Had I But Known, I Might Never Have Soared

guest post by: Cindy Corpier

When most people recall the eighties, they muse about Ronald Regan, Michael Jackson’s phenomenal success with Thriller, shoulder pads we’d love to forget and hair bands (Poison, Motley Crue, etc.), along with many unfortunate hairstyles (think mullet and giant frizzy bangs).  For me, medical training, first medical school then residency and fellowship, swallowed the decade whole.  The only television I remember watching is MTV videos and Miami Vice (think escape).  I rarely looked at a newspaper and was oblivious to politics until the 1988 election.  By then, my blinders were coming off after witnessing the devastating AIDS epidemic while those in power played “blame the victim.”   

But before that point, one day in 1983 during my junior year Obstetrics rotation, my super-cool intern Marsha suggested we skip out of the hospital in the middle of the day and go to a movie.  Nerd that I am, that was my first (and last) time to skip school—ever.  And the movie?  Flashdance, of course. 

What a feeling. 

Sitting in the dark, nearly empty theater wearing baggy green scrubs and my oversized 80s glasses, I was transported to Steeltown, USA.  By the movie’s fabulously romantic ending, every cell in my body yearned to be Jennifer Beals’ striving, independent Alex Owens with dark curls and a beautifully toned body.   I wanted to work hard and beat the odds to make my professional dreams come true.  I wanted to ride a bicycle through the city to my converted warehouse apartment and wear heels to the ballet at night.  Despite the smoky bar and leering men, Alex’s creative choreography had a purity that came from her love of dance.  Though I’m no dancer, she was the perfect heroine for me at the perfect moment in time (It didn’t hurt that she also wrapped Nick around her lobster-eating fingers). 

Yes, it’s incredibly corny, but Alex and I were about the same age and both filled with the boundless confidence of the truly naïve.  She didn’t fully understand that her passion and work ethic might not be enough in the rarified world she sought to enter.  Similarly, I didn’t understand a whole slew of things about the world I was entering, like the limits of medical knowledge and how what I didn’t know might kill someone.  I had never played a team sport or been interested in the military, therefore male hierarchy made no sense to me.  As ridiculous as it sounds, I was also completely clueless about issues of gender inequality.  Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman” had rung in my ears since adolescence and I thought feminism was passé that I needn’t worry about pay inequality or subtler forms of bias.  I simply did not understand the inherently conservative stance of the medical profession.  Conservative, as in, holding to traditional attitudes and cautious about change.   Even though in the 1980s less than 15% of physicians were females, I didn’t understand I was a member of a minority for whom the rules were different.  I had done all the things the guys did to be there so I assumed a level playing field (in medicine the metaphors always relate to sports).  As you can imagine, some of what I didn’t know got me into trouble at times, another new experience for a rule-following, teacher’s pet of an eldest child.  Had I known, but also understood all of this as a twenty-something, my path might have been smoother.  On the other hand, I think it might have been more burdened by anxiety, resentment and insecurity.   One of the many things I’ve learned from my patients is that sometimes blissful oblivion is preferable to the relentless truth.  Likewise, if Alex had known how slim her chances for success were, she might never have soared through her dance.

After my afternoon playing hooky, Irene Cara’s voice rang in my ears and now when I need it most, it still does.

What a feeling

Being's believing
I can have it all
Now I'm dancing for my life
Take your passion
And make it happen
Pictures come alive
You can dance right through your life

(And yes, I do know that Flashdance is not a documentary.)

  

Cindy Corpier is a recent MFA in Fiction graduate from Spalding University.  She lives in Dallas, Texas where she practices Nephrology.  She’s never gone on a bad vacation, still believes she’ll one day speak French fluently and lives with an incredibly patient husband along with two fairly impatient orange cats.

Thank you, Cindy, for your beautiful insights and for sharing your experience with us. It is a pleasure and an honor having you here today!

Had I But Known that Words Aren't Always the Solution

guest post by: Jennifer Bosse

I am so honored to be on Anna's blog today! Thank you so much for having me.

It is said often in times of distress and hardship: "Everything happens for a reason." I'm guilty of it as well. I've muttered those same five words to friends over the course of my life, hoping to ease the pain of loss, heartbreak, rejection and guilt. And every time that I have, it's because the words were true to me. I believed it just as much as anyone else. I needed to.

Last October, my best friend called me, unable to catch her breath. The tears poured through the line, the words seeming distant and dreamlike. "I'm getting a divorce." 

