Character, Clothing, Courage, Fashion, Gifts, Grace, Laughter, Lessons

Clothed in Congeniality

I’ve been shopping all of my life and I have nothing to wear…

Growing up in a middle-class family with two little sisters didn’t allow for many frivolous shopping sprees.  We didn’t need for anything, but we could always selfishly find a want for more clothes. I always looked forward to new outfits for our church conventions in the summer and a few at Christmas time.

The Christmas that I was in 7th grade, my precious grandmother made all of her granddaughters a sweatshirt. These weren’t just regular threads. Allow me to walk you through this fashion statement, so you can fully understand the beauty of it.  My sweatshirt was deep purple, on the front there was a vine made from a thin, green ribbon, with a line sewn down the middle to create ruffled edges.  On the vine were different colors of pink flowers, made from ribbon as well. These were special flowers as they were VELCROED on.  Yes ma’am, no foolery here.  I had the option of pulling a blush-pink flower off the vine on my shoulder, and trading places with the bashful-pink flower on my stomach, or the hot-pink flower on the other shoulder.  The front was beautifully covered with floral goodness.  I could not wait for Christmas break to be over, so I could wear it to school.

Seventh grade is so awkward.  I don’t have to explain this to you, as it is a fact of life. My middle school years were a tad more cumbersome.  Due to our religious beliefs, I wore skirts every day for modesty. Middle school is not the place you want to be different, but it grew my character and created a funny bone.  The first day back to school, I woke up early and couldn’t wait to get dressed.  You know that feeling of assurance – your day will be good because your outfit is rocking.  I clothed myself in a long, blue jean skirt, penny loafers, and my new 3-D floral sweatshirt. Boom.  Watch out world.

Throughout the day I discovered my flowers were a tad difficult to stay on the Velcro vine, so I adjusted how I carried my books – normally tucked to my chest, now held at my side with one arm.  Whatever, change is good.  After lunch, I was walking down the hall and heard, “Hey!  Hey girl in purple!  Hey…Girl that wears skirts!  Skirt girl!”  I finally realized it was me they were yelling at, and turned around to see the most popular 8th grade boy, who every girl had a crush on.  Hoping he had a glass slipper for me to try on, I answered, “Yes?”

“One of your flowers is in Hallway A.”, he said, then turned on his heel and walked into the lunch room.  I looked down and sure enough, one of my floral buds had fallen off, leaving a white square of Velcro showing.  I never wore the sweatshirt to school again.  I decided in that moment to aim for Miss Congeniality and focus on having a good personality.  I couldn’t control my looks and clothing.  My personality and ability to let things roll off, would serve me better. While you can’t control your outer life, we can always control our inner self.

Cut to adulthood – I still believe and operate on those principles, and I also love clothes and fashion.  Like, I could marry them.

Hubs and I were getting dressed to go out the other night and he joked, “Hey, let’s pick each other’s clothes out.”  Then we both roared with laughter at the thought of it.  He laughed because he made a funny.  I laughed to cover my horror at the mental vision of walking out of my closet, clothed in threads chosen by my groom. Flashbacks of middle school made me shutter.  Here is where I emphasize that it is healthy for love to have boundaries. Clear lines.

It’s no secret that I love to travel, yet hate to pack.  Partly because I need to bring it all.  Or at least a couple of choices for each day, as I don’t know what mood I’ll be in upon awaking. Somedays I feel like being Sporty Spice.  Others, I can’t wait to be all fancy and stoic like Posh.  Most times I would welcome imitating Baby Spice by staying in my pajamas, aka “yoga pants” all day.  Bottom line, I don’t know what I really, really want, until waking up and checking the pulse of my day.

You can imagine how sad I would feel if I brought the outfit for Sporty Spice, and Ginger Spice showed up that day for dressing.  Awkward.  I’m making it sound like I have a plethora of outfits to choose from when in actuality, my style walks a pretty basic line.  My friend Jessica refers to it as “classic”, when I’m almost positive she means boring.  But once she compared my style to Jennifer Aniston, so I forgive her.

