Pushing Daisies

Have you ever looked fear in the face and said, "I just don't care?"

The first time I ever heard that lyric, I thought back to a sermon some years back. I know, right? What's P!nk got to do with the pulpit? Turns out, a lot  - if you venture into the cobwebbed canals of my brain vault, anyway.

"Control isn't about confidence. It isn't about capability. It's about fear. You want control because you don't want to be afraid." Yep. That's what he said. Not what you want to hear if you are, in fact, embroiled in a great love affair with control (like moi). Moreover, some fibers of your weave you just can't change - you can only snip and retwist and wind in better strands, hoping the tapestry changes for the better. There I was, Control Freak freak, wondering, "Does that flask hold water? Am I really afraid?"

Uh huh.
You already know the answer.
Two clues: I'm writing this post. I also know I'm not the only control freak out there.

Then we had this year. This 365-day (almost on the dot) cycle of hell. Life became a b*&$% on a lawnmower looking to raze our hitherto daisied meadow of love and joy. She did a pretty good job. Now, I interrupt this programming to announce to you - da da da DA! - I'm for Jesus. I don't believe in coincidence. I can't buy random twists of fate. There is no Mother Nature. And destiny doesn't turn on a dime. I believe one God is in control. I believe He does the best job, even (especially?) when I don't get Him. Which is usually when He's messin' with my fascade of control.

That year was a knock-you-while-you're-down stretch of one of those times. We survived. We even thrived. How come?

I learned to look fear in the face and say, "I just don't care." My brother would probably correct me and say, "You mean, you told fear to just f- off?" Ya. That, too. Sometimes you just have to get ugly. Crass. Dirty. Foul. This is war: in the absence of random kismit or strange fate, you have to face that bad must have a reason, must be providential. You've only got one or the other, you know? And life is hard - not always because you blew that choice or misjudged the outcome of that action. Nope. Sometimes life's just the b*&$% on the lawnmower, gunning for you from six yards over. Sometimes there's nothing you can do but say goodbye to your daisies, with a chaser of  "I just don't care. Do what you will. I have purpose. I have meaning. You can't beat me. You can't ruin me. He controls what's meant to be."

These days, I don't need to be in control...as much. Hey, I told you - didn't you read the whole snip, twist, wind bit? I find I need the control less because the fear doesn't dominate anymore. Not a bad ratio to tender come end of the day.

Know what else is true?
When I'm less afraid, I notice one, teeeeeeensy detail...that packs a pert good wallop.

There aren't as many lawnmowers out there.
Quite a few more daisies, though.

That Elf Got Axed

The other day, I checked in on this here blog and realized that sketchy little elf I hired to write it hadn't been doing her job.

I fired her.
You're stuck with me again.

I also noticed that, history shows, I'm more than a skosh absent in the month of May. Since I'm all for the boring and mundane - but not that mundane, I figured I'd mix it up and take most of June off, too.

How was it for you?

That jest isn't too far from the truth though. When I started blogging, I made only three commitments to myself. One: Always tell the truth as best you know it in the moment of writing. (True for all writers, I'll point out). Two: Always be a wordsmith: if you cannot write it well, don't write it (for now) at all. (Here's to hoping you've found that to - er, mostly - be the case). And three: Never make it an obligation. You'll just stop writing it altogether.

Which lands us near July with me typing this to tell you it's not that you don't matter - it's that you mattered too much (there's #1) to leave you stuck with frantic drivel leftover from the battering ram called my life (#2), never mind how much that drivel would have been contrived from just another "must do" rather than "want to".

But what a May and (almost) June it's been! I'm the mom of a now 6th and 3rd grader. Judd starts preschool in the fall. I finished another semester of teaching with only two fails. Hey, you no come, you no pass. Craig and I got some great butt workouts sitting through an array of piano recitals, soccer matches, award ceremonies, and even a graduation. (Parents of school-aged kiddos - Cheeks Unite!) I'm a year older, and I'm four pounds lighter. Of pounds, that is. Not brain cells. But, then again, that may be debatable as I daily fail to recall the simplest bits of data once so readily recalled. Perhaps I should fire that little runner who lives inside my brain, darting through its alleyways to retrieve any given request.

Nah.
He's probably related to that sketchy elf.

And anyways...One axe a month is enough, methinks.