We had spent countless hours analyzing her husband's actions, his lies, his cowardice. Neither of us had dealt with anything like it.  It felt like we were plummeting from the highest slope on the rollercoaster and there wasn't an end in sight. Our hair whipped behind us as we clung for dear life on the steepest drop we had ever encountered.

I say "we", because although it was her primary experience, I lived it with her. I was the detective, the soother, the optimist. I cried for her, I felt angry for her. No matter what I did, I couldn't protect her. Together we worked, building a fortress to shield her from her sadness, but it was no use. It followed her everywhere. It rode shotgun in her car. It worked alongside her by day and curled around her in bed at night. It was the leaky faucet- drip, drip, dripping-and she could never find a way to turn it off.

For three years, she held on, convinced things would get better. They never did.

You may be wondering why she didn't jump ship long before that. If she was unhappy, why didn't she walk away? We've talked about it. There is no definable answer to that. She loved him. And there is no measure to how much we will go through for the people that we love, especially if we believe somewhere deep down that they can be what we need them to be. 

That night, after she explained how the conversation went, I told her that things would be better now. That this all happened for a reason and it would make her a stronger person and she was wonderful. Did she know she was amazing? I spouted every positive line I could think of in an attempt to lighten the load of what she had been carrying with her for so long. 

In a way, I was wrong to do it. 

Had I but known that words meant to uplift aren't always the solution, I would never have said them. Of course, she is wonderful and amazing, brilliant, talented, beautiful, kind and strong. Of course she is all of these things and more. The truth however, is that not everything happens for a reason. For her, it was true-though we didn't see it that way at the time. The ties of her past led her to the bonds of her future: her new husband. But this isn't the case for everyone. Sometimes really awful things happen and there is no rhyme or reason to it. I have looked at it from every angle. This thing, this horrible thing, happened. And it dragged on for a long time. At the end of it, there was nothing left to give or take. She is happier now, remarried to a very good man. Those three years prior? They are nothing now. Like walking into a patch of fog. There is nothing tangible that remains there. 

We find small solace in saying these things to people we love, because we're not sure what else to say. But the most value lies in allowing our loved ones to work through their feelings; to come to their own conclusions. The truth is that yes, sometimes things do happen for a reason. Regardless, we shouldn't rush to adhere the bandaid no matter how badly we wish to. The depths of grief vary by person-so do the minutes and hours and days and years that it takes to come out on the other side of it. Rather than saying, "Everything happens for a reason," perhaps we should simply leave it at, "I'm here for you."

Over the years, Jennifer's dabbled in various lines of work: a Sandwich Artist, Shoe Saleswoman, Home Decor Specialist, Paint Specialist, and over the last five years, she's worked in banking. That is, until recently when she decided to become a full-time stay at home mom. She is a wife, a mother, and, as you can see, a fabulous writer. Jen hosts the blog Defining My Happy and can be found on Facebook and Twitter. I am honored to have her writing on the Isle today. Thank you so much, Jen, for working us into your busy schedule and for starting off the Fall for us with such insight and passion.

REMEMBER: Tomorrow I announce the winner of the Pioneer Christmas Giveaway!!!

There and Back Again: A Fyrish Tale

Today is Monday. And usually on Mondays we have a guest blogger, but I'm going to be our "guest" writer and share a Had I But Known moment. About a hike. A hike up a Scottish mountain. A mountain that is home to Fyrish.

I hiked this mountain path over ten years ago, when I was 23 and fit. In the lapse of 10 years I have since borne three children and spent too much time sitting at a desk writing curriculum and grading essays. I neglected to consider this fact when I suggested to Reay and Karen that we hike up to the Fyrish Monument one breezy morning. I also did not consider the fact that my mum-in-law is an avid walker who hikes Fyrish several times a year. Clearly my powers of reasoning were amuddle in that moment of outdoor enthusiasm.

We began our hike in an area that looked much like Hobbiton--it was wild and mossy and looked as though hobbits should be popping out of their underground hobbit houses to wish us well and cheer us on in our journey. It was shady and the ground relatively level. There were 5 of us in our merry band of hikers. Our spirits were high and conversation unimpeded.

We crossed a bridge, mounted large rock steps, and soon the easy path became less easy, as did the catching of our breath. My gait slowed more and more as the rocks beneath my feet multplied and the trajectory of the trail went up at a disheartening angle. Conversation lagged. It had truly become a hike.

I paused with Alan--Jonathan's Uncle Al as we lovingly call him--to look through a break in the trees. We had made progress. Already we had climbed high enough to overlook the fields and the firth. But we still had a ways to go. I gulped some water. Took deep breaths to slow my pulse. And we pressed on.

