This bracelet came up on a news feed of mine. I studied it. Not the bracelet, but the words. I’ve probably studied over it more than some people would study for a test. Well, not so much study, but ponder. The words are powerful. The words imply strength and courage and all the other positive feelings that are conjured up in these seven little words.
When I first saw these words I thought about the women in my life that intentionally took on a challenge. Chris Mac decided she wanted to have a healthier lifestyle and took on the challenge of losing weight the old fashioned way – by eating healthy and exercising. Hannah has taken on the challenge of going back to college to become an RN after having a child. Brenda G later in life chose to adopt three children that needed her. Amy made the decision to not only tell her adoption story, but posted it for all the world to read. To these women and others like you, I humbly acknowledge your courage.
Then there’s the rest of us – no less important, but our challenges more or less got dumped into our laps. We didn’t ask for them. We weren’t looking for them, but they happened just the same. Cynthia discovered she had breast cancer. Angela and Laura G found themselves in destructive marriages. Many of us were given widowhood. My Aunt Lois and cousins Pat and Tina face each day with the deterioration of their husband/father from Alzheimers disease. Heather battles the fear that comes with having a child with severe food allergies. Then there’s the many single moms I know that get up each morning to fill the shoes of both mother and father. My own sister Terri is synonymous with courage, tenacity, and strength (although sometimes she doesn’t see it).
So I go back to the words: She believed she could, so she did.
In all honesty, there were times when I didn’t know if I could overcome the loss of my husband and the avalanche of aftershocks that came with it. I feel sure that each person I have mentioned and all of the ones in this video have had the same feeling at one time or another in the challenges that have faced them. That doubt, that defeating feeling, that nagging in the back of your mind that says it’s too hard, it’s too much to bear. We fall. We cry. We doubt.
But herein lies the difference: We fell but we didn’t stay down, we wiped our bloodied knees and got back up. We cried, but we wiped our tears away and pushed forward. We doubted, but it didn’t consume us. We overcame. And that’s what I celebrate today.
So this is for you ladies: The women that inspire me, encourage me, and lift me up.
For the first twelve years of my life my mother was a housewife. That’s what they were called in the 1960’s. Today, we would refer to her as homemaker or a stay at home mom, but back then, it was housewife.
I give my mother credit for the love I have for a neat and tidy home. Keeping a clean home was important to her, and as children; we were given household jobs to contribute to the maintaining of a clean and orderly home.
My mother had the good fortune of having a dear friend Shirley that lived across the street. After her morning chores were done, my mother would put my brother John in a fresh diaper, grab her cigarettes, and head over to Shirley’s house for a time of talking, coffee drinking, smoking, and adult company.
Shirley had a daughter Lee Ann that was John’s age, which worked out great for the moms. All my life, I have chased after the hopes that one day, I could have a friend, neighbor, that I could duplicate that relationship that Shirley and my mother had.
I was around nine years old at the time and I loved to accompany my mom and my brother to Shirley’s house. I would play “teacher”, reading to the younger ones, drawing on the chalkboard, or coloring with them; basically being their boss.
Perhaps a year down the road, Shirley gave birth to a son. I remember the first time (possibly the last time) I was given permission to hold him. Of course I had to sit squarely on the sofa, getting instructions from my mother, “support his head”, “keep him covered up”, all the things nervous adults tell children.
For the first few minutes Billy peacefully laid there in my arms while I soaked in his sweet baby smells, touching his soft newborn hands, and stroking his downy soft hair. He then began to squirm, and shortly after, he began to cry. I looked squarely into his eyes and without any regard to my surroundings, in the company of my mother and Shirley, and said, “Quit crying you son-of-a-bitch!” In my defense, I had NO idea what a bitch was, let alone a son-of-a-bitch. I just knew that I had heard my daddy say it PLENTY of times out of frustration for one thing or another. My mother reeled in mortified disbelief and shock while Shirley grabbed her innocent son from my cradled arms. My mom in a desperate attempt to save some sort of face said, “Cathy Rhea, where have you heard that kind of talk?” To my mother’s embarrassment, I calmly replied, “Daddy says it all the time.”
Needless to say, I learned quickly that was not an acceptable thing to call a babe in arms.
I get a laugh when I think of this story, but keep in mind, my Daddy has always said that I would laugh at a funeral. I’ve always taken that as a compliment, because to me it shows that I look for the humor in life.
What is life without a few embarrassing moments, without a few experiences you would like to sweep under the carpet? I choose to hold on to those moments if for no other reason but to keep my humility in check.
I found myself alone on Christmas Day in 1994. As planned, my children spent Christmas morning with me, and went on to spend the rest of the holiday with their respective fathers. After they left that morning I busied myself with the task of cleaning up the crumpled wrapping paper, used bows, and empty boxes. I tried to make myself believe that it was going to be just like any other day that I would be without my children. I thought that I had mentally prepared myself for this time alone, empty moments like this are going to happen when there is shared custody. But clearly, after the house was restored to its normal order I found myself not only alone, but lonely on Christmas Day.
