Give Variety a Hearty Hug - Let Love, Not tolerance, Prevail.

In the midst of seemingly continuous hate crimes and injustices flooding our media and current events, I’ve been hearing a lot about the word tolerance.  Some may celebrate it, while others consider it a largely distasteful word. 

Really, is there good reason why anybody should hold that state in high regard?  Tolerance is for cold coffee when we have no way of heating it up, or soggy French Toast instead of fluffy.  I tolerate cat hair on my carpet, the un-glued linoleum floor lifting up as I vacuum, and the bad haircut I gave myself but try to hide by wearing wound up buns and ponytails every day.  Tolerance is not appreciation.  It is not love.  It’s acceptance of the un-ideal.  A rather snooty raised nose to something that is less than supreme. 

Many of the things mentioned above may be worthy of tolerance.  We can’t always mow our neighbor’s lawns when they fail to keep theirs up to spec.  We must tolerate it at times.  We won’t all enjoy the mushrooms on the pizza.  But they will either have to be tolerated or removed for full enjoyment.  To tolerate those “inconveniences” is understandable.  Necessary.  The most unfortunate area where tolerance comes into effect is where human life and dignity are concerned.

I’ll admit it.  There are times I tolerate my kids.  Even my husband.  Although those moments may not be their best, those aren’t my shining moments either.   Those are the moments when I’ve lost my patience and empathy and I feel apathy or cold-heartedness instead.  When I am tolerating my littles, I’d rather escape for a quickly stolen “bathroom” break even when I don’t actually have to go than spend another moment listening to their antics.  I am aware that it’s bound to happen, maybe more frequently than I’d care to admit, but it’s not the place I’d like to be.  I have a right to be tolerant at times and God knows, there are numerous times when I’m impressed and humbled that my kids and husband are willing to tolerate my shenanigans.  It’s necessary at times, but it’s not awesome.  It is a cold, limp hand shake rather than a hearty hug.  It’s a wish for someone or something to remain at a distance.  A preference to remain apart in order to avoid feigning interest in something or someone you truthfully have feelings similar to disgust towards.  Tolerance is a reality but it is not something worthy of defending or clinging to.  It has to be let go and banished for the best to happen.

Nothing beats the calm contentedness of sharing hugs and a laugh even when I’m well aware of yesterday’s tolerance.  When I embrace fault and my own failures, I am free to let go of tolerance and love again.  That is redemption.  When I see others’ differences as wonders of a God who found it worthwhile to make people so different from myself, that is gift.  If we can celebrate diversity rather than remain in the realm of disdain, we are following the declaration that “the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13).  We all know tolerance is not love.

In our persistence in holding others at a distance or looking down on others for their differences, we are potentially breeding hate, and definitely tolerating.  We are not loving.  Maybe we ought to allow some moments of tolerance for the sake of our imperfect human nature, but let’s not allow ourselves to remain in that place for long.  For when we see past devices we can recognize the beauty in variation.  When we let others live their paths and grow in their talents and interests we are inviting them to be the gems that they are meant to be, not pushing our sparkly characteristics somewhere they don’t belong.  We all are treasures.  Even despite our annoyances or disparities.  And we ought to give variety a hearty hug and let love, not tolerance, prevail.

*** This article was inspired by a Facebook Post I read and appreciated today:

A wise friend told me this week tolerance and acceptance are no longer options in the world. The choice now is to love or not love. I choose love.‪#‎blacklivesmatter , ‪#‎LGBTQrights, ‪#‎womenareequal

I'm Medicated - and It's Okay

It’s true.  I take an antidepressant daily.  You might not guess it.  But it’s a fact.

I am so thankful for the positive impact a small pill has had on my personal emotional and mental health.  I assure you, despite my sunshine and rose coloured Facebook posts portraying a near-perfect life and rarely a down day it’s not been all rainbows and skittles.  This medication business has been going on for nearly a year.  And likely should have happened years ago.

The story behind my final straw experience to take “the plunge” into medication?  Anxiety.  Health anxiety to be more specific.  It’s something I’ve struggled off and on with for years.  Especially since watching my dad die from cancer nearly 16 years ago when I was 18.  I likely tended toward the worrisome nature before those difficult events, but watching my dad fight and lose his battle solidified my fearful habits.

Over the years I’ve feared irreversible infertility, skin cancer, ALS, MS, brain tumors, pretty much anything extremely difficult or terminal.  My morbid thoughts had me clenching my teeth, holding my breath, and often on edge for when the floor would fall from beneath my seemingly stable life.  That continual battle against fear of the future and of disease took its toll over the years. 

