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Softball

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When I was a sophomore in high school, I tried out for the JV softball team. The summer before I had played slow-pitch in the city’s parks and recreation program. It was a lot of fun. My dear friend had played JV our freshman year and said it was really cool and that I should give it a try. Why not?! I’m a decent batter–never one for home runs but fairly consistent at dropping the ball between second base and right field. “Put the ball where the people aren’t,” my dad used to say. I had enjoyed pitching slow-pitch and wanted to learn fast pitch. I had a heart for the game and was so eager to join. The day came for the announcements of who had made the team and who had been cut. I wasn’t on the roster. I was heartbroken. I had worked so hard. I had wanted it so badly. And it didn’t matter. I had lots of theories as to why, but at the end of the day, it didn’t matter. My name wasn’t on that list.

That evening, after my dad got off work, he came in to check on me. I had isolated in my room, crying. Why didn’t they pick me? Wasn’t I good enough? There were a lot of tears. I have to commend my dad, he gave me just enough time and space to feel my feelings, then he gave me a piece of advice I really appreciated. He gently and firmly encouraged me to go to every practice and game anyway–to participate, learn, and grow, to not throw in the towel, to refuse to be sidelined completely.

That season I became a softball “manager.” I helped with equipment and keeping the records during games. I went to every practice, did all the drills, and worked really hard to be a part of the team even though I didn’t get to play in the games. At the end of the season, we had a celebratory picnic/bbq. Much to my surprise, I was awarded “Most Dedicated Player.” My junior year I did make the JV team. And while I had failures and successes, I had proven that I was willing to try and do the work. Truthfully, summer league was always my favorite because it was more about fun than during the school season. And don’t get me started about the inequity between the boys’ field and the girls’ field…*insert eye roll here. Nevertheless, softball was an incredible learning experience for me in school. Invaluable.

I think about this time with great fondness for my dad’s wisdom and love. I think about being a kid facing rejection, feeling small and less than, being left out and doing so with grit and grace. That kid is still in here teaching me how it’s done.

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Manifest

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As an adjective, it means readily perceived or obvious.

As a noun, it’s an inventory list.

As a verb in a more modern context, it’s to bring about with intention through thought, word, and action.

Looking back at this year, it’s pretty obvious there have been a number of challenges, some devastating losses, and some major positive gains. I had significant health concerns that led to some awful dark thoughts which turned out to be an easy fix after a long slog of persistent self-advocacy. I created art of which I’m very proud–100 days of watercolors, a bedroom mural of flowers, redecorating my living room (a place I studiously avoided because of the heavy memories into a space that I have surrounded with warm light and comfortable seating to make gathering pleasant and easy for new memories). The losses were heavy–a dear friend, a precious cousin’s mama, my Aunt Daisy, my Uncle Bob, my kitty Seamus. There was hard work in the garden, in the basement, a yard sale, making space for nephews. A new job, a new-to-me car, a new kitten, a new rhythm of being, so many more good things too. There have been new discoveries and maybe old reminders, too, like hey, life is worth living and time and people are the best joy nuggets (my 30th class reunion had a lot to teach me there), cooking for and with people I love is soul medicine. I was also reminded repeatedly that some relationships are worth pouring energy into and some simply are not. And that’s okay. Time and effort reveal much. Dating apps are for the birds. Yes I tried (un)Hinge(d) and Bumble (aka Stumble) to no success. Regardless, deliberate gratitude, playful humor, and seized joy make EVERYTHING bearable.

For an inventory list or the manifest of what I’m taking into the new year, I’d say the realization that I’m allowed to want good things for myself, hope for those things, a willingness to accept them, and wisdom and discernment to tell what is good for me and what just seems pleasant in the moment. And I’d like to strike through the following items on the list as they are weightier than I can carry: shame, fear, guilt, and cowardice.

In 2026, I’d like to continue growing in my artistic development. I’d like to step out of my comfort zone and try news things, maybe SCUBA or fencing or open mic nights. I think the only thing that keeps the brain from turning mushy is to force it to grow new neural pathways doing stuff it hasn’t ever done before, thinking thoughts it hasn’t thought before. I also want to put myself in new places to meet people I’ve not met before. I have a lot to give to this world even yet and maybe I’ve been a little too comfortable, a little too hidden. And I’m willing to say I’d like to meet someone special. It’s hard to type that out for a lot of reasons. I miss Bryan so much. I always will. But having my nephews in my home has reminded me how much I’m built for sharing time and space and meals and conversation in this home. It’s so lovely to do that with my dearest friends and family. I live for dinner parties and cookie parties and porch gatherings and patio picnics. And I also long for the intimacy and affection and touch of someone who puts their whole heart into loving me back. I’m not ashamed to say I still want that.

Okay, 2026. I’m going to put my helmet on, buckle my seatbelt, and brace myself for as much joy as you can throw at me.

