informed by all that I have experienced and mindful of his spirit as a source of deep strength and love.  And the blog's name needs to reflect that while honoring him, since it was him who changed me.  It's coming soon.    

 

2) Read my friends' books.  Nothing is better than keeping good creative company if you want to keep your own creativity flowing.  I am fortunate enough to know a few wonderfully creative and fearless people who have written books, and I plan to read them all--and share information about them here--throughout the year. 

 

3) Finish reading David and Goliath.  I started reading Malcolm Gladwell's latest book last year and have been too addled with the details and drudgeries of daily life to complete it.  But, as a mother of a child who is wrangling the challenges presented by ADHD, auditory processing disorders and developmental language issues (not to mention the loss of his little brother), I really need to consume and live its message. Gladwell proposes that the adversity that we tend to associate with the underdogs of the world--deaths, learning disabilities, discrimination, physical disabilities and other less-than-desirable poker hands--should be interpreted not as disadvantages but as powerful keys to potential greatness. Which leads me to my last resolution...

 

4) Stop feeling sorry for Colin.  I struggle desperately with this one, as any mother would.  I see him struggle with bullies, isolation and poor grades at school (see aforementioned learning issues listed in #3) and I want to hug him constantly just to squeeze out the uneasiness and frustration he feels.  These issues were starting to arise when Dylan was still with us and have worsened as Colin advances in grade levels.  Maybe the trauma of losing Dylan exacerbated them.  But, as much as I want to cradle that big 8-year-old in my arms and rock him every day for hours, I can't just make these things go away.  My job is to get him the professional help he needs, encourage him to work hard, cheer him on to success and insist he stick with it. I already know that overcoming these obstacles will build a character as strong as steel in him.  He will know the meaning of excruciatingly hard work by the time he graduates high school, unlike those kids who never struggled with their schoolwork. He will know about loss and sadness more than most others his age, and that will make him especially tender and compassionate toward those he loves.  He will be an amazing man for these things--unless I get in the way by coddling and pitying him.       

 

5) Oh, yeah--and try not to drink too much beer, as it makes my midsection all mushy. 

 

So, I'm holding myself to these things and will talk about them throughout the year.  Especially the resolution to look up, become aware of everything around me, and make those little discoveries that change your life.  That's the difference Dylan made.