My psycho-somatic symptoms began preying on my ever active mind until I felt regular tingles, tightness in my chest, inability to relax, shallow breathing, and a sensation that I was very often in fight-or-flight mode.  I would share my struggles with my husband, with family, with my closest friends very openly, but I’m well aware that my usually outgoing, chatty, and upbeat nature made my inner fears and battles against anxiety nearly invisible to the general public.

Last year my personal struggles came to a head when I was so taken over physically by my worries that I couldn’t tell the difference between sensations caused by anxiety or whether I was actually suffering from something horrid and definitely lethal.  My fears and constant attempts to rationalize and talk myself out of them took over my enjoyment of life.  I no longer had the ability to sit contentedly watching the kids play, I had difficulty sleeping because my mind wouldn’t stop.  I would wake up and feel a rush of terror and imagine my worst fears (death, suffering, watching someone die) come to reality.  It sucked.  Bad.  I would hold it together to the best of my ability while in public, in crowds, or around my kids, but my elastic abilities were only so flexible.  I would snap faster than a tiny twig and unfortunately Brad got the worst of my pent up worry and anxiety by way of unpredictability and a tendency to make mountains out of mole hills.  I tried hard to be strong, to battle it on my own, to use my openness and willingness to talk to friends, family, and councillors as my sole means to gain mental and emotional stability.  I have found that I am strong, but I am not super human.  I am aware, but actually way too aware.  My awareness was handicapping me with a deer-in-the-headlights, frantic be-ready-to-drop-everything-and-run-at-any-moment kind of aware.  I am rational for the most part, but also rational enough to know that worst fears sometimes do come true.

A few months in a row of personally absorbing every horror story I heard on the news, engrossing myself in every excruciating loss I read about, and frequently picturing myself in the position of losing myself or someone I loved most to a savage flesh eating disease (see?  I know, so morbid), I succumbed to the reality that I couldn’t fight my anxiety on my own.  I had to accept my fearful nature and seek the help that is available beyond myself.  The day I decided to begin taking the small dose of medication that I now take daily was a wonderful day marking the biggest turn around and reprieve from my anxious pattern that I had in years. 

I can now sit and think about glorious nothing when I need to relax.  I can hear a story on the news and think “wow, that must be so devastating” or “that is terrible and horrifying” and then continue peeling potatoes without feeling like my head is about to pop off for the fear that I will soon be living those exact experiences.  My doctor referred to my adopt-the-worst-case-scenario-to-my-life as over-empathy.  What a nice way of putting my selfish ambition to be so absorbed in non-reality that I couldn’t even enjoy the moment or be thankful for what I had. 

The point of this post?  Not to reel in your sympathy or pity.  Not to prove that I am bold and brave and able to conquer.  And definitely not to promote a single pill as a solution to all mental and emotional problems.  No.  This journal is my attempt to join the chorus that is letting us know that it’s okay.  It’s okay to have weakness and seek assistance to deal with our devils.  It’s okay to admit our struggles without shame or feeling like we are playing a victim.  I’m quite certain that too many people either choose or feel forced to struggle in silence and put up a front.  Our personal portrayals don’t have to reveal the nitty gritty dirty laundry that we all have hiding in our closets or under our beds (literally or figuratively), but I also have a drive to be authentic, and I believe authenticity is essential in order to build real and deep relationships that also aid in healing and dealing with our individual ghosts.

So before you think I have it altogether, or that anybody (including me) is stronger, braver, or better than you, think again.  We all have our demons.  Not one of us is exempt.   But there is strength in numbers and in sharing our successes as we wade through the mud. 

I’m thankful that I am not currently in a state of medical emergency, but I can now handle the thought that those events could become a reality one day.  Although I still feel horrified and deeply saddened when I hear about dire circumstances that people have faced in the past or are in the midst of, I am no longer fixated on them until they overtake me.  My adoption of horrors, my clinging to anxiety led to significant mental anguish and I’m grateful to God that fear has a lessened grip on me.  I’m thankful for my ability to open up about it and I wish to inspire others to feel free to share their own stories with people they love and trust.  I’m grateful for my confidence and that I am more equipped to deal with a tragedy should it become a reality in my life once again.  I am thankful for my little white pill (safely prescribed and ingested of course).

I am medicated, and it’s okay.