At one time, I clearly had too much time on my hands and stitched a favorite quote for my closet. “I like my money where I can see it, hanging in my closet.”  Perhaps it was a warning label, framed for my husband. “This girl does and will buy clothes, think of it as an investment, with a return of happiness.”   Here are a few things I like to have in my closet to make me feel warm and safe:

  • White/neutral shirts. I don’t care if it’s a t-shirt or a blouse. I am like Mel Gibson in Conspiracy Theory.  He felt compelled to buy the book ‘Catcher in the Rye’, over and over.  I have the same pull to white tops.  I breathe easier with an assortment.  This also applies to blue jean shirts, one simply cannot have too many.
  • A good pair of comfy jeans. I mainly wear Seven for all Mankind, because they fit me well.  Also, to avoid the mental agony of going to try on another brand that may or may not love my shape.  Dance with the one that brought you.  Side note – 7 for all Mankind’s website always has a 40% off sale at the end of the season.  Be patient friend.  This ensures you won’t have guilt for buying two pairs.  If you are local, run to Mainstream Boutique and grab you a pair of Mac and Me jeans.  They are cute, trendy jeans with a secret, inside waist band of ELASTIC.  No one wants to admit they are throwing in the towel and going straight stretchy pants, but if we can secretly do it? Yes please.
  • Platform wedges. Everyone in our house is now taller than me.  They love reminding me of this, and I play the game only because it makes them happy.  I’ve never wanted to be any other height than I am.  Truthfully, I’ve never paid attention to height until I had teenage boys.  I wear wedges because I like the look of them on my particular legs.  Never to be taller.  Own your inches ladies, no matter how many you have in each direction.  The elderly ladies in the gym locker room remind me every time I’m getting dressed, “You won’t be able to wear those for much longer!”  So, rock ’em while you can Sister-Lou.
  • Layering pieces. Which means light-weight sweaters or jackets in Texas. Even when it is hotter than heck outside, I freeze in the office.  Layers speak love to me, it’s like hugging your body.
  • Fun accessories. This is where I will throw out the class and get crazy.  Belts, jewelry, etc.  The funkier, the better.  It balances the boredom of a white shirt or all the neutrals that I wear.
  • “Movement clothes”, a phrase coined by my friend Casey. This basically means pajamas, but without the commitment of calling it that, just in case someone thinks you mean yoga or workout clothing.  As soon as my feet enter the door of our home, I’m headed to my closet to change into movement clothes.  I love comfort.  I could never have a reality TV show, simply for the fact that I would never be dressed appropriately for the camera.  They would have to ask me to get dressed daily, and I would reply with a deadpan stare and point to my surroundings. In our home, we wear movement clothes.

No matter what threads cover you, your outfit will go a lot further if you are clothed in congeniality. Even if it is attached to you with velcro, wear it proudly.  Especially if it was stitched by your grandmother.

October 16, 2017 by
Character, Courage, Empathy, Family, Friendship, Grace, Hope, Lessons, Love, Uncategorized

Growing Bigger Souled

Life is made up of little moments, pieced together to create our whole journey.  Slots of time filled with joy, sadness, and all the emotions in between.  The hope is at the completion of our pilgrimage, there will be a balance of the light and dark, with more gladness than sorrow.

Years ago, we took a family trip to Cabo San Lucas with the boys, they were around seven and ten years old.  We indulged in all the ridiculously expensive, touristy experiences; massages, swimming with the dolphins, parasailing, shopping, deep sea fishing, beach days, etc.  One night we treated ourselves to a big family dinner at a fun restaurant – right on the beach in Cabo, where the tables are literally set up on the sand.  As we were laughing breezily and stuffing our faces, a few locals on the beach quietly attempted to get our attention and sell us their goods.

One young boy and his sister looked to be about the same age as our boys.  He came up holding a bundle of colorful bracelets, offering to personalize them with names woven into them.  Looking at him, I wondered how it was that my boys ended up as the ones on vacation and he was a local, peddling homemade jewelry.  It made me sad, sometimes I just don’t understand this life.  I performed the cheesy tourist role – acting as if I couldn’t decide which beauty to choose, so I mentally counted the kiddos in our neighborhood and told him that was how many bracelets I needed.  I took him up on his offer to weave Mason and McCray’s names into their bracelets.  While he and his older sister sat in the sand to craft our jewelry, McCray couldn’t keep from watching them.  At one point, he looked up at me with eyes full of sencerity and said, “Mom, even if his jewelry wasn’t as beautiful as it is, would you still buy it?”