Alan the Conqueror pointing out landmarks.

One foot. Whump. Other foot. Whump. Step by rocky step we made our way to the top. Soon the path began to level out again, and the trees turned to scrub and thick grasses and heather. The wind strengthened in the absence of shelter, and it felt good against my neck and face now coated with sweat. And then I saw it. The peaks of Fyrish rising up from where earth met sky.

My spirit was buoyed, my legs lightened. We forged ahead, breathing deeply, smiling. The wind whipped across the summit, the grass bending flat to the ground. I stood, hands on hips, gazing at the loveliest vista I've seen since my last journey up to this peak. Had I but known what a difficult climb it would be, I would not have changed my mind. The breath-stealing view was worth every minute and each ounce of effort. I would have, however, had a different mindset in the launching out of this venture. I would have prepared my mind for the journey itself, not just the end result. Which seems, somehow, apropos to life, does it not?

A brief respite for the weary travelers.

 

Had I But Known that I Would Feel So Alone

guest post by: Stevie Huscroft

When I look back on my short 30 years on this earth, in retrospect it’s easy to see all the times I went left when I should have gone right.  Easy to see all the times I volunteered for own heartbreak.  Easy to see that holding on tightly caused a thousand times more pain than letting go ever would have.  But that’s the thing about looking back.  It’s much easier to see from this vista.

I remember being 17 years old, wide-eyed, full of hope for the future, flipping through glossy college brochures.  I desperately wanted to be unique.  I was terrified of being generic or looking like everyone else.  I cut my hair short and shaggy, wore bright colored tights, and cat-eye eyeliner in deep purple.  But I was also incredibly insecure and a little bit shy.  I quickly ruled out large public universities where I feared I would drown in a sea of strangers.

I decided to apply to small private Christian colleges.  I had been raised going to church, had been dedicated at the altar as a baby, prayed over and blessed while my parents agreed to raise me to know Jesus Christ.  I grew up going to Vacation Bible School, summer camp, and youth group.   In my mind, a Christian school would offer me a supportive environment of like-minded individuals and small class sizes where I wouldn’t be just a number.  How could I have known, at the tender age of 17, what I even needed?  I was merely a child, forced to make life altering decisions that would launch the course of my young adult life.

When I arrived, I immediately had a creeping sensation that I had made the wrong choice.  As I looked around campus, I realized everyone looked the same.   Talked the same.   Dressed the same.  Thought the same.

I was amazed at how quickly the cliques formed.  How quickly couples paired up.  We were still teenagers, away from home for the first time, many coming from conservative homes.  The temptations of freedom dangled before our eyes, but we had signed living agreements and had pledged to not smoke, swear, drink alcohol, or engage in any sexual activity outside of marriage.  We lived in gender specific dorms with monitored visiting hours for the opposite sex.   We were required to attend chapel three times a week.  But, as we tasted our first sweet taste of independence, I saw the secrecy slowly start to unfold.

Through my eyes, it appeared as though the students fell into one of two extremes.  Those who held fast to their beliefs, those who played their guitars and sang worship songs in the student commons, those who lived righteously and dared not question the rules.  Then there were the ones who spun out in a hedonistic frenzy, slowly losing control but desperately trying to hide it.  At times these were the ones that held their hands highest during worship.  Sometimes it was the guitarist or the drummer in the praise band.

Then there were what felt like the small few in the middle.  Those that didn’t think it was sinful to drink a beer or swear, but still loved God.  Those of us that doubted and asked the hard questions.  Those that wanted to let loose on the weekends and study hard during the weekdays.  It was hard to find those people.  And I was lonely.

I remember studying existentialism in philosophy class, theories about authenticity, faith versus knowledge, Søren Kierkegaard and Friedrich Nietzsche.  We discussed the theory that one could not truly say they believed in something, could not classify that belief as truth unless it had been questioned, evaluated, and subsequently chosen.  I remember one of my classmates becoming angry, asking our professor if this was akin to blasphemy.  One did not question the Bible, he said.  One cannot question God!  The next week he brought his father to class.  I squirmed in my seat.  I had been drinking up these ideas with vigor. 

I missed the days of diversity. The friendly and sometimes passionate political debates with my high school friend.  I missed the discussion between Democrats, Republicans, and Libertarians.    I missed being challenged, being prodded.  I missed my Hindu friends, my Mormon friends, my Jewish friends, my Buddist friends.  I missed walking down the halls and seeing faces of every color.

I started to see the Church differently.  Our fascination, no - our obsession, with sin.  Our arrogance in believing we knew exactly what God wanted.  Our need to believe that we had all the answers, and if we only followed these specific rules, we would be safe.