Seasons of Life - with Little Feet and Large

Recently I’ve been reading quite a bit about the season of life of motherhood with young children.  There is acknowledgement that days can be hard, how much work goes unnoticed, and our “job” can seem trivial and unimportant in the menial tasks.  Those are things that resonate with me.  I’m living them.  Here and now.  Day in.  Day out.

I’ve also been reading about how it’s the time of life we will look back on once it’s gone and wish it back.  The time of life that will disappear when we blink.  The time of life when our kids will love us more deeply than they ever will… 

The mentality of this sometimes difficult and monotonous period of our lives while parenting littles actually being the best time of our lives that we will forever wish back once it’s gone is a quite discouraging to me.  Don’t get me wrong, my life became wonderfully bright when we welcomed our first daughter into our family.  It has glowed even brighter with the birth of each of our 3 children following our first.  I’ve learned to see joy and fascination in things I used to consider boring or simplistic.  I’ve cherished the hugs and kisses, the quickness to forgive, and the laughter that comes from the littlest thing.  I know this is a special and sacred time of motherhood.  An incredible time in my life where the most ordinary moments of holding a baby and wiping a nose are almost miraculous.  Amazing that these little beings were created and are growing and here in the first place.  

But those joys don’t come without their share of challenges.  I’ve struggled quite a bit with feeling inferior to the role my husband plays – bread winner, mr fix it, landscaper, renovator, the list goes on and on….AND he’s a great dad!!!  He knows how to cut up a piece of toast and change a diaper like the best of us.  He can handle a squabble, help our kids reach a cup, and tuck them into bed just as well as I can.  He seems to be the jack of all trades while I am a one trick pony who lives within the walls of our house surrounded by crumbs and mounds of laundry for many days at a time.

As our kids have grown I have expanded my experiences and I feel like I am slowly unfolding to develop new and more varied aspects in my life – meeting friends, trying a business venture, re-discovering my personal taste and fashion sense as I leave behind the maternity clothes and baby-nursing wear.  It has been exciting and refreshing!

But then I read one of those articles…..the ones where we are told that we are in the greatest phase of life when we are surrounded by our tiny kids.  When they are small and forgiving and easily give out hugs and “I love you’s” and my bubble bursts….it at least wobbles and sinks.  Am I wrong to be enjoying the new phase of life where we kiss baby welcoming and night feedings goodbye?  Should I be taking more time to close my eyes and soak in the smell of my baby’s sleepy post-nap skin?  Should I remind myself that this is the best season of my life and I’ll forever wish it back when it is no longer here?

I LOVE this life.  I love motherhood.  I love the innocence of my young children.  I know so very well that this is a sacred time of life.  I also want to believe that glorious moments will arise when our kids grow and become independent too.  I love yous may be less frequent, there may be more eye rolling, and frequent parental conversations about how to handle delicate tween situations.  But I want to believe there will be magic then too.  For each time our older kids say I love you, there will be knowledge, awareness, and an extra measure of deliberateness behind those words.  When our teenagers come to be held or our young adult children call to discuss something, it is with the knowledge that we are not near perfect, we are also broken and muddied, but they wish to come anyway.  There will be an extra richness in their affection and in their words of love because they aren’t saying it simply because we are the main adult caregivers in their lives, they are saying it because we are home.  We are familiarity.  We are a safe place to land after a busy day doing things on their own. 

I know this phase of being a young family is precious.  I am aware that I will miss these days at times when they are gone.  My mom says “little kids, little problems; big kids, big problems”.  I believe that to be true and that I will miss the simplicity of pee puddles and spilled milk one day.  On the other hand, I want to treasure and take joy in our kids expanding their wings, pleasure in seeing our children dip their toes in the ocean of new experience and personal growth.  I want to recognize that though the “I love yous” may be much less frequent and the hugs not so easily passed out, that they are magnificent when they are.  They are the miracle of unconditional care, of independent choosing, they are just as marvellous as the tiny arms thrown around our necks. 

One of the biggest gifts more seasoned parents have given to me is a hand on the shoulder and an “every stage is really good”.  I want to soak in this beauty of young kids.  And I want to be delighted in my teenagers.  For there will be moments to treasure then as well.  We ought not to pine for a season of life to last forever, but discover the beauty in new seasons unfolding.  For really, the best present is the “now” whether surround by little feet or large.  Life is gift.  All the time.

"I had no idea..."

