It may be just a bowl, but it’s not JUST a bowl to us

Neal and I are pretty excited about putting our home together.  We’ve been sprucing things up here and there (we decided to purchase a special painting for our anniversary instead of the other options) and have been really trying to make our apartment ours.  (We don’t plan to be homeowners, but we like to feel our space is filled with items that give others a clue into who we are even if we don’t own the space—perhaps especially since we don’t own the space.)  Neal commented the other day (when a particular item I’d order arrived) that the space looks more “adult” as time goes on.  We are slowly weeding out the hand-me-downs and place-holder types of decorations that new couples tend to have.

We’ve really taken to the handmade “movement” because we really like to feel as though there is a personal touch in our items.  I usually attempt to make contact with the artist and let them know how much their item is appreciated, especially since this person took the time to make it, even if not specifically for us.  However, I am especially grateful for the artists who are willing to take on custom orders from us or answer all our questions about items that they already have.  Today we meandered around a local juried art fair (although I sometimes wondered who was on the jury to get into the fair, but I will admit that only a few of the items were just kitsch, which is obviously our opinion only.  If you like the type of thing I’m talking about, which I will not describe so as to offend your sensibilities, then I’m sure I’m wrong and it’s the height of artistic expression.), and we discovered quite a few potters and other artists that intrigued us.  We’ve been looking to replace our boring department store dish set with something that better suits our tastes.  (Our dish set is plain white, so that’s not really all that exciting or interesting.)  We especially have been on the lookout for mugs or bowls lately, as we do have some interesting plates that I picked up at a flea market once.

We were very glad to happen upon a talkative lady who gave us information about their glazes and different types of bowls.  We looked around at other potters, hoping for something else to compare to these wonderful bowls that we’d found.  We finally vacillated between two sets, one from a couple of potters I’ve already purchased another item from (a wonderful toothbrush holder, of all things) and who apparently do not sell their bowls online and the original set that we had fallen in love with.  We both loved the unique quality of the first set, but we also liked the style (and price) of the second set.  We realized that if we were to truly live with and love these bowls for years we had to go with our hearts on this one and decided upon the first set.  The lady tapped me on the arm when she saw me back in the booth and said, “I knew you’d be back!”  Indeed we were.  As we checked out, her husband told us the beginnings of his work with ceramics and how he prized function within form, which obviously makes sense when making, say, a set a bowls.  (I mean, the bowl may be very pretty but if it has very little functionality, why would we want it?) They invited us down to their studio in the southwest of Minnesota, and we said we hoped we’d see them again…and get to tour their studio (I miss listening to the thump!, whirrrr of my roommate’s wheel as she threw a pot or other item while I sat nearby reading my lit homework or taking notes for a paper).  Knowing the artist’s story makes the bowls worth that much more to us, as we make the bowls a part of our own story together.

And that’s what we’re trying to do with all the pieces we incorporate into our life.  Our table setting is just one piece of the puzzle that we want to put together to form a picture of who we are as a married couple.  Sure, we both have items that we brought to the house when we got married and moved in together, but from here on out, we are choosing things together.  We keep bits of ourselves but also meld into a couple who make decisions together and who compromise when we can’t both have our way.  (For example, today I wanted the shaped bowls, but Neal wanted the round ones.  He uses bowls more often than I do, honestly, so we went with the round ones.)  I like this compatibility and only see it getting easier and better as time goes on.  Our dining room is shaping up into something WE have created.  Our living room is getting there, too.  Every time we decide on something together, we’re making a home that we’ve chosen to enjoy as a couple.  I really like coming home and seeing the house that the GR family built (who happen to be the only GR family in the entire world, by the way!)  I love coming home and realizing that so many things within these walls are indicative of my life with my husband, the life I’ve come to cherish very much.  With no one else would I have made these same choices and decisions, I know, which makes them all the more special because with no one else could I possibly be happier.

Finally, the “good news” I mentioned

I’ve slightly been procrastinating on this, but I’ve also been trying to figure out how to word it. A favored blog read recently wrote about forgiveness, wondering if a person can truly forgive another. I replied that, yes, forgiveness is possible, for almost any infraction, but it’s work. It’s not a quick, easy “I forgive you” and that’s that. It’s…a struggle, a daily reminder to yourself actually, forgiveness is. And contrary to common belief, forgiveness does NOT mean forgetting the issue.