I was never lonelier, never more heartbroken than I was in those days.

But something beautiful grew out of the rubble of my shattered expectations.  I grew.  My worldview expanded.  I learned tolerance.   Tolerance not just for those who were of different religions, but also for those who shared my religion.  I accepted my need to question, in fact, I embraced it.  I stopped believing I had any of the answers.   I became less religious and more spiritual and I fell more deeply in love with God than I had ever been.   Suddenly I found myself on a spiritual path that would lead me to the ever evolving faith I have today.  A faith in a God that asks nothing of me other than that I live as love personified every day.

Had I but known that I would feel so alone in a small pond full of similar fish, perhaps I would have chosen the vastness and diversity of the ocean.  Perhaps I would have made the same choice, but would have walked into that dorm room prepared for the long and winding journey that lay ahead.  In the end, it’s best that I didn’t know.  Because sometimes having your heart broken is exactly the thing you need to grow.  Sometimes while lost in the wilderness, you find the exact thing you never knew you were looking for.  And sometimes, having your expectations shattered is the best thing that could ever happen to you.

Namaste.

Stevie, short for Stephanie, is an aspiring writer, wife, and mother to three fur babies who have taken over her heart and home.  A lover of words, coffee, and yoga, she can be found at her blog, Joy in the Midst of, (http://joyinthemidstof.com) where she writes about her quest for joy, learning to love a little deeper, laugh a little more often, and living with more gratitude for all the blessings life has given her.  She can also be found hanging out on her Facebook page at https://www.facebook.com/joyinthemidstof or tweeting away at @joyinthemidstof.

 

Had I But Known that Giving Up is Best

guest post by: Lauren Rieke

I've been wracking my brain for weeks trying to think of something that I haven't already written about (in a passionate but not at all grammatically correct way), won't make anyone fall asleep and I actually know something about. What a tough list, right?

I went through my regular list of "coulda, shoulda, wouldas" (to no avail) and ended up recounting my "expertise" in the areas of southern style sweet tea and attempting to control everything -ever. After amusing myself with significantly snarky "Had I but known" titles, a familiar tune can on my Pandora station. Ingrid Michaelson's song, Giving Up, brought me some much needed inspiration.

 

 



The very first time I heard this song, I wasn't quite sure what to think. I couldn't understand how a song about giving up could possibly be a love song. But after listening to it on repeat for about an hour, I realized that the song is incredibly catchy and isn't about giving up on someone at all, it's about giving up for them.

Let me explain...

It's been really difficult trying to come up with any solid thoughts in recent weeks. Life has been chaotic and nothing has been certain. There seems to be instability in my job and my husbands, job. My job directly impacts our housing situation. My hopes for family have been postponed, once again and new possible opportunities have recently knocked, provoking my fear of change and newness yet again.

My relationship with my husband has been strained. My relationship with (and faith in) the Lord has been seriously tested. My mental and emotional sanity has been in question. --but seriously-- I've spent many nights praying for my deepest desires, crying out for God to give us answers and contentment and peace. I've sobbed, I've screamed, I've allowed my spirit to feel completely numb. I've done everything except give up.

As a children and young adults, the idea of never giving up is drilled into us in hopes of inspiring greatness and diligence. We are told by Coach Vince Lombardi that, "winners never quit an quitters never win". All of our lives we are told that we have to work hard for what we want. We need to plan and prepare and set ourselves up for success. I'm not arguing against those ideas. I'll be the first on to say that hard work usually brings about positive results and goals can often be achieved with some good old-fashioned elbow grease and determination. But where does that leave me? Does not "succeeding" in my desires make me a "quitter"? Does it make me a "loser" as well?

I'm not the quarterback of a football team or the CEO of a fortune 500 company. I'm just a wife, a worker, and a hopeful heart in the midst of a scary world. And unfortunately, the things I'm most worried about, and hopeful for, are out of my control at this moment. I've worked hard, I've tried to make wise choices and I've been waiting for answers to come.

I've been trying desperately to determine the source of my discontentment and trying to understand why I've been so discouraged and why I've felt so let down. Deep down I think that I'm fearful that life won't be as exciting or as perfect as I once imagined it would be. I'm fearful that my closest relationships will end or suffer. I'm fearful that one wrong move, one unwise choice, will ruin me (us) forever. I'm fearful that my husband may not like the kind of person I've become. I'm fearful that the family I've always dreamed of is always going to be "just another couple years" away and I'm especially afraid that when the time comes, I won't have the ability to carry and I won't be a mother at all.

