Connections

Airports facilitate travel and represent movement. The intent of going to the airport is to go elsewhere. Over the weekend, on my last trip to Michigan before moving to California, weather issues caused me to miss my connection. Unfortunately, the flight I missed was the last one to Kalamazoo and there were no hotel rooms or rental cars available. I was stuck in the airport for more than 9 hours. Obviously, this was not ideal, but I settled in for an all-nighter.

I pulled out my journal, planning to process thoughts related to my upcoming move, but it wasn't long before I realized that in all of my travels, this was only my second time being stranded overnight. The first time was when my dad passed away. Ironically, this second time, it was the eve of Father’s Day.

Having traveled to cities all over the United States and to more than 20 countries, it's a bit unusual that I have only been stranded overnight twice. Even more unusual is that those two times had connections to my father. My first time being stuck was when I found out that he died and this second time it was the eve of Father's Day, but the connections didn't end there. The airport where I was stranded for the second time was in Chicago, the very same airport I was heading to the first time, back in 2011. That led me to thinking about the first anniversary of his death. Though not stranded, I spent that day in an airport as well, in Detroit, in the very same airport that he dropped me off, the last time I saw him.

These connections are not mere coincidence. Four years following his death, as I negotiate the mixed emotions and busyness associated with relocating, I think these connections were my father’s way of saying, "I'm with you." Airports were an obvious choice to let me know that it doesn’t matter where I go, what phase of life I’m in, whether I’m settled or getting ready for a major life change, he’s with me. It’s so like him to use Father’s Day, a time designed to celebrate him and his impact in my life, to give me such a needed and timely gift. I spent Father's Day in an airport, a place designed for movement, being reminded that his presence will remain constant in my life.

Be mindful of life's connections. There may be events that appear coincidental or inconvenient, but if you give yourself space to look a little closer, you may find much more than coincidence and inconvenience. You may find a common thread and a needed message. You may find that life is trying to remind you of your impact, that you are important, that you are on the right track, that you are undeniably loved, and that you have purpose greater than you realize.

Change from Pain

There was a time when I hoarded hurt. Depending on the day, I either convinced myself not to bother anyone with it or that I couldn't trust anyone with it. The truth was that I didn't feel strong enough to deal with it. I didn't feel strong enough to share, open up, trust, be vulnerable, nor approach the healing process. Eventually, the combination of the pain and self-inflicted isolation demanded more of me. I needed to stop hoarding hurt and start healing.

Hurt is a part of life that we all experience. The sources vary, but all hurt leads us to change. Some become hardened and refuse to feel or connect with others. Some become fragile and develop an inability to cope with day-to-day stress. Most of us land somewhere in the middle. We have a tough exterior and a soft center. We ignore how we feel until it becomes undeniable and we distract ourselves in the lives of others.

The hurt that you have experienced has changed you. It may have made you more cautious or intentional about the people you allow in your life. Maybe it has led you to be externally focused in giving to others or by feeding on the negativity of others. Maybe your hurt has led you to be brutally honest with everyone but self. Or maybe you avoid being truthful and free. It's possible that you aren't exactly sure how your hurt has changed you.

When you experienced neglect, disappointment, betrayal, a health challenge, loss, and/or trauma, it impacted your personality. It altered how you handled relationships. It shifted your outlook and perception. You may interpret that to mean a negative change or one that has made you somehow less of who you were prior. That does not have to be true.

Not every change resulting from pain has to be detrimental. Pain can lead you to be more considerate of others. Pain can encourage you to focus less time on superficial interactions so that you can engage in deeper, more meaningful relationships. Pain can lead you to living more honestly and freely. In order to move forward, pain demands more of you. Working through it will show you just how powerful, resilient, and strong you are. You may not always have control of the hurt that enters your life, but you can determine how that hurt will impact your life. The only thing more tragic than the pain that you have already endured would be to give your pain the power that was intended for you.

Bad Day

Some see my encouraging posts and quotes and assume that I do such because I don't know struggle or because I'm not being honest. Both are far from the truth. It's nearly amusing to write this, but I've been accused of being too positive. I've been asked, "Don't you ever have a bad day?"

This has been a tough week. Like most, I was saddened by the loss of Robin Williams, an entertainment icon who brought joy and awe to so many for decades. I continue to watch the city of Ferguson, Missouri get rocked and divided by the shooting of an unarmed teenager by law enforcement. In the last seven days, I've grieved, remembered, and been anxious and outraged.

In addition to the tragedies that I share as a citizen of this country, this tough week became even more difficult personally as I received news that my dear friend passed away. Do I ever have a bad day? I am having one right now.

