C is for Confession

I'm not very good at confession.  In the Catholic Church it's called the Sacrament of Reconciliation, and my First Confession happened as a 4th grader. Learning the Act of Contrition prayer was easy but my first Examination of Conscience was terrifying.  It should be a thoughtful, prayerful process of calling to mind our sins before we confess, but my guide through this first time was a plump, negative, overzealous nun. She drilled into us the abomination of our sins, and reminded us repeatedly that forgetting to confess a sin to the priest was in itself another horrific sin.   It's easy to blame a crazy nun for turning me away from this sacrament, but in truth, I've never been very comfortable with the act of confession.  I'm actually much, much better now at examining my conscience and owning my mistakes and eccentricities; I just don't want to hash those things out with anyone else.

If you've been a regular reader of this blog, then you may think I have rainbows painted on my walls and sleep with a stuffed unicorn. Truth time? Confession?  This past week has been incredibly difficult, physically and emotionally.  The side effects from the drugs I am taking are wreaking havoc on my body.  I'm not sleeping very well, am bloated, swollen and in pain from retaining water, have a dry, raspy cough in addition to shortness of breath and have very little energy.   I just cancelled a work trip that I've been looking forward to for weeks because I know I'm not up to travel.  My doctor is tweaking my meds and I'm hopeful that I'll have some relief soon, but right now I'm just miserable.

In the spring of that same 4th grade year, my father was transferred and we moved from Dallas, TX to Brighton, MI. I didn't want to go and remember crying hysterically when I told my best friend the news.  She was understanding and sympathetic, but the closer we got to our move date the more she disengaged from our friendship.  We were just ten years old and I know now that she was protecting her feelings, but back then it felt like a betrayal.  Ready for confession number two?  What if my friends now slowly drift away, weary from slogging through the ups and downs of this disease with me?  No, I don't really think this will happen.  But oh, the insecurities of my former ten year old self take over at 3 AM when I am wide awake and uncomfortable.

I've said from the beginning that I want this blog to reflect my determination to stay positive and grateful, but several wise friends have reassured me that it is OK to to share the good with the bad.  They've actually encouraged me to do more of that.  So I confess - it's been a crappy week.  I'm wallowing, feeling sorry for myself, wishing I was on that business trip with a wonderful colleague.  But don't worry - next time I write, C is for.....well, I'm not sure yet!  But C is always for Colleen, and I always bet on myself.

C is for Conversation

I count journalists, chefs, doctors, philanthropists, architects and teachers as friends, and  last night I attended a dinner party that reminded me how lucky I am to know such interesting people!  Over a wonderful dinner of crab cakes, spicy slaw and a nice bottle of Pinot Noir, with Fleetwood Mac's Rumours playing in the background, the conversation went in a thousand different directions.  We debated swing dancing, Winston Churchill, vegetarianism, canoeing, the resurgence of beer in a can, the merits of Twitter, the upcoming city elections, and spotting famous people in odd places. 

Dinner parties are also a time to share the latest books we've read, the movies that made us cry, and the new restaurants we've tried.   In the 1990's, the only restaurant downtown was The Old Spaghetti Factory, which miraculously is still in business.  (Although, really, is it ever a good idea to put factory into the name of a restaurant?)  Now, Nashville has become quite the foodie town, and while we love our new reputation we bemoan how hard it is to get a reservation.  We used to be able to pull a group together on Wednesday and make a reservation for Saturday night anywhere in town - now we often need a month's notice!  Perhaps sentimentality just comes with middle age, but we reminisced about the Nashville of old with great fondness.  Does anyone else remember the Italian Street Fair, the Summer Lights Festival or Faison's?  How about the IHOP near Vanderbilt where one of the waiters dressed up like Elvis?  We're making plans to see a Sounds baseball game since it is the last summer they will be playing in Greer Stadium. 

As I was driving home, I couldn't stop smiling thinking about the friends I have made since moving here in 1990.  We've changed, just as our city has, and I like to think we're all (mostly) the better for it.  Our conversations overall have become deeper, more thoughtful, but are still laced with humor and irreverence. And thankfully, I don't think we will ever run out of topics to talk about.

C is for Childhood

My parents are downsizing yet again, so last weekend I was in Jacksonville helping to clean out their house.   Although I am doing just fine, I was deemed "not fit for duty" in the stifling garage and was relegated to tasks inside the air conditioned house.  (And yes, I owe my siblings a huge debt of gratitude for that one!) So I settled in on the sofa, surrounded by many boxes and bags of old photo albums and frames. There was a lot to cull through - my mother chronicled every birthday, holiday and graduation - but the time flew by as I relived the best memories of my childhood, album by album.  There were countless pictures of my siblings, too, but hey, this is my blog.  :)

The early years:   Sure, I am biased, but I was absolutely adorable.   I'm in footie pajamas or a smocked dress in every shot, complete with a bowl haircut and an impish grin.

The middle school years:  Ah, the 70's were tragic.  I got glasses, acne and boobs all at the same time, and I wore the unflattering bell bottoms and earth shoes of the day.

The early high school years:  My glasses got bigger and my skirts got shorter, and apparently I was trying to channel Farrah Fawcett with my perfectly feathered hair.

The later high school years:  A move from rural Michigan to the suburbs of Chicago inspired my classic preppy look.   Alligators, add-a-beads and madras ruled my wardrobe, and I traded my coiffed hair for a ponytail and ribbons.

The albums continued well past my high school years, but it was the photos from my childhood that made me smile the most. I know I'm looking back with rose colored glasses, but my formative years were pretty idyllic.  We had everything we needed and most of what we wanted.  Dad worked hard at a job I knew nothing about, and Mom was always there to fix us a snack or drive us to an activity or appointment.  I was a Girl Scout, went to summer camp, played four square in the driveway and babysit the neighbor's kids.  I loved jumping on our trampoline, ignoring my younger siblings and watching The Brady Bunch and The Partridge Family on TV. It was all so blessedly innocent and normal.  I don't know what I will do with all the photos I brought home with me, but I do know I will always cherish the memories they evoke.