I’ve had people do a lot of awful things to me in my life. To be honest, I wonder how I turned out so well, especially after my high school life and certain “friends” and family members I had to deal with. But there are only two people I’ve had to truly forgive that I have kept in my life, both of whom remain in my life to this day. Forgiveness was a necessity to maintain a relationship in these two cases, unlike the other ones I can remember. (And, to be completely honest, I don’t know if I HAVE forgiven those who “trespassed against me” back then. I’ll have to think more on that, mainly because I don’t see them, so I don’t know how I feel when I do see them—if that makes sense, which I hope it does.) One of these people will remain nameless, because only this other person and I even know about the offenses against me—and it’s going to stay that way, because it’s an issue only between this other person and me. I recently wrote about the other offense, however.

My mom and I have had a rocky relationship probably all my life, even before her illness started. I’m a very independent person and I’m vastly different from my older sister. Over the years, however, I think we’ve come to understand each other, and I even might go so far as to say that my mom can even appreciate my independence and struggle to be something that I personally like, even if that means that I don’t go along with what others think is best for me. Her illness just tended to make our relationship more than just rocky; it was dysfunctional.

During college, I realized (as I mentioned in that previous post) that I couldn’t carry around my anger with my mom all my life. I couldn’t even carry it another year or month. I had to deal with it, so I confronted her with my feelings on the entire matter. She shrugged me off with the comment that cut me to the quick.

This time, however, instead of taking the hurt and pain with me for months and years, I let it go. I consciously said that I was done with dealing with it. My mom couldn’t hurt me this way anymore. I was better than that, and I knew it. She knew it, too, even if she was too deep into her illness to articulate it or admit that she was wrong. I finally realized that, despite those things, she did love me. And I moved on.

I think that was the only thing that saved my relationship with my mom. I realized that I let her hurt me by not realizing that her attacks weren’t as personal as I was making them. I could control myself, but I couldn’t control her. I couldn’t be her parent, and she didn’t want me to try anyway. I let go, but I had to remind myself every time she said something hurtful or mean-spirited that I had forgiven her. And I really had. It didn’t hurt as much, and I didn’t argue with her as much. I stepped back from that part of our relationship and encouraged something else, something more productive, to grow.

The biggest change in my demeanor was hard for me, at first: I refused to bring up the past during a disagreement and I didn’t throw what she did to me in her face when I was angry. I had forgiven that, so it wasn’t on the table anymore. I also didn’t allow her past actions against me to mold me into something I hated. I didn’t use my past as an excuse to be, well, anything. I have flaws, to be sure, but I realize what they are and I actively work to change the parts of me that I hate. I don’t blame my parents, even though I can see direct links between my childhood and certain character traits I hate about myself. Instead, I take my past experiences and vow to be different, to make changes in the ways I react and respond to certain situations. It’s hard work, but it means that I’m taking responsibility for myself. Others in my family haven’t been so forward-looking, namely my sister.

So imagine my surprise on May 21st when I received an unexpected email from my mother. I had just recently hung up the phone after talking to her, so any email was a surprise so soon. But when I opened this particular email, I teared up and ran for Neal in the other room. My mom apologized for her actions when I was younger. She said that she thought she already had, but just in case, she wanted to do it again. She then expressed gratitude that I don’t use her past actions as excuses for current actions in my own life. (There has been some family tension lately for a variety of reasons, but it centers around my sister at this point in time. I’m not going to go into the reasons or issues, but it explains why my mom was thinking about this.)

I can’t blame my mom for my behavior now. I’ve been out of her house since I was 18, and even before that I didn’t allow her to control me. As a teenager, I was told I was 13 going on 30 or 16 going on 45. I was told how mature and responsible I was. I know that, in part, came because I was parenting my mom, but also in part just because I am that type of person, independent and strong. I’ve always realized that I can’t blame anyone but myself for what I do and that all consequences for my actions do (and rightly should) fall squarely on my own shoulders.