Perhaps my biggest life failure, so far, is my inability to be satisfied with this part of the pasture. I consistently long for the greener grass on the other side of the fence and regularly end up teetering on the balance beam, neither fully here, nor fully there. Perhaps my desires for future happiness need to be surrendered in order to be satisfied with the now. Perhaps I can use my fear of "missing out" to my advantage and spend my energy making the most of life in this moment. Perhaps giving up my expectations is what's best for me, my marriage and my career.

What if the greener grass I've been waiting for never becomes available? What if I really am missing out on something amazing because I'm too focused on the future? As Ingrid Michaelson so sweetly says, "I am giving up on half-empty glasses ... I am giving up on greener grasses ... I am giving up for you." And that's what I'm doing. Giving up. For my husband, my family, my friends and for God. I'm giving up on my ideals and expectations and putting my hope in the One who has something wonderful in store for me. I'm desperate to make the best of my life as it is today, with the people I've been blessed to know and care for. Maybe that makes me a "quitter", a "loser" or a fool, but personally, I think that giving up makes me really quite brave. It's the biggest goal I've had to fight for so far.



 
Lauren is a twenty-something, Christ-following, accident-prone, career-minded and family-loving woman. She married her sweetheart, Jed, in 2010 and moved from her hometown in Pennsylvania to Virginia. She has since been adjusting to being one of three "Rieke Girls" in a pastor's family. She loves sweet tea, asian food, singing and all things musical. She enjoys working with teens and young adults, helping the broken find their healer, and looks forward to someday having a family of her own. But for now... she's blogging, working, serving and trying to navigate everyday life with new jobs, student loans, new family, new friends, and a lot of hope for the future.

(Thank you, Lauren, for your bravery that I've seen in you far beyond your post today. Your love for life and your drive to live it as honestly as possible is an inspiration.)



 

On the Road Again!

            

Today (actually yesterday, but I didn't want to steal Alison's lovely thunder) I am guest blogging at Defining My Happy for Jen Bosse's blog series Defining YOUR Happy. In my post I am describing a moment in my life that I would point to as one of my happiest. I'd love to see friendly, familiar faces over there if you are able! Happy Tuesday to you all!

Had I But Known What I Knew from the Beginning

guest post by: Alison McLennan

I was three years old when I chose my career: “I’m gonna make books when I grow up, Mommy!” By age six I’d been accused of plagiarism (by a fellow first-grader; bogus charges, I tell you!). I authored my first adventure series as an eight-year-old—the riveting equine saga of ebony mustang Black Thunder and his pinto cohort, Lightning.

Throughout childhood I gulped books like water and exhaled stories as if to stay my pen would stop my lungs from breathing. Never once in my first eighteen years did I doubt my calling as a writer.

Sage Advice?

When I made the journey from Vermont to Pennsylvania for my orientation weekend at Messiah College, I had a plan. I would major in English, hone my creative writing skills, and fulfill my lifelong dream of becoming a novelist. Easy-peasy.

The weekend included an advisory session with a faculty member of the English department—a stoic, bespectacled man I’d never met. He asked about my choice of major and plans for the future.
 

When I shared my aspirations of authorship, he sighed. “I’m sorry, but that’s unrealistic,” he said. “Novel writing is survival of the fittest. A very few great, and I mean really great writers make it as novelists, but for people like us it’s just a waste of time and effort. You need to prepare yourself for a feasible occupation. If you like to write, how about journalism?”
 

I tried to listen as he gave me the hard sell on a new career, but heard little over the sound of my heart ripping in two.

Just the Facts, Ma’am

Crushed and humbled, I reluctantly took my advisor’s professional advice and switched my major. I joined the student newspaper. I studied the structure and style of newswriting. I tried not to cry.
 

I slowly, painstakingly learned the mechanics of journalism: just the facts, ma’am; cut out superfluous words; keep it short. I gained skill and proficiency, but never lost the sense that I was a square peg trying to cram myself into a round hole.
 

That sensation wasn’t helped by my professors’ expectations of the “journalistic personality.” A journalist needed people skills, boldness, spontaneity. Me? I was afraid of the telephone, uncomfortable in social situations, averse to all forms of conflict. If I had trouble ordering pizza, how was I supposed to cold-call a source? If I couldn’t bring myself to correct a waitress when she served me the wrong meal, how could I ask probing, provocative questions in an interview?

The New Me?

By sophomore year I’d found my bootstraps and given them a hearty tug. Fretting wasn’t getting me anywhere. If I was going to be a journalist, I might as well be a good one. That meant becoming someone else.
 

