sarahmpagano – Page 3 – iamsarahmichal

hope is a bitter potion with a sweet aftertaste

I have all these words crashing around in my brain, but then I open up a new post and *poof* those thoughts run to the darkest corners. I can’t find them much less put them in any certain, creative order. Bear with me as I pour out a little bit of my soul, dear readers.

I know this post title is sort of maleficent, but if you think about it- really think about it– you’ll see it makes sense. When we’re in our deepest, darkest moments the choice to hope hurrrrrts. A lot. It’s so much more painful to choose optimism over that shrinking feeling; hope over despair. It’s harder to step over yourself, your crumpled mess lying on the floor, and walk in the direction of true growth. I know, I’ve been there; I’m there.

I can tell you how much it hurts. There are days I just want to stay in bed; nurse my wounds; remember them; feel them; tell people about them. Do you see these wounds?! They hurt so much! I hate them! When does that stop, though? When does one let go, learn, and get better? Sometimes, you have to let go of everything you’re feeling for the simple reason that it’s just too heavy.

They say life is 10% what happens to you and 90% how you react. So, imagine for a moment, you’re at the crossroads. You can stay where you are, or choose a different direction. The precise moment where you can change it all; it could be once-in-a-lifetime or once-per-day. Heck, it could be once-per-hour. That moment where you decide to react different than you have previously.

What would happen?

And, so, I leave a note to self as much as I leave a note to my readers: Try. Use that last bit of energy you have, though it feels inadequate, to hope a little more. It will hurt, I know. It will make you think you’ll never be able to catch your breath… but I have a feeling the aftertaste of hope will be much, much sweeter than we could have anticipated.

Takahata-fudo, Hino

When we first moved to Japan, I hated it. I’m going to be honest and tell you I had no intention of loving Japan; my heart wanted England as an assignment so desperately I felt as if loving Japan would be traitorous; you know, hope deferred makes the heart sick.

Almost one year has passed since we set foot on this foreign land. I’ve learned my way around pretty well, I think! I’ve made connections; some shallow, some not so shallow. My comfort zone has been stretched, prodded; my personal bubble has been burst; my patience tested.

I refuse to even hint toward having a soft spot for this place; I could leave it today and not miss it too much. Maybe, by the time we’re due to leave, that will all have changed. It’s usually how it does, anyway. 😉

I will, however, let you know about the small gifts Japan hands to me; the special, little moments or surprising finds. Because they’re starting to come to me more often than I can ignore. Like this place: the hydrangea gardens, shrine sales, and temple in Takahata-fudo. Little explorations like we had here make being here worthwhile.

If you didn’t know:

The tiered tower is called a pagoda. Monks live in each level, respective of their rank, with the highest ranking monk at the top. Sometimes I see smaller-scale pagoda statues in the gardens of Japanese homes. Apparently, only wealthy monks have these in their gardens. As with a real pagoda, the more tiers, the more important the monk.

The little idols have hats on to keep them warm during colder weather.

The water and spoons is for cleansing oneself before praying or offering a sacrifice.

The little piece of paper tied to the tree is a prayer. Usually prayers are tied to string with all the other prayers; this pious fellow must have been a rebel. 😉

{If any of my facts are incorrect, please feel free to provide a correction!}

a thousand years

Image credit: Charity Remington Photography

Somewhere, before time was created, when the world was just a seed, a certain destiny was wrought in the deepest depths.

When I was a little girl, I didn’t particularly care for barbies; not if I had my choice. I wanted a baby. I wanted to be a mother. So many sunny afternoons I swaddled, fed, burped, daydreamed.

On June 14th, 2008, my daydreaming blossomed into reality. After 12 hours of breathing, shaking, laboring against the strongest pain of my life; after another two hours of crying out, calling for you by name, splitting myself open with this inhuman strength I had no idea I could muster, you were laid on my heaving chest. I looked at you and I knew I had dreamed of you. I told you, “You look exactly like you did in my dreams.”