Today is my dear first-born daughter’s 3^rd birthday.  I’m in a bit of a daze.  It’s hard for me to fathom that we’ve had her for a whole 3 years and how much she’s grown and changed in that time.  It’s also hard to believe that she wasn’t here before that and I had no idea what it would feel like to become a mom and love a little person so fiercely the moment she appeared.  I’m not sure when it will all seem real and “normal” to me.  I still find it all pretty hard to take in. 

Last night was a night I’ll remember for awhile.  I was busy making preparations for Myla’s birthday.  I had planned on hiding most of the decorations from Myla until she woke up this morning.  1.5 hours after she went to bed, Myla woke up inconsolable and neither I nor her dad could calm her down.  So, we did the dreaded and let her watch a show on TV while her dad and I continued busy birthday preparations upstairs.  We made Myla promise that she would go to bed happily after she watched the Franklin episode.  She broke that promise.  Making her go back to bed after that half hour (where she was in all her glory) was like reliving the soother-removal days.  At one point I was thinking – Jeepers, this little birthday girl is driving me NUTS!!

Then, after finally getting Myla back in bed and quiet, and after finalizing the birthday decorations, a pretty intense storm rolled in.  Myla woke up scared and her and I made the trek to the spare room downstairs where we cuddled and nuzzled and listened to the thunder roll.  As I snuggled my big-little 3-year-old tight at 1:45 in the am, I was reflecting on the fact that 3 years earlier I was in the throes of labour still unknowing, still imagining, still in the dark about who the little person would be and what life as a mom would be like.  I few tears squeaked out for how overwhelming it was to look back and then see and feel my fast-growing girl in my arms.  I couldn’t help but think:  I had no idea it would be like this....

I had no idea how much I could love a little person and how annoyed I could feel at the same time.  I had no idea how much joy I would feel when I glimpsed her first smiles, her first steps, her first pee on the potty.  I also had no idea how much it would hurt to see my girl hurt, or how much dread I would feel at the thought of what could possibly hurt her in the future.

Last night I couldn’t help but draw similarities from the thunderstorm to how it feels to be a mom and how I feel about life and about God.  I thought about how the thunderstorm was both beautiful and haunting, how it was both shocking and continuous, how it felt familiar yet unpredictable.

I have never loved being anything more than “mom” to Myla and Shayley.  I have also never known something could hold so much power on my heartstrings.  I feel like I still have much to learn and yet I feel so overwhelmed with what I’ve learned already.  I feel like the future is daunting and unknown but I trust all the same that both I and my girls, and our little family as a whole, will find a way to stumble through it all and find beauty and joy amidst the thunder.

A Bible verse comes to mind:  “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face.  Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.” (1 Corinthians 13:12)  If I couldn’t fathom how incredible and overwhelming being a mom would be, how much more am I unable to fathom how incredible heaven will be?

It makes me think God planted all of this here with so much more intent than I realize.  Maybe He gave us the gifts of parenthood, aunty-/uncle-hood, friendship, and love to help us grasp how deep and wide His love is for us.  Maybe He gave us joys and triumphs in life as preview of how incredible eternity with Him will be.  And maybe He allows hardships and pain in this broken life and to prevent us from being too self-reliant, to challenge us to ask the Big questions, and to encourage us to never stop striving to better ourselves and seek goodness, faith, and His face through it all.

Having this little 3 year old in my life and being a mom has made me stop in my tracks countless times.  I think:  “I had no idea it could be this wonderful, challenging, inspiring, joyful.....” the list of adjectives is endless.

And maybe how I feel today about the love I have for Myla (and Shayley) is just a little taste of how it will feel to stand at the gates of Heaven one day, to see Jesus face to face, and to reunite with the people I have loved and lost.  

And maybe I’ll stop in my tracks once again and think:  “I had no idea.”  

I DO Have Talents!

For awhile I was convinced that I didn’t have any talents.  No gift worth noting, anyway.  I would look around at all of the photographers, marathon runners, home business creators, and sewers with a sort of self-pity mixed with awed admiration. 

I sure didn’t think I could run with the big leagues.  As far as I could tell, I was one of the ones who was built for pure and simple practicality. 

Well, I could talk.  That’s one thing I’ve always been able to do. 

It’s been a running joke between Brad and I for years:  He’s better at almost everything, but I can beat him at talking no doubt about it.  For awhile I’d get frustrated because he seemed to be better even at the things that I felt I SHOULD be better at. 