I signed up for a Myers-Briggs personality test and lied my way into being an ENFP (extroverted, fun-loving, go-getter). I forced myself to join the night owls even when my early-bird body begged for rest. I shortened my name from Alison to Ali. And instead of waiting for assignments from my newspaper editor, I went out looking for them.
 

My efforts, though psychologically questionable, paid off by earning me a fulltime internship with a music magazine in Nashville. I would spend the spring semester of my junior year in Music City dipping my toes in real-world journalistic waters, but first I had to complete a mandatory semester at Temple University in Philadelphia—an experience I approached with all the verve and excitement of a third-shift toll booth attendant.
 

To make the Temple semester bearable I signed up for a short story writing class. It would be worthless in the long run, I knew, but I couldn’t help myself. I lived for those few hours a week when pouring fiction onto paper made my soul sing.

On the last day of class my short story professor pulled me aside. “Can I ask why you’re studying journalism?” he asked. I hesitated, unsure how to answer. “You’re a creative writer, a storyteller,” he went on. “Don’t let that go to waste.”

Nashville or Bust

His words haunted me as I packed up and headed to Nashville for every journalism student’s dream opportunity. As I dashed around Music City conducting interviews, attending launch parties, and covering press conferences, I kept asking myself: is this really what I’m made for?
 

At the end of the internship the magazine editor offered me a job. “If you want to finish out your senior year back at college, I understand, but you’re welcome to stay. We’d love to have you.” It was everything I’d worked for.
 

I thought. I prayed. I cried. And then I turned it down, packed my bags, and returned to Pennsylvania. When asked why, I had no reason to offer other than, “It wasn’t for me.”

Wandering

I graduated, floated between menial jobs, married, and eventually started a family. By that time I’d filed writing under the category Wishful Thinking.

Problem was, it wouldn’t stay there. Every few months the pressure would build. I’d grow restless and irritable. Characters, dilemmas, and scenes would swirl in my head until I sat down and purged my imagination. I felt relief, even hope, with each frenetic, key-tapping frolic. It was like watching a caged animal set free to run with abandon in its natural habitat.

But then I’d remember the cage. I’d remember that some animals are better off in captivity—those who can’t survive in the wild, who are small or weak, who don’t have what it takes. Survival of the fittest.
 

So I’d cage myself again. And again. And again.
 

And then, one day, I didn’t.

Awakening

My husband was the one who put his foot down after listening to yet another diatribe about my vocational frustrations. “You’re a writer,” he told me. “Whatever does or doesn’t come of it, you need to write. It’s who you are. So do it.
”

I wish I could say it was an enchanted moment, that we were strolling along a lonely beach or star-gazing beneath a pixie-dust sky. The truth is I don’t remember where we were or what we were doing. I only know his words awakened something in my heart that whispered, “Yes, yes, yes.”

Had I But Known…

Whatever His purposes for doing so, God etched “writer” into my soul clay. The measure of my talent matters not—my usage of it matters immensely. I can add skills to my repertoire but I cannot change my foundational gift, nor should I.
 

Had I but known the intrinsic value of my divinely crafted nature, I wouldn’t have tried so hard to become a different person. I wouldn’t have forced my undeniably square peg into the round hole of someone else’s expectations.
 

And yet, had I known enough of myself to ignore my college advisor, I wouldn’t have learned to overcome weaknesses, step out of my comfort zone, or write as a matter of discipline rather than in whimsical response to a fickle muse.
 

My academic pursuit of journalism, though difficult and in some ways regrettable, made me a more versatile writer, a deeper thinker, and a stronger woman. That’s why I’m as thankful today for my college advisor’s questionable guidance as I am for my husband’s liberating encouragement.
 

I tried something hard, I succeeded, and I walked away. In succeeding at that which I didn’t really want, I recognized my failure to value and nurture my core being. In walking away, I rediscovered that which I’d been missing all along—the real me.
 

This I believe: we are all created for something glorious, each person crafted with unique gifts purposed to beautify the world and delight the soul. Even our weaknesses, when viewed through discerning eyes, point us to our strengths.

May we all have the vision to see them, and the courage to set them free.

Alison wrangles three children, one husband, and endless words from her rarely clean, always cozy home in Lancaster, PA. When she’s not chasing runny noses, ignoring the laundry, or eating obscene amounts of chocolate, you can usually find her lost in a good book or staring blankly at the computer screen. After dabbling in music journalism, book editing, and business writing, Alison has recently returned to her first literary love: fiction. She also writes about faith, adoption, hypochondria, and all things honest on her blog, AlisonMcLennan.com. If you want to say hi, she’d love to connect with you on Twitter (@AlisonJMcLennan) or Facebook(facebook.com/AlisonJMcLennan).