My friend, someone I shared many conversations, meals, celebrations, tragedy, and simply time with is no longer here. Initially, I found comfort in the memories and in knowing that during our last communication I told Suzy that I missed her. Eventually, though, my feelings changed and I was overcome by the finality of her absence. I can no longer call or text her. I can't take that trip we'd discussed. I will never get to hear her boisterous laugh again and all of that makes my heart hurt.

The positivity that I display and often write about is genuine, but it developed through hardship. It is because of times like these that I can trust that I will get through this newest challenge. Too positive? Not at all. I acknowledge the depth of my hurt. I recognize that the death of my friend brings up feelings related to the loss of my father. I know that when I feel broken and vulnerable it can trigger trauma and if I'm not careful, can result in much more than grief. I do have bad days, but I work through them because I can't afford not to. The risk is too great.

Difficulty and heartache are common experiences. Yours may differ from mine, but they are no less real or influential. You get to choose how to handle—or not handle—your hardships. I have considered several ways to cope over the last few days, not all of them good or healthy. Today I choose to write through my bad day. I hope you will choose wisely as you face yours.

The Last Gift

After my father died my family was left with the emotionally trying and seemingly insensitive task of clearing out his house. Weeks after my last trip my uncle called to tell me that he located a bicycle. It made me smile because I couldn't imagine my dad riding a bike. I told my uncle that during one of my last conversations with my dad I mentioned wanting to get a bike. My uncle responded, "I think you have one. This is a woman's bike and it's brand new."

My dad's last gift was a bit too much for me to handle. I hesitated taking it with me and when I did, it reminded me of all that wouldn't be. That bike was stolen moments. He would never give it to me. He would never ask repeatedly if I'd ridden it yet. He would never ask if I liked it. I stalled as long as I could. I eventually took that bike, dragged it up to the third floor, and put it in a room. That bike, like my emotions, belonged behind a closed door, out of my way so I wouldn't have to see nor deal with it.

Life is difficult and uncomfortable and inconvenient. Circumstances and relationships change. Feelings get hurt. We face lack, betrayal, disappointment, distance, pain, illness, and death. While we get to choose how we deal with life's lessons and who will walk with us, in order to grow, we all have to open the door and face our truths.

I could keep that door closed, but I—nor anyone else who visited—would never fully enjoy where I live. I could be saddened by the idea of moments that never were or be encouraged by the many moments that we shared. I could look at that bike as a symbol of loss and sadness or as a representation of my father's thoughtfulness and love. I could think of that bike as the last gift my father would ever give me or I could think of how wonderful it is that I had a father who listened, gave from his heart, and thought of me more than I imagined. That bike may be the last gift he purchased, but it is not the last gift he gave.

A Life of Gratitude

Every November gratitude becomes front and center of life. There is increased conversation about gratitude journals and other ways to express appreciation for 30 days. I see the value, but I also recognize that the start of the holiday season doesn't usher in the same feelings for everyone. It may make sense to some to designate the month of November as the time to be extra thankful for family, love, and life, but for others, including me, the winter holidays are difficult and heartbreaking.

Two years ago, I was rocked by the unexpected death of my father. Losing a parent is difficult regardless of circumstances, but my father was not a figurehead in my life. He was present, consistent, and concerned. He was there for every event and performance. He was supportive and not just of my brother and me—he was a source of support for his siblings, niece and nephews. His absence has been deeply felt not only during holidays but also on the most mundane days.

I find a way to tap into gratitude most of the time. I am grateful that he was in my life as long as he was. I am grateful that he was so kind and thoughtful. I am grateful to have such wonderful memories of him. I am grateful that the last words he heard me speak were, "I love you." Those are good days. However, I have days when I wish I had more time, more memories, and more opportunities to say I love you. There are days when others mention their 60- or 70-year-old fathers, how they celebrated Father's Day, or that they did something as simple as call their fathers and I feel extremely cheated. There are days when I question if holidays or any days will ever be the same. There are days when I miss him and no amount of encouraging words or quotes diminish the longing.

Even prior to his death my holiday seasons have been problematic. Family gatherings are attached to painful complications making it difficult to latch onto the idea of a season of appreciation or to view it as more than the latest fad or "it" thing. What's beautiful about gratitude, though, is that it extends far beyond the typical, limited use. Gratitude also means to praise, grace, and honor. On difficult days I have the option to praise those who have added to my life. When I'm annoyed by declarations of gratitude from those who complain or speak negatively the other 335 days of the year I can extend grace to them—and to myself for being judgmental. When I am overwhelmed with feelings of loss I can choose to honor memories and imprints.