I replied yes.  He nodded, looked back at the boy and quietly said, “I would to.”

I will never forget the look on his face that night.  His little mind recognizing that they weren’t that different and his little heart not understanding the unfairness of the situation.  They were the same age, yet a country apart in their life experiences.  McCray has always been my sensitive thinker who seems to feel things deeper than most.  The boy selling jewelry could have been as happy as a clam with his life, but that encounter was used for a gentle teaching moment in my son’s journey. That evening, with our feet in the sand and our bellies full, he learned what compassion and empathy feel like.

When empathy is present, apathy cannot exist.”  Jessica Honegger

We are not all that different.  Don’t we all have the same core needs?  What if we could just lean in to those we don’t understand, our neighbors who are experiencing life different from us?  What if we could stop filling our lives with the perfect moments, situations, etc – and leave some margin to lean in and meet some of the needs that are right in front of us?  Empathy can fill in a lot of gaps.  Sister Joan Chittister tells us that “We are either growing or collapsing at every moment.  We are becoming bigger souled or smaller souled at every moment.”  Every single minute – not one wasted.  She believes that the purpose of a human experience is to grow into God.  To go beyond religion and become a prayer, by becoming a filter that sees our Creator in everything.

B-e-a-utiful.  Oh, to live a kind of life where we see the Divine in everything. To grow bigger souled in each moment.  We will slip occasionally, as we are human.  Yet, we have an opportunity in every moment to grow, to lean in, to work at understanding and loving those who we deem different than us.  We are not as different as it sometimes feels. Jesus was the greatest teacher of this, as he was always expanding his table to accommodate more hearts.  We all have the same underground river running beneath our feet, the water of grace.  Reach down and splash some on your neighbor.

A sweet memory in Cabo with my M&M boys

 

 

 

October 9, 2017 by
Family, Lessons, Love, Parenting, Prayer

The Endless Titles of Parenthood

Actual conversation in my house this morning.  Before caffeine or centering prayer.

Child who lives here, “MOM! Someone took my short, black socks that were tucked inside my shoes.”

Mom-trying-to-wake-up-and-channel-the-patience-of-Jesus, “Like who?  Which shoes?  When?”

Child, “I dunno, but they were there, and someone took them.”

Mom, “Bud, no one else wears those type of socks.  I highly doubt someone broke into our house this morning, while you were brushing your teeth, to steal your coveted socks.  Go look in your drawer or the pile of clean laundry on the couch.”

While throwing clean clothes all around the couch, “Nope, they aren’t here. Someone took them.”

Child finds another pair of short, black socks and heads to school.  Twenty minutes later, mom finds the socks on the kitchen table, where he left them.  Text a photo to the child of irritation, for him reply, “What are those?”  At that moment I was just thankful he was at school, under the protection of his principal, as I wanted to gently wring the bones in his cute little neck.

Bless my soul. Bless your Momma soul, since I’m pretty sure this type of conversation happened all over the globe this glorious morning.  Today, I am completely over my bratty children.  Tonight, I will gush over how precious they are.  This is Motherhood- the real kind, a perfect balance of adorable and frustrating.  A combination of zealous, superhuman love for the darlings and a continuous prayer line of inquires, and the occasionally begging of patience.  Parenting is a love so big that it requires the grounding of both feet just to manage it.

My darlings refer to me by several names; Mom, Momma, Mother Dear, Madre, and Brooke.  I don’t particularly care what they call me, just as long as I get to hear their sweet voices.  And that it is respectful, let’s be clear. Momma’s not raising thugs. I don’t necessarily need one politically correct title, this job is too important to be limited to one name.