He was better at cooking.  I didn’t dare to BBQ a chicken breast for fear that it would become petrified.  I still don’t dare.  I don’t have the ability to “just feel it” when it’s cooked perfectly like my beloved husband does.  Thankfully, I’ve developed my skills with the stovetop and oven quite fine. 

Brad was also better at fixing things, calculating things, lifting things, and creating things.  He still is better at many of those things.

One time, I was caught up in whining about my pitiful lack of abilities when Brad stopped me mid sentence and told me:  “Corinna, you need a hobby.” 

That made me think. 

For the life of me, I couldn’t come up with a hobby I’d be good at besides talking and reading.  But, I was determined.  Because girls only like guys with skills and I’m pretty sure vice versa is true as well. 

Could I do photography?  No.  I don’t have the eye for it.  And the cameras are expensive.

Iron man races?  Heck, no!  I’m too busy changing dirty diapers and wiping mouths to be out and about running for hours!  Besides, I’m still too scarred from the long distance running I pretended to like doing in Junior High.

Sewing?  When mom asked me if I wanted a sewing machine for a wedding present I laughed in her face.  We got a freezer.  Enough said.

Starting a home business?  With WHAT?!!!  Every good idea is already started by millions of other much more talented people!  And I refuse to be a lesser-than-quality-wanna-be.

I ditched every idea that I came up with for months.

Then it hit me.  

Art.  

Painting is too messy.  I avoid it like the plague.  Scrapbooking and card making might be fun, but it takes too much space and our house doesn’t have the room for it.... 

I like drawing.  I like drawing with pencil.  Yes, I will try drawing with pencil. 

I searched out one of the many adorable pictures of my niece Kendra, cropped it, changed it to black and white, and printed it off as an 8 x 10.  I would try drawing her as my first pencil art project.  (Little did I realize that I was insane for picking a picture where Kendra was wearing her darling hand knit sweater made by her Oma....impossible to recreate with pencil!)  But, as I bent over the paper with pencil, kneaded eraser, and blending stumps in fingers, I saw my hands create a relatively realistic imitation of the portrait printed in front of me and I began to get excited.  My pencil drawing may be raw and underdeveloped, but it was decent, and I was delighted!  I may only produce a small portion of drawings and they may never be worth money or fame, but I enjoy creating them nonetheless.

Plus, along the way, I realized I DO have a talent! 

Then, as I opened myself up to the possibility of having gifts that I could be excited about, I found myself dreaming of developing other skills.  I would lie awake at night thinking about useless things and profound things and felt such an urge to write them down!  I decided I would start a blog.  Now, I get the pleasure of capturing both my insignificant ramblings and my deeper ones in semi-permanent cyber space while developing my ever-present love of words, and talking!   There are moments I feel so thrilled about these newfound talents I swear there are bubbles floating in my stomach!

So, for all of you self-doubting so called skill-deprived comrades out there, I encourage you.  You DO have talents.  They might not be perfect or appreciated by everybody, but they are there!   If you search hard enough, and examine your interests, you will find some talent waiting to blossom.  And it will feel great!  You will feel liberated!

Whatever the case, I feel grateful.  I can no longer call myself a talentless, wandering, doofus with legs.  I DO have talents.  And I’m excited about them.  Yay!

Here is a collage of the progression of my Kendra drawing starting with the original print on top left to the finished product framed on bottom right.  In total, the drawing took me about 12 hours to complete.

Here's a close up image of the completed drawing.  Kendra is 7 months old here.  Isn't she a doll?

Here is the finished product that I got to give to Christy, Hans, and Kendra tonight in honor of Kendra's first birthday.  Seeing how special they thought the drawing was turned out to be a huge gift to me!  Somehow I managed to keep the drawing a secret from Christy so it was wonderful to see the shocked look on her face! I hope to make drawings a tradition for many of my niece's and nephew's first birthdays.

Making Money an Idol

I admit.  I’ve had times when I’ve raised my eyebrows at people that seem a little bit too attached to their money.  I’ve made some self-righteous judgements when I spot people who I perceive to enjoy their consumerist habits a little too much. 

I take pride in being smart with money.  I have a lot of things but I’d like to think that I buy things more out of practicality, not extravagance.  I am thankful for my monetary self-control and my general satisfaction with how much of it I have.

Then again, I’ve also had times where I wished that I had a little more money.  That we could be one of the families that had dollar bills at our disposal for endless entertainment.

When I really stop to examine myself, I realize a dirty little secret. 