I wrote her back and thanked her for her apology. I let her know how hard I worked in college to forgive her and be my own person, without blaming her for who I was or what I became. I reminded her (gently) how I had asked for an apology that she couldn’t (or wouldn’t) give then. I let her know that I’d already forgiven her, but that her apology meant more to me than she probably realized.

I then told my mom about a concern I’ve been having for a few years: I worry that my niece won’t be as resilient and strong as I was and that she’ll end up on the other end of the spectrum, since that’s what she’s seeing every day. Neal and I work hard to be good role models for that amazing girl (and we’re lucky to be able to have her stay with us a couple weeks coming up at the end of the summer), because we want her to know that she can truly be whatever she wants to be. I want her to be strong enough to look inside herself for growth and change instead of looking to someone else for affirmation of who she really is. I know that she’s a wonderful girl and will grow up to be a wonderful woman. I just want her to know that, too.

And I want her to know that even if her mom doesn’t apologize for anything that happens to her as she’s growing up, she can still forgive her mom and move on in life, continuing to be that wonderful woman even if she never hears the words she really desires.

No sirens

With all the talk lately of tornadoes in the lower Midwest, I’ve realized that I’ve had two years of tornado-free living.  Not only that, but I’ve not even had a tornado warning or watch in those two years.

That is a record.  I’ve never lived anywhere that there was more than six months, maximum (and usually less), without a tornado warning or watch, at the very least, or tornadoes touching down nearby.

I am incredibly lucky, and I know it.  Contrary to popular belief, this area could very well get a tornado, as was detailed a couple months ago on the weather here by our former meteorologist, who explained that it is unlikely but not, as many believe, impossible.

One of the first times Neal came to visit me when we were dating, tornado sirens started going off in my town.  I immediately went into gear, picking up the weather radio, extra batteries, water, and some snacks and getting ready to go to the basement of the building where I lived.  (I’m grateful we aren’t prone to tornadoes here since the building we live in is not very well built with tornado shelter in mind.)  Since we weren’t sure how long we’d be down there, we also grabbed the laptop, a few movies, and some blankets and headed down.

I always get a pit in my stomach when I hear the sirens, even though I grew up in an area where the sirens were sounded every day and were also known as “the noon whistle.”  As a young child, I’d been taught to head for the basement when the sirens sounded, so every day I’d tense up slightly when the whistle sounded.  If it were a nice day outside, the tension would only last a few milliseconds, but if it were a stormy day, ripe for storms and tornadoes, I’d wait until I was sure that the noon whistle only lasted one blast of the siren.  I’d spent too many hours in a dark, dank, and spidery basement (or cellar, if you’re inclined to call a scary, unfinished basement what it really is) during storms to remain unaffected by the call.

Neal seemed a bit out of his element, as we huddled down in the basement and watched the movie we’d brought on the laptop.  I didn’t realize then (and wouldn’t think about it for some time after I’d lived here a while myself) that the area he’d been living in didn’t often have tornadoes touch down nearby.  Heck, the whistle here only sounds the first Wednesday of every month, so you don’t even have a chance to “get used” to the sound.

I’ve seen them, I’ve been near them, and I’ve never become used to the effect they have on me when I hear the sirens indicating that there is yet another one (or another group of them) nearby.  Looking back on the past two years, I realize that I no longer compulsively watch the news when a bad thunderstorm is going on outside my window.  I no longer switch from channel to channel to see if the local news has updates on where the storm is and whether tornadoes have been spotted.  I no longer watch the yellow boxes and parallelograms with fear and anxiety, wondering where the tornadoes will decide to hit during this storm.

I still, however, check the news in the counties where friends and family down there still live when I hear of terrible storms coming through their areas.  I still think about that time that my close friend’s church was destroyed, while people inside (and a couple outside) huddled down for dear life.  I still think about how each of them was alive, even those who were just hanging on to a doorknob outside the main building.  I still think about how tornadoes are fickle funnels and how you can never stop having that niggling thought in the back of your mind where, as the thunder shakes your house and rattles your dishes, you wonder if this is the storm that will bring tornadoes back into your immediate life.

It’s not probable, but it’s not impossible.  That’s the entire story of my life, to be honest, so I can’t afford to be completely un-vigilant.  Every bad storm, the thought will be there even if the immediate outward appearance of compulsive vigilance is no longer prevalent.