Tag: love

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).”

The Stories We Tell

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When I was little, I remember my Mom saying my oldest brother, Todd, was the artist in the family. He showed early talent and seemed to enjoy it. I guess that settled it, role of artist filled, go find a different thing. Upon reflection as an adult, I don’t think my Mom was trying to exclude anyone else from the idea or opportunity to be an artist. Rather she was trying to encourage my brother who had a lot of self-doubt, as teenagers often do. Nevertheless, the act of restating that story had an impact. I couldn’t be an artist. Todd already was “THE” artist of the family. Turns out, all four of us kids are creative and like to make things whether it’s painting, pottery, woodworking, jewelry-making, or music. Sometimes the stories we tell don’t tell the whole truth or paint the full picture.

This past Saturday, cousins of mine on the Moore side of my family put a lot of time, work, effort and love into putting together a family reunion. We haven’t had one in over 30 years. Right now, that’ll be part of the stories I won’t tell. It was great seeing many cousins I hadn’t in a long time. Overall, it was a positive experience; I’m glad I went. While there, I was reminded of one of the stories we were told and apparently folks still tell that I’ve decided to reconsider and look at as an adult. “Aunt Trudy was so spoiled” is one refrain I’ve heard all my life.

Was she, though? Aunt Trudy, my Dad’s baby sister, was the youngest of eight children. Those eight kids spanned a lot of years. (Rawr, Grandma and Grandpa…GET IT!) Anyway, she was born in the early 1950s. Things were a little more stable economically in our country than the 30s and 40s. She had indoor plumbing and flooring as opposed to an outhouse and dirt floors. She also had one niece older than she was and many nieces and nephews near her age or just a little younger. They were often dropped off at the farm for Grandma to watch while their parents worked. In the stories I’ve heard, Aunt Trudy wouldn’t share her candy, she got to have nicer things, etc. From a little kid’s perspective, that would seem grossly unfair. From an older siblings perspective, it would seem this kid had all kinds of luxuries.

I started thinking about it from Grandma and Grandpa’s perspective. How would I want to communicate or demonstrate to my child that they were not the same as a grandchild? What would I do to make sure she knew where she fit as lots of kids were coming in and out of her home, dividing her parents’ attention away from her? Would I let her have more privileges than the grandchildren? Would I let her keep some things to herself? Why wouldn’t a parent’s first obligation be to their own child? That makes sense to me and I think Grandma and Grandpa did admirably.

It really does come down to perspective though. Nowadays, dropping the kids off for the grandparents to offer free childcare is a lot more rare. I don’t know that Grandma was compensated for her labor. I don’t know if the older kids brought extra groceries to help out with the food bill. I do know that my older cousins got the privilege of spending a lot more time on that farm with grandparents who were younger and had more energy. Spoiled is a relative term.

At the end of the day, Aunt Trudy busted her chops raising her kids primarily alone. She often worked two jobs. I spent the summer with her before her big surgery and I watched as she got up early to fold clothes and keep the house tidy, work a shift at the Forest Service, come home and do a couple of therapeutic massages as her second job, make sure the kids were fed, the house was picked up and folding more laundry before bed. She maybe slept six hours a night if she were being decadent. She always decorated her home for holidays and made the best treats, peanut butter fudge or tapioca pudding were some of my favorites. She was fun and made sure her kids had fun memories. She was kind. And she died in her early fifties of brain cancer. In my opinion, if anybody on this earth had a right to be spoiled it was her.

I used to think my older three sibling had it best because our parents were together, young and energetic, and the kids had each other as best friends and playmates, but they also had hard times that I didn’t experience. On the other hand, I got benefits and privileges as the youngest that they didn’t, but I know of a certainty not one of them would have traded places with me in my adolescent years. Perspective, grace, and gratitude are the antidotes to feeling like you didn’t get as much as someone else or something you felt like you were owed.

1995/2025

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From seventh grade on, I grew up in a small town in Southeastern Ohio called Athens. I could dazzle you with my fifth grade state report knowledge and talk about how Ohio is the 17th state of the union, the first of five in what was known as the Northwest Territories at the time. Athens is so-named because it has a university built on a hill and founded in 1804—Ohio University.  
My dad got a job at the medical school there as a means of affording higher education for his children. It was scary to move somewhere new, leave old friends and familiar spaces, family, community and create something new. Athens has a way, though. It’s special. It embeds in your heart—the space, the people, the humid air. I was fortunate to make life-connections in this town. I am lucky I got to spend time with them these past few days.

While I didn’t know everyone at my 30th reunion, there were folks I didn’t have classes with or who moved in different circles, there were those I’ve treasured since I was a kid and others I’ve grown to love more and more as an adult. My heart is full and I am reminded that we all carry our own pain. Some of my classmates lost parents when they were young. Others, like me, in their 30s and 40s. Some are facing very recent loss or the prospect of aging parents needing more help with chores and care, whose health and momentum are slowing down pointing to heartbreaking inevitabilities. We all are walking this human experience with love, joy, loss, fear, and heartache.
I wish I had understood that better as a teenager. I hurt from loss and heartache then, was anxious and insecure—and I erroneously thought I was the only one, blinded by my own circumstances, desperate to be seen and loved while simultaneously hiding, afraid of being really seen at all. Life, given half the chance, helps remove the blinders, reorients the placement of self, and showcases that not only are we not alone in experiencing the fullness of humanity, it is our ability to share it (both the joy and the burden) that makes it wondrous and bearable. The things that carried me then, that carry me now are kindness and humor, antidotes to poison and ego. I appreciate the sharp wit, the clever word-play, the bright sparkling minds of my peers. That coupled with big hearts for others, for the world and the simplest small gestures of  kindness to others, to me make them a marvel. 

I wish I had more time to see more people to tell them all thank you. I love you. You matter. You made and make life better. I’m sorry I couldn’t squeeze it all in. Thank you to everyone who made this so special. I sit at the Columbus airport with a very full heart.