After several hours of wallowing in self pity, I picked up the phone and called my brother. He, his wife, and son lived a short distance from me. I wrangled an invitation to their home.
Within minutes I drove up and parked at the curb in front of their home. It was almost dusk, that time of day when the sky begins to give way to dark, but holds on to the light as long as it can. I had the vantage point of seeing inside of my brother’s kitchen. The lights were on, the blinds not yet drawn on the sliding glass door. What I witnessed deeply touched my heart.
It was my brother John, slow dancing with his wife Sheri. Nothing fancy, no dips, no twirls, just a slow melodic dance of a couple in love. It was tender, and admittedly a side of my brother I had never seen before. As I soaked in the scene of that Christmas night dance, I thought to myself, “I want that. I want to experience that with someone.” I sat in my car for a few minutes after witnessing that simple, unpretentious dance with a yearning that I don’t recall ever feeling before. I waited for the dance to end and made my way up to the front door. Not wanting to embarrass my brother, I never admitted to the tender moment I had witnessed from my car.
I went home that night to an empty house and thought about that dance between my brother and his wife. At that point in my life, there wasn’t a lasting relationship on the foreseeable horizon for me. So I got to thinking, which is something I do a lot. I’m a thinker. I ponder things. I thought, “Why wait on that special man to dance with? Dance with those who are in your life – right now. Your children, and yes, you have permission to dance with just yourself.” So that’s what I starting doing. Heather, Robin, and Shane became my dance partners. We would crank up our “boom box” and dance until we were out of breath. Right there in our own little kitchen we mustered up some really great memories. Dancing, twirling, arms waving, singing along to the music.
*** click on music link below** you made need to adjust the volume, it’s pretty loud**
And then I began a ritual only for myself.
From my kitchen window I was able to see the moon on clear nights. I’ve always been drawn to full moons, but who isn’t? On those nights, after my children were tucked into bed, I would turn off the lights, insert a CD (much like this Enya song), and sway to the rhythm of the music. With only moonbeams shining in from the window illuminating my presence, I would dance. It was my own kind of interpretive dance that would not have made any sense to anyone but me. It brought me peace and a thankfulness for my solitude. I began reconnecting with myself, I embraced a new found independence. During these seemingly indulgent sessions I felt empowered to tackle the unknown.
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I made jokes to my friends that on some of those nights when the children were away, I would dance naked while paying homage to the heavenly bodies. In truth, I did dance naked on some of those nights. I can’t recall a time in my life when I ever felt so free, so alive.
**I want to interject here and say that not every day was a great day. Not every day was a dance in the kitchen day. There were hard days. There were long days. Single parenthood. Money issues. Full time job. Exhaustion. Days when I felt like I had nothing to give to anyone. There were stressful days. There were days when all I wanted to do was to be by myself and hide under the covers **
You can continue listening to this song, and maybe get a glimpse into those special evenings of mine, imagining an almost 40 year old woman dancing (sometimes naked) to the music that lifted my spirits, soared me to a new platform in my life…. or you can hit pause and keep on reading. 🙂
Some years later I would marry the man of my dreams. I recounted to him the story of that Christmas Night dance at my brother’s house and how it had touched me.
**click on music link below ** the volume needs adjusted here too – I’m still new at this***
He and I shared many slow dances in our own kitchen, swaying to the music of Sade, Savage Garden, Celine Dion, Trisha Yearwood, or sometimes to no music at all. Out of nowhere (and for no special reason) Michael would put one arm around my waist, pull me close, and would whisper in my ear, “Can you hear it? It’s our song.” without any music playing in the background. He would hum “Truly, Madly, Deeply” into my ear.
Michael couldn’t sing or hum worth a damn, but the sentiment would melt my heart every time. I hear this song and it takes me back to those days. “I want to stand with you on a mountain, I want to bathe with you in the sea, I want to lay like this forever, until the sky falls down over me”. Maybe this song sounds corny to you, but no matter where I am, and no matter what I’m doing, when I hear this song, I stop. I stop and remember those wonderful slow dances in the kitchen.
As most of you know, my husband died all too early in life. Every hope and every dream, every slow dance, and every goal seemed to die with him.
But not for long. I am a survivor. I come from a long lineage of survivors. Some may think it’s bad that I cherish myself. Some may see it as selfish that I want to not only survive, but to flourish.
As the years have passed I now have new dance partners in my life. My sister Terri and I dance often to songs that empower us, make us laugh, and even feel sexy (thank you Robin Thicke). I’ve twirled with my granddaughters, and have been “dipped” on Christmas Eve in Charleston by my friend Louise.
As of this writing I don’t have a special man in my life to share those intimate kitchen dances with, but that doesn’t stop me from cranking up my music and dancing to Enya in the kitchen by myself… just fully clothed now.
And if you’re looking for a dance partner, just look around you. I’ll bet you there’s someone wanting to dance just a badly as you do. And if not, just look in the mirror and know that reflection that you are seeing is your own perfect partner (clothing optional).