I might be a saver, but I can also be a cheap scrooge.

I may take pride in having consumerist self-control but I still spend time envying what other people have.

In short, even though I don’t have endless amounts of it, nor do I usually wish for it, and even though I pay off my debts and have relatively healthy spending habits, I still have moments where I may treat money as a sort of god.

Being smart with my money may be a good thing but not if it produces self-righteous, all consuming thoughts on what to do with my money.  When I feel guilty for buying myself a relatively fancy watch with my birthday money and ask my husband repeatedly for affirmation that it was okay to buy this unnecessarily expensive watch rather than replacing my old frying pan, there might be something wrong.

Sometimes I think I’d be better off if I loosened up a little bit.  Maybe it would be a good thing to allow myself to buy that extra shirt or that out-of-season fruit so that I realize that life will still go on if I spend an extra $20 here and there.

Maybe I could learn that it’s worth allowing myself an extravagance in order to spend some quality time with family on a camping trip even though it may include some unnecessary things like ice cream every day and multiple trips to a petting zoo.

In short, I confess to being a little bit too concerned about money.  Just because I’m spending conscious doesn’t mean that I don’t place too much emphasis on the value of money.  Even though I choose to drive a car that I paid for with cash, I still have daily lessons to learn about what it means to be truly resourceful and stewardly.  I must keep my eyes on the true God who created us to be loving, forgiving, and serving of those around us and lock away any tendency to make money my idol.  I have no doubt that I’ll fail at this repeatedly, but I won’t bother betting any money on it!

The Skill of Sleeping

If you don’t already know by reading former posts, I often suck at sleeping.  I am convinced that sleeping is a valuable skill that I don’t have.  There are way too many nights that I am exhausted but I lay awake in bed feeling like I’m hopped up on 2000 Red Bulls (I’ve never had a Red Bull) and my mind is whirring faster than Dash on the Incredibles.  It can be beyond frustrating.  (Then again, that is often when my creative mind is as its best.)

Although I haven’t tried any medicinal sleeping aids, I’m very near the point of desperation.  I need help sleeping.  I’m transitioning from the phase of denial to acceptance of that sad little fact.

I have tried various home-remedy methods:

 I drink milk before bed.  (Maybe it shouldn’t be mixed with Nescafe Ice Java?  It is divine though.)

I take a shower at night so that I’m warm when I go to bed.  (Being cold is another often present plight I deal with that prevents me from sleeping.  Even while wearing socks, my ice block feet can remain cold for an hour.  I can’t sleep with cold feet.)

I count sheep and I pray.  I usually don’t get past 20 sheep and in the middle of my prayers I find myself wondering if that shirt I want to wear on my once-a-week outing is in the laundry or not.

A friend told me about the method of laying on your back with your ankles crossed and your hands folded with writs crossed and twisted up so that your elbows are bent and your clasped hands are just below your chin.  Apparently the warped appendages confuse the brain’s ability to think properly.  I’ve tried it and I’m pretty sure there is some relevance to it.  When I lay like that my brain usually can’t sustain more than a one-sentence thought per topic at a time.  And then all I can think about is how uncomfortable I am.  I’m not a back sleeper and my wrists and ankles are terribly skinny and boney.

Sometimes I’m reminded about the yoga style relaxation method where you lay on your back, start at your feet and go through every single portion of your body meditating on letting them feel heavy and relaxed and asleep.  I’ve tried that and by the time I’m trying to relax my knees, my toes are already wiggling. 

My sister in law introduced me to a slightly different version of the above yoga therapy.  She suggested that instead of starting at my feet, I start at my head and work down.  I can vouch for the fact that it’s impossible to sleep with a clenched jaw and lifted shoulders.  So, as of now, this relaxation method is the one I rely on most often.  And I must say, it seems to be most helpful for me.  However, I tried it tonight and I’m still back in lounging clothes, sitting on the couch in the basement with my computer on my lap.

This post really has no point to it.  I apologize (and feel sorry for myself) for writing and sharing a post that lacks in a miraculous cure for lack of sleeping skills.  I guess I’m searching for a companion in my world of semi-nocturnality.  And, if anybody has any tips or suggestions, I’d be very happy to receive them. 

Off to go to sleep, attempt #2.

*I wrote this post a few weeks ago and failed to edit and post it until now.  I’m happy to report that I’ve been sleeping quite well recently!  However, I know sleep lapses will inevitably return and I still invite any hints or advice for sleeping well!