__________________

And we now, on this Monday morning, have been already in the presence of beauty and brilliance. Thank you, Alison. You are an inspiration. May be all endeavor to pursue our dreams with such tenacity and live our lives with such honesty.

Had I But Known: The Loveliness of No

guest post by: terry price

“I’m just a girl who cain’t say no…” Ado Annie from Oklahoma

As a card-carrying optimist, I constantly look for advantages of growing older. Experience might be a harsh teacher but is a wonderful traveling companion. And as I look back over the years, there are many things from which I’ve learned and grown. But one of the greatest lessons, and the one with which I struggle the most to this day, is the discipline to say no.

When I was younger, my ego constantly whispered that I not only could do anything, but muddled the waters such that I thought I could also do everything. And what complicated things even more was that, to varying degrees, I did “do” everything. “Sure” and “no problem” became my most used phrases. Saying no was a blow to my ego. Saying no was an admission of my limitations. Someone needed help and someone needed me. And because of some law of social physics, the more I did, the more I was asked to do. I became a young man who was constantly stressed and constantly exhausted.

One day, I confided in an older, wiser friend about my quandary, admitting that I was just a guy who couldn’t say no. She quickly corrected me. “Actually, you’re very good at saying no.”

Maybe she hadn’t understood me I thought. Maybe I needed to share more of my sad story. But she had understood completely. She continued, explaining that because I was young, I was under the illusion that time was infinite. And worse, I believed that energy and my ability to absorb stress were also limitless. Of course, none of this was true.

Because there are limits, she went on, there are a finite number of things you can do, things you can experience, things you can accomplish.

You see, every time you say “yes” to something, you are automatically saying “no” to something else.

As soon as the words left her mouth, I knew she was right. What had I been so good at saying no to? I began to think of all of the things I wanted to do, things I really needed to do during this all too brief life.

So what have I learned?

Well, once you come to grips with the finite, then you must take time to learn the things that take priority in your life. And once you have that list, you rank them in order of importance to you. Some of the things will be selfless, but you must also include the things that nurture and nourish you too. Our culture, unfortunately, teaches that when you do things for yourself, it’s selfish. The truth is, that you must make time to nurture yourself so you have the physical and emotional energy to take care of those around you. It’s like the flight attendant instructions before takeoff – If the oxygen masks are needed, put yours on first, so you’ll be able to help those around you. Balance and moderation are the keys.

So now you have a prioritized list of the important things in your life. Call this your “yes” list. Visit it often. Life is a dynamic process. Things change. Priorities change. You grow.

Keep your list handy. And when there is a request for your time, a demand upon your very life, look at your list. Ask yourself if you have enough time to take it on AFTER you’ve budgeted time for everything on your priority list. You’ll be amazed how much easier this makes your decision. If you don’t have the extra time, well guess what.

You say no. Or you can say the next best words.

I can’t at this time. But check with me again in the future.

What next?

Well, then you smile. Because not only have you just learned to say no, at that same exact moment you’ve said yes to the most important things in your life. And always remember…it’s your life.

Terry Price is a Tennessee based writer, writing coach and mentor, having attended The Writer’s Loft creative writing program at Middle Tennessee State University and graduated with his MFA in Writing from Spalding University in Louisville.  He has published several short stories, one of which was nominated for the Pushcart Prize, became the program director of The Writer’s Loft and now is a Director Emeritus of, and a mentor with, the program.  Terry is currently revising his short story collection for publication and is writing his first novel set in Nashville, with the working title of An Angel’s Share.

He is an accomplished photographer, long distance cyclist, Appalachian Trail section hiker, and sailor. He is an aspiring bon vivant and raconteur, likes bourbon neat but his journal messy and lives on a small farm in Springfield, Tennessee with his family and two dogs and lots of squirrels.  Find out more at www.terryprice.net

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I am exceptionally honored to have Terry with us today. He is a man ever on the go. And, as always, inspiration follows wherever he roams. Thank you, thank you, and thank you again, Terry!

Also, if any of you, my dear readers, have a spare moment, a brief travel piece ran today that I wrote for a local (and awesome!) tour company's travel blog about my recent trip to New York City. I'd love to see your smiling faces over there! Happy Monday everyone!