Your face was so familiar, my sweet boy. It was as if I had loved you for a thousand years. It was as if we’d known each other since the beginning of eternity and we had waited patiently to see each other in this physical, temporary world.

I’ve held you so, so close from the day you came to me. I am beyond proud of who you are turning out to be and I cannot wait to see the man you’ll become. I will always be here for you, Malachi. I’m your Mama.

I wish you all the happiness in the world. I know in this life you’ll have struggles; I pray your heart will be strong, yet soft; your mind will be sharp and discerning; I hope you’ll always know how loved you are- which is more than you could possibly imagine.

Happy birthday, my sweet son. I love you from one end of eternity to the other.

<3
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positively negative

i wake up with that dread feeling in my stomach. it didn’t happen. again.

before i stir, before i am too active to raise my temperature, i reach for the thermometer. talking myself out of any residual confidence and shaking my head free of hope. i stick the cold, metal end under my tongue, propped up against my back molar- the “sweet spot” for basal readings. or so the thermometer package tells me.
the longest minute of the month.
in this minute i want more than anything for the little screen to tell me my insides are cooking up a tiny embryo. i want life inside me. i want my body to be dedicated, every cell, every gland, to the nurturing of tiny fingers and toes. i can’t control this desire. no matter how much i argue with myself; no matter how much i read, research, remind myself, the voice of desire will never be quieter than the voice of reason.
my thermometer rings her alarm, i peer through barely-awake eyes.
not pregnant. again.
i stood too close to the humming microwave; i had that half glass of wine; i forgot one or two days of vitamins. all the things the books tell me to refrain from, i have done. this is why i’m not pregnant.
how can i be so stupid? so full of pointless hope? i know my body. i cannot unknow it, just as soon as i cannot unknow the alphabet. yet, every three weeks i am second guessing myself. my breasts hurt here, but not here. i am forgetful; i always am. i am weepy; it’s just stressed. i feel cramps. i read too much into normal things.
i don’t want it enough. the pains, the pulling, the tenderness. i remember it all and, for half a second of weakness, i was thankful it isn’t my body enduring the changes. this is why i’m not pregnant. i don’t want it enough.
my marriage isn’t where it should be. i’m not respectful enough of my husband; i don’t communicate well enough, so how could i ever again be a mother and have a successful marriage? babies put a strain on marriage and ours is strained enough with three kids. i am selfish for wanting a baby more than anything. this is why i am not pregnant.
God still has so many lessons to teach me. how can i obey while attending to life, a son, a husband, a job, and a baby? if i haven’t proven myself faithful in small things; i will not be able to prove myself faithful in the big things. God must know i have other things which need my attention more. this is why i am not pregnant.

my insides begin to ache with piercing pain. a constant reminder of what i am not able to do, right now. make life.

multi-tasking, super-mom, fifties-house-wife aspirations

If you were to walk into my house, right now, there would most likely be things you would miss- the huge pile of laundry sitting in the middle of my son’s floor; the menu for this week’s meals which I keep forgetting to list… and buy; a bazillion hair pins waiting to be picked up and put in their place; an unmade bed… or four; cats who keep forgetting where their litter box is…

You get the idea. My house, my domestic life, are far from perfect.

And I’m not the least bit worried.

I’ve had this blog stewing in my thoughts for the last week, week and a half. I blame my Saturday morning Bible study- A Year of Biblical Womanhood (don’t let the title worry your sweet-feminist-hearts; it’s awesome. And hilarious). I keep hearing women, friends, cry over their lack of perfection. Their inability to complete every task, every shore, every meal, every correction without one hair out of place. And my heart breaks for them!

So, I’ve come to this conclusion: I’m either a horrible wife/mother/homemaker OR I might have learned how to slink past this domestic goddess without being turned to stone by her stare.

But seriously. I don’t care! Which would I rather have in perfect order? The menu or my marriage? Which deserves my attention more? The laundry or my son with his hundred questions about Jesus? This is why my feathers don’t get ruffled about to-do lists: we will eventually figure out how to train our cats; the hair pins will eventually be found and collected; my family will eat. My husband will know I love and respect him. My son willremember his mom playing with him more than she stresses about chores. I will share my heart, my passion, on my blog- celebrating the blessings and gifts Jesus has given me. I will take time for myself so I am able to give myself more to this life I’m living. All this because I choose to step away from my household obligations and place priority on the most important issues of my life.