Today, on the second anniversary of my father's funeral, I am grateful for all that he was to my family and me. I am grateful that I can empathize with those who have painful memories attached to this time of year or who may not have a family gathering to attend. Mostly, though, I am grateful that I don't need a calendar to nudge me to praise, grace, or honor those I love because in spite of the loss and heartache—and in some instances, because of it—I am able to live a life of gratitude.

Read last week's post, The Walkway.

Perception

About two years ago I developed a fascination with a particular sports car. Suddenly, a car I’d only seen a few times started appearing everywhere. I saw it in parking lots, on the highway, riding alongside me in the city, and even on my job. Depending on the day I thought it was either a conspiracy of cruelty or confirmation.

Perception is powerful. What we perceive creates our reality. That sports car was not released two years ago. There aren’t more of them on the road. I started seeing more of them because my eyes were trained to pay more attention to them. Prior to the Nissan Z being on my radar, I couldn’t even point one out. Now, I can nearly sense them from a mile away. Knowing that prompted me to ask, “What else am I not seeing because it is not on my radar?”

This week has been emotionally trying because of the one-year anniversary of my father’s death. Many thoughts and questions and memories passed through my mind. On the day of the anniversary, I was traveling and as I walked through the airport I realized that I was in the very same place where I’d last seen him. He dropped me off at the airport and I had every intention of having him pick me up four months later. Unfortunately, he died a month shy of my return.

As I walked through the airport just the other day, the realization hit me a bit hard. I sent a message to someone close to me saying, “I am at the same place I last saw my dad.” My heart felt heavy, but the response I got changed my perception. Her reply was a bit of a wake-up call. She asked, “Myla, don’t you get it? You are where you are for a reason!” Someone else had to change my perspective and point out the beauty that existed in that day. Instead of remaining sad and lonely, my attention shifted. I understood that where I was at that moment, the year to the day he died, was purposed. I was exactly where I was meant to be that day. It was entirely too big of a coincidence to be at the very airport of a city I didn’t live in then—nor do I live in now—on the day when I was missing him a bit more than usual.

My circumstances didn’t change. My longing for him didn’t decrease. All that changed was my perspective. Once I shifted my focal point, how I felt on the anniversary of my father’s death was bigger than grief, sadness, and longing. Once I changed my perspective, I saw the anniversary of his death as larger than my initial feelings. Sometimes all the change we need is to change our perception. Sometimes all we need to do is change our minds.

What is the Nissan Z or anniversary of your life? What holds your interest? Where do you focus your attention? We all have joy and pain. We all have laughed and cried. We all have love and heartache. Are you primarily focused on the heartaches? Or do you focus your energy on the love in your life? Just as with a car we may notice after it has caught our eye, beauty and love exists all around us. Circumstances can cloud your vision, but that doesn’t mean goodness isn’t and hasn’t always been there. Sometimes you simply need to open your eyes and pay more attention.

Hurt and Healing

Two days ago I returned to the MV Explorer after being gone for twenty days. I’d been up and down the gangway countless times between sailing on reunion voyages and sailing as a staff member on this voyage. However, this embarkation was vastly different.

The last time I’d been on the gangway was a day my life shifted. Someone else was handling my luggage, but I’d never felt so weighed down. I was leaving the ship, the place that had been my home since August. I was leaving the comforts associated with traveling in close quarters with new friends. I was leaving behind life as I’d known it. I wasn’t taking some fabulous excursion to an exotic destination. I was heading back to the United States because my dad had passed away.

Following the funeral it was important for me to return to the ship. My last memory wasn’t a pleasant one and I didn’t want such an incredible experience to be overshadowed by the last conversation I’d had on the ship. As I took a plane to Costa Rica to join the voyage again I was filled with questions. Had I stayed home in August would my father and I have had more time together? Did I want to leave home because home wasn’t the same and never would be ever again? Was I returning to the ship to avoid adjusting to living without the most influential man in my life? Would I spend the rest of my life avoiding that adjustment?

On the way to the port, the ship came into view and I broke out into a huge grin. Just seeing it gave me comfort and I became anxious to rejoin a community that had been my family since August, including the day that I heard the news about my dad. As I looked at the beauty surrounding me and felt the sun’s rays embracing me, a sense of peace and joy melted my doubt and apprehension. I knew that at that moment, I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

I still have questions. I am still scared to face life without my dad. I miss his presence immensely and I know that I will for the rest of my life. Yet coming back to this ship has helped me to understand that even in the middle of my heartache, I can miss my father and still be in a place of beauty, comfort, and love. It is possible to hurt and heal at the same time.