I think God feels the same.  Father, Abba, Most High, Highest Power, Yaheweh, Jehovah, the Alpha & Omega, and so many more.  I think God would rather have our hearts reach for Him, than to have us tangled up in the specifics and rules.  God is into simplicity, and is too big to be packaged in just one name.  I don’t believe He cares which name from the list that we use, just as long as we call him.

I use Creator a lot, the thought of the Divine creating me to be exactly Autumn Brooke, is soothing to my heart.  On hard days, it’s also restoring to my soul.  I won’t pretend to understand the adult acne added into the package, but whatever.

A few years ago, my mind was flooded with uncertainty and questions.  This doubt was so unsettling that I drove two hours north to discuss it with the pastor from our “home” church.  I loved belonging to that church, something about entering those doors brought me a wave of peace.

I recently found the list of questions I took to the pastor.  Not that it was missing, as I’ve kept that paper tucked in my bible bag since that meeting. The list resembles questions that perhaps a kindergartener might ask. I got down to the basics and worked my way up.  He patiently answered my queries, never making me feel guilty for my doubt.  One answer he gave calmed my qualms and infused my faith, “I don’t know, but I’m kinda glad I can’t fully explain God and his mysteries.”  He went on to explain if God was a force that could be explained completely, then we would be able to put him in a box.  If we could understand everything about Him then we would know as much or more than He does.  Who wants to learn from someone that knows less than you do? Who wants a Creator who can be bottled like a genie?

Not this girl.  As much as I loved dreaming of Jeannie and her master, I want a larger, most divine Master Designer. With this in mind, I think I’m okay with not having all the answers.  I’m content being a small part of this grand plan.  Even on the days that I collect more questions than answers, I believe that God is okay with my questions, frustrations, and sorrows.  Even my anger.  I’ve even been known to throw up a prayer asking Him to please help me find my lost keys (aka short, black socks).  He is gracious enough answer without an eye roll, and will gently lead me to exactly where I left them.  Usually in the car.

He can handle it.  Because I am conversing with Him.  Talking and listening, giving and receiving.  It’s a relationship.  He can handle our words and labels, as long as He gets to hear our sweet voices and have our hearts.  Call Him what you will, just call Him beloved.

 

 

 

October 2, 2017 by
Boundaries, Brave, Courage, Crazy Cycle, Forgivness, Lessons, Pause

Practice the Pause

For God is not a God of disorder but of peace.”  1 Cor 14:33

Disorder = chaos, mess, confusion, disarray, shambles, discombobulation.

I cannot breathe during times of chaos.  I can function, because I am a mom, thus giving up the option of bailing during messy times.  I am a functioning champ on auto-pilot during times of disorder, but I cannot breathe.  As it turns out, breathing is necessary to live peacefully.

To invite peace into your life, you must step off the Crazy Cycle. And make a conscious decision to not participate in the games anymore.  I’ve gotten off of the Crazy ride before, but didn’t step away – thinking that was enough.  But, the cars on the Ferris Wheel continued to bump the backside of my head on each turn of the ride.  I’ve never been accused of being a fast learner.  Friend, don’t just stand beside the exit sign, walk away.

Walking away is always sad. Especially if you are accustomed and conditioned to the chaos.

Walking away takes bravery and courage. Walking away isn’t giving up, it is setting boundaries.  Boundaries are healthy, with perimeters that can bring peace towards a situation that hasn’t been resolved.

A friend lovingly referred me to the book, “Keep your Love On!” by Danny Silk.  In it he states, “If you cannot set boundaries with “consumers” (of your time and energy), you are going to be exploited.”  Ring a bell?  The wrapped package for me ended with “The more you respect the value of your own life by cultivating your garden, the more you will create an atmosphere of respect around you.”  Respect doesn’t look like selfish agendas or manipulation.  For the love of yourself, your family, and your sanity – respect your values.

I’ve learned the long, dusty way, that my words are safer if I keep them.  When I hold on to them, they can’t be twisted and turned into something they weren’t used for.  Miscommunication is one thing, but taking words and turning them to fit into your agenda is a whole ‘nother ballgame.  It’s mean and spiteful.  I’ve been guilty of doing it myself, until I recognized this behavior and knew better.