Thinkin’

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There’s a great line in Disney’s Beauty and the Beast where Gaston sings, “LaFou I’m afraid I’ve been thinking,” to which the chubby LaFou responds “…a dangerous pasttime.” Sighing, Gaston agrees with a resigned “I know.” Bryan and I used to quote this a lot. I think about it a lot as an overthinker. In a text exchange with one of my nephews, I concluded that I’m probably an overthinker as a way to navigate being an overfeeler. And maybe I’m really not. Maybe everyone is like this and I just put words to it more readily. I don’t know. It’s a lot. I’m a lot, even for me. Ha!

Some conclusions I’ve drawn, or probably lessons I keep having to learn, are that actions precede emotions. I had a college prof sum it up as “fake it ’til you make it.” But I’m not sure it’s actually faking when doing. Maybe it’s the confidence that’s being faked. I know when I don’t feel strong, lifting weights at the gym is the antidote. When I don’t feel loved or loving, doing something for someone else makes me feel so. When I’m not in a festive mood, I paint snowmen and bake cookies. My Dad used to counsel me a lot about the attitude I brought to the world. It’s in the choosing and doing we define who we are.

I had a recent conversation about reincarnation and how that process is about learning. THIS life is about learning, though–learning ourselves, others, how to be, choosing how to live, how to act or react or not. It’s not easy, that’s for sure. But it is rich and beautiful. The shorter days and darkness make excellent companions to turning inward and evaluating. And being inside puttering around the house listening to music that breaks one’s heart helps too.

Season’s Greetings

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I’ve never been a Christmas card writer. It smells of a forced “have to” that I balk at, but sometimes the mood to share what is good strikes anyway. I’ve tried to make a consistent habit of a Friday invitation to reflection of what is good both for myself and others. I think it’s a habit worthy of continuing. Maybe an annual reflection isn’t so bad either. Often, it can come across as a brag, humble or no, and can be off-putting. I hope to circumvent that, but we will see…

What a difference a year makes. Truly. Last year at this time I was sad, angry, overwrought, in no way wanting to be cheerful or celebratory. It got colder sooner. And I waited to start my full-spectrum lamp. Lots of things conspired against me while my own mood and attitude were conspiring against myself. It’s funny how those negative feedback spirals can build on themselves and grow momentum. But in like manner, positive feedback loops can also build momentum and grow.

This past year I struggled to understand some health issues and then got resolution. What a relief. 100 days of art, doing small watercolor paintings before breakfast, was absolute medicine. Creating a floral mural on my bedroom wall taught me that a. I can do home projects and b. I can do hard work to give my future self a gift. Believe me when I say this bright, cheerful garden in the middle of winter is doing exactly what I had hoped. My garden, Mill Creek, time with friends and family, have given much-needed solace, too. My 30th high school class reunion met up in Athens, Ohio this summer. Did we all get Covid afterward? Yes. Was that kind of the pits? Also, yes. Was it an amazing gift to be with people I love and am learning to love? Resoundingly, yes!

While there has been heartbreaking loss, which always seems to be the way in this life, those losses also remind me of how precious our time together is and how lucky we are for that time. I miss my Aunt Daisy every day–she made me laugh so much. I miss my Uncle Bob’s humor and charm. I miss my Seamus-kitty who was such a loving, community ambassador. There’s no end to hurt, truly, but it is always intermingled with love and gratitude.

I am typing with a brand new kitten napping next to me-my little Luna-berry Malcador Lubbers. Yesterday, I made peppermint patties with my cousin’s youngest son. Today, my kiddo finishes up her first term in graduate school. I am over-the-moon proud of her hard work and diligence and know her Dad would be in the same boat. Next week, I will host my annual sugar cookie extravaganza. And for the past few months, I have had the honor and privilege of welcoming a couple of nephews to stay at my home. Life is hard and rich and amazing and hilarious and heartbreaking and so beautiful. To quote the late, great Bryan Lubbers, “I am the luckiest son-of-a-bitch who ever lived (sorry, Mom).”

What’s Up?

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It’s been a while. It’s a challenge to write when the stories aren’t only your own to tell. So I will do my best to do the dance of sharing without oversharing. For the last few months, my house has been full. Two adult nephews have been here, living in the extra rooms, while working and settling into a now familiar rhythm. Plus I’ve gotten a new kitten. Things are lively, to say the least. It’s remarkable to have constant conversation and activity again. And it’s hard to get wrapped up in my own ruminations when I have people to cook with and for. I’m learning new recipes, vocabularly, memes, music, generational and cultural differences. It’s fascinating, hilarious, exhausting, and fun. Some evenings, I can almost hear my big brothers chatting animatedly. And yet these two are very much their own men with their own experiences and stories. It’s quite marvellous.

I can say unreservedly this holiday season is less heavy in that I’m not wallowing in my own sadness and anger. I’m looking forward to baking sugar cookies and jolabokaflod and creating art and spending time with people I love. Being able to provide a haven and support while also being wildly entertained is a measure of good fortune that gobsmacks me all over again.

Now it’s not all beer and skittles. I’m one who loves to bake and one nephew cannot eat gluten. But every challenge is an opportunity to be creative. We’re finding our way. I also know that every season has its end and this one will too. I’m just glad it’s not quite yet. My heart is full. My gratitude cup, my joy nugget basket, my thankful tank, whatever you want to call it–full to the brim and overflowing.