Had I But Known: If You Don’t Have Something Good to Say...

guest post by: Kyle Kirkley

We are now in the midst of a most terrible time, a time when many hopeful young men and women will look up into the oppressive sun and beg silently for respite from the torment they are witnessing. Babies will weep and mothers ignore them. Grown men will rest their heads in their hands and despair that the hours will never cease. Adolescents of all types will yearn for it all to just be over.  

That’s right: it’s commencement season.  

Yes, this the time of year in which students, teachers, and luminaries of all sorts are busy crafting and delivering hypocritical speeches full of trite advice, recycled wisdom, and unrealistic platitudes.  The horror, the horror of it all!  For every rare original, inspirational commencement speech (see David Foster Wallace’s “This is Water” or David McCullough Jr.’s “You Are Not Special”), there are multitudes upon scads of hackneyed, ill-conceived, dull, insincere addresses made each year at schools across the world.  And it’s not just that they’re boring, which isn’t really so much of a crime in itself (although my students would disagree with me on this point).  Rather, it’s that these speeches offer up gross misrepresentations of scholarship and human nature.  

I should know...I’m one of the culprits.

Yes, many years ago (o.k., not so many years ago, but it seems so distant that I could almost talk of myself then as a separate person) I gave such a speech.  I don’t even really remember what I said, and I can guarantee you that it was not memorable for my listeners either.  Abraham Lincoln famously (and, it turns out, ironically) claimed that “The world will little note nor long remember” what he said in Gettysburg, and this represents the only example of a situation in which I am right, but he was wrong.  Truly, no one (not even I) can remember what I said, but we still memorize Lincoln’s speech, and it’s still popular even without the benefit of a YouTube recording!  I believe that my speech had something to do with how our graduating class came together through difficult times.  Yes, we well-dressed, over-nourished, intramural hacky-sack playing, private school college graduates and our difficult times.  Give me a break.  Had I known then what I know now, I would have given a very different address.

Murchison Gymnasium at Westmont College – the site of my forgettable speech

Now, as a high school English teacher, I am bracing myself to witness yet more wasted words and time as yet another bright young student prepares himself by cobbling together some disjointed observations and quotes (oh, dear Lord, please do not begin with a Webster’s definition!).  Then, even worse, some faculty member will offer us the dregs of her frazzled and worn psyche, congratulating and commissioning these students to go forth and succeed in a world stacked against them.  Am I sounding jaded and cynical?  Perhaps it’s because I live with the guilt of just such wasted words.  

You see, I had a voice and didn’t use it, not really.  I, too, stood at a podium and perpetrated an act of violence on my audience’s time, and if time is life, then I suppose we’re talking about a form of murder, here.  How often do we have such opportunities?  How often do we have an audience of thousands ready to hear what we have to say?  More importantly, when the time comes, do we actually have something to say?  (This is why I usually stick to writing fiction.  I’ve learned that other people are much smarter than I, so if I show them some characters who have some problems and those characters muddle around in those problems authentically enough, and if I love those characters deeply enough, my readers will see the wisdom in the story that I may not.)  And, if we have nothing to say, are we brave enough to say that?

I wish I had been.  I wish I had something profound to say in that occasion, but I didn’t, and to prove that I’ve learned my lesson, I will admit that I don’t have much  now, either.  So, had I known then what I know now, I would have simply said this:

“Family, friends, faculty, and visiting dignitaries, thank you for being here to witness this commencement ceremony.  We are honored that you are here to support us, but I won’t pretend like this is the achievement of a lifetime. Sometimes we worked hard and sometimes we didn’t.  We did well enough, I guess.  We’ll try to do better tomorrow.  

The universe may be complex, but our roles in that universe are not.  We should be kind and we should live with integrity.  Everything else is just posturing.  Except playing hacky-sack.  Hacky-sack is also important.  Let’s go, now, in charitable understanding of one another.

Again, thank you.”

K.C. Kirkley, an aficionado of Roman lounge wear, recently received his MFA degree in fiction from Spalding University (May 2013).  He teaches and lives in the Mendocino, California area.  His short story, "Everything is Negotiable" is forthcoming in Upstreet Magazine.

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My children repeat something three times when they really mean it, so in keeping with that: I am honored, honored, honored to have Kyle writing for us today. A dear Terrace Dweller, he is brilliant and hilarious and kind--a rare combination. And because I cannot resist, below is a picture of Kyle on The Terrace sporting his "Roman lounge wear" that he purchased because the airline lost his luggage. Thank you, Kyle, for venturing out of your fiction comfort zone!

I have no doubt Kyle is saying some brilliant, but no one hears him because we're all admiring his snazzy get-up.