We’ve all been in conflict and used a line, spoken out of context, against another.  Almost as a tag line, a defensive one.  “I mean, and then they said this…”, said with a sad look, expecting to invoke sympathy.   Just stop.  Own your part. Get off the wheel.  Go lick your wounds in your own corner, with your safe people.  Then get up, and move on.  Walk towards peace.  Forgive.  Forgive when it’s hard.  Forgive if it’s only for your own peace of mind.

I wish passive aggressive would be recognized and treated like the plague.  I recognized how passive aggressive I am with my sarcasm only when I married someone who doesn’t own a passive aggressive bone. In his whole, handsome body.  Black and white with no passive gray.  I love the black and white, it is safe, I know where everything stands.  While I appreciate his black and white, I don’t live there, I reside a lot in the shades between.  Not just the short, gray side, but the whole rainbow side.  We balance each other.

Learning to separate passive aggressive from my sarcasm has been more difficult than learning the Chinese language.  I’m still progressing.  I reach for sarcasm more than chocolate somedays.  This is more of a confession than a proud stance.  Sarcasm is a love language of mine that keeps the world at bay, it is a much-needed buffer.  Hubs doesn’t speak this love language, and sometimes that requires a translator for us to communicate.

Pause. That’s the key.  Not your circus, not your monkeys?  Pause.  When the monkeys belong to you?  Take one-hot-minute to pause, to gather and ground yourself before you reply.  Otherwise you are going to do what you have always done, thus another round on the Crazy Cycle Ferris Wheel.  And those rounds are enough to make anyone nauseous.

Practice the pause. Learn to love the pause.  Allow yourself to grow within the pause.  Breathe in the peace, and exhale the chaos. Chaos will eat you alive, it will block your view of the beauty that this life is filled with.  Pause and breathe.  I love the thought that deep breaths are like little love notes to your body.  Pause to send your body affirmations of love and peace.

“Loving yourself through the process of owning your story is the bravest thing you’ll ever do.”  Brene Brown

You are valued my friend.

You are so brave.

And everyone deserves to have their boundaries respected.

Now, kindly follow the exit signs on your right, and get your butt off the Crazy Cycle Ferris Wheel.  We hoped you enjoyed your ride.

*Piece by Stefan Sagmeister: The Happy Show

 

September 19, 2017 by
Friendship, Laughter, Lessons

Lighten up and Laugh more

Life has been so sad lately, I need a laugh break.  If you could benefit from one as well, I invite you to read on.

One of my favorite qualities in a person is the ability to laugh at oneself.  Life is more doable when taken lightly.

I’ve had so many embarrassing moments in my life that I sometimes wonder if I accidently picked up an extra serving, meant for another.   I’m usually the first one to rat myself out, and haven’t decided if this is a good quality or not.  I’ve been in conversations before, halfway through my story, only to realize the person hearing it has a look of horror on their face.

Whoops.

Retreat and wrap it up. I apparently got lost on my way to the sharing circle. Embarrassing stories are to be saved for back porch nights with the inner circle.  When someone shares an embarrassing moment with me, it seals the deal of my love for them. I don’t mean a “Oh my, I burped out loud – clutch my pearls” story, let’s dive in deep my friend.  Dish it out in a safe place.  Shame cannot survive being spoken.

I’d love to share one with you now, it’s actually my favorite.one.ever.  Only it isn’t mine, but I tell it with FULL permission rights.  This gracious friend was brave enough to offer the use of her real name.  Probably due to the fact of threatening her for years that this story is going in a future book.  I’m sharing it here because it deserves a shrine, and I don’t feel that she tells it with as much gusto as it deserves.  She skips some important moments, and this story has earned a space of its own.

Pull up a chair my friend, join me on this back porch.  Chances are, if you have spent any time with me at ALL, you know what story I’m about to tell.   I can’t image any men who would read my blog, but if you are lost and ended up here, feel free to sit this one out.

I was a fresh eighteen years old, and walked into my first day on the job at Bourland Dry Cleaners in Willow Park, Texas.  It was a drop off/pick up location, so the only other employee was the gal training me.  She was a year older and less than thrilled to welcome me.  With her 5-inch-long, dark brown nails, she taught me how to tag and bag clothes. In future days, she taught me how to smoke skinny cigarettes and drink.  We saved our money and chipped in for a mini fridge for the store, to ensure that her beer and my wine coolers stayed cold.  In the distant, more settled days, she taught me how to cook, take care of a baby, and be a homemaker.  You can see where I simply had to have her in my friend barn.

Our job didn’t require matching attire. We just felt the need to go above and beyond. Bless.

Vanessa was in cosmetology school in the mornings, and worked at the cleaners in the afternoons.  Due to many-a-late nights, she missed a lot of school.  Like most of it.  Luckily for the majority of population, she didn’t make a career out of doing hair.  The person in charge of the school finally cracked down and told her that she wouldn’t complete the course if she missed one more day.

With two weeks of school left, Vanessa told me that afternoon that she couldn’t go out after work until the semester was over.  Secretly, I was thankful.  I had gone from living on the shoulder of the life’s highway – straight to the fast lane, and welcomed a rest.  The very next morning, Vanessa woke up rested with full nights sleep, only sick as a dog.  A virus had hit her full force.  Fully recommitted to the trade of making ladies beautiful, she got dressed and headed to class.

The accident occurred on the backroads.  Please don’t be alarmed, this was no car accident, more of a virus-natured one.  I should mention that this was 1997, so clearly, she was dressed in a plaid mini skirt, tights, and loafers.  Who wasn’t after Clueless hit the big screen?   Vanessa had a decision to make – go home and change, or press on. The decision was simple, she was no beauty school dropout.

Always a survivor, she remembered that Koryn, a friend from high school, lived just up ahead.  Koryn had a large family and a welcoming house, everyone was always coming and going.  Desperate, Vanessa pulled in the driveway and ran into the house at 7:30 am. She made a beeline for the restroom to use the facilities and clean herself up.  She went to the extreme of washing her unmentionables in the sink and even blow-drying them, cutting no corners on a quick sanitation job.

When the twenty minute clean-up mission was complete, she walked to Koryn’s room to explain that she needed to avoid using the wash cloth on the side of the tub.  Upon entering her friend’s room, she found a strange man lying in Koryn’s bed.  Realizing she didn’t have time to find a family member, Vanessa figured it best to contact them after school.  She had some hair to color and cut, perhaps even perm.

A few months passed and poor Koryn never received that warning call.  One night, while out in Fort Worth, we ran into Vanessa’s high school friend.  Nessa immediately and apologetically started relaying the story to her.  Koryn listened in horror, her face scrunching up in disgust and disbelief.  I felt so sorry for the poor girl, and replied by making faces of sympathy back at her.  I was silently hoping she hadn’t used that washcloth to cleanse her face.  When my dear friend got done with her story of admission, Koryn replied with, “Vanessa, we haven’t lived there in like a year.”

Howling would be the best description of my laughter.  For once, Vanessa was stunned into silence.

Here is where I could be cheesy, and insert a classic lesson in this story.  One like, “Always know what road you are on” or “Be present on your journey”, or an obvious one, “Know whose bathroom you are in”, or for the homeowner, “Know who is in your bathroom”.   But, wouldn’t you agree, this story needs nothing.

There isn’t a lesson to be learned, other than be sure to find laughter on this journey of life.

Give yourself permission to lighten up and laugh.  Life will take care of handing us the heavy stuff from time to time.  Most importantly, surround yourself with the funniest of friends.

My dear Vanessa, who Hubs has nicknamed Trouble #1

*To wrap this story up in a nice little bow, years later Vanessa found out who the new homeowners were.  Three single, handsome guys in their twenties.  As luck would have it, we ran into one of them a decade later, and I got to witness Vanessa telling him the story.  The best part was watching his brain scan his past calendars to see if he was the one home from work that day. Greatness.

**Disclaimer – By request, no names were changed for protection in this story. We could all learn from her transparency. For all you other friends, your stories are still safe with me.  In the vault, unless you give me written permission to take them out.

Laughing…even in Vermont

 

September 4, 2017 by