Some women might read this blog and think, “I will not be visiting her house any time soon!” I claim no perfection, here. I have my own lists which need my focus- but they are at the bottom of the totem pole because I refuse to beat myself up over little, tiny, soul-sucking details.

Balance. Breathe. Enjoy life and the lives of those you’re blessed to be part of; they love you more than they love your multi-tasking, super-mom, fifties-house-wife aspirations.

Ramblings of a soft-hearted-nerdy-introverted-lace-loving-picture-taking-kiss-blowing girl of the sea.

Dictionary.com defines community in this way, “a group of men or women leading a common life according to a rule.” I prefer to define it this way, “awesome people who love each other and rock the face of life together.” I really miss community. Really miss it. I miss community groups and volunteering; I miss a schedule so jam packed, I barely have time to breathe. I miss baking dates, gab sessions, routine lunches. I miss being invited more than inviting myself. I can’t explain to you the blossoming that takes place in my heart when I know I’m not just an island floating in the middle of the ocean.

Lately, I’ve been seeing a lot of pins promoting a certain workout to “get rid of that pudge!” Said pin shows an uuber-skinny, big-boob’d, tan woman posing with her fingers pinching the “pudge” below her belly-button. At first, it didn’t bother me… but the more I see it spreading around Pinterest the more irked I feel. Seriously?! Have we not made any progress in the area of loving our bodies?? There’s a definite difference between being healthy and being just a little too perfestionistic. Personally, I think the pudge a woman has in her womanly area (read:womb) is not only feminine, beautiful, but also wildly attractive. There’s a reason artists depict women with a bump. It’s womanly. So, why not embrace it and choose to love yourself? Delete that pin!

Yes, I know. Practice what you preach.

I love all of you girls who’ve had the amazing blessing of finding out you’re pregnant. But, I just may hide you from my Facebook feed. I can be happy for you, really I can. Right now, though? It’s a little too easy to be jealous.

I’m impatient.

I don’t know if it’s just me, being a girl and all… I feel I bruise easily. My heart, that is. I don’t feel as if I’m easily offended, no. Bruised. My heart has been through the ringer in the last year; it’s still healing. In the meantime, though, I don’t very often fall asleep without tears budding at the corners of my eyes.

I want to trust God more. I need to. I don’t know how.

When thinking about all the wonderful, inspiring, thought provoking essays I could (want to) write, I often finding myself…. complaining. Not one to put up with complaining very gracefully, I thought I would exercise self control and list the things I’m thankful for instead. 🙂 How nice of me. But first, a nice quote I found:

“Thank God–every morning when you get up–that you have something to do which must be done, whether you like it or not. Being forced to work, and forced to do your best, will breed in you a hundred virtues which the idle never know.” -Charles Kingsley

Here we go:

– I’m thankful for… my gorgeous boy. for he is teaching me what true patience is. And, okay, that life is not about me.
– I’m thankful for… a mom who is about as (if not more) talented than Martha Stewart herself. I am turning into my mother everyday and I love it.
– I’m thankful for… art. Music. They say to my heart what I cannot say with my mouth.
– I’m thankful for… people. My source of inspiration and internal chaos.
– I’m thankful for… my dad. He is the best teacher I could ask for. Of the human variety, anyway.
– I’m thankful for… books. ‘Nuf Said.
– I’m thankful for… my family. If you’d met them, you’d understand.
– I’m thankful for my husband. We’re passionate lovers, passionate fighters, and passionate partners. My life would be far less colorful without him. <3

Of course, the list does not end here. But, I don’t think that Blogger has enough room for all my “I’m thankful for…”

To end:

“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today, and creates a vision for tomorrow.” -Melody Beattie

no backspace button allowed, today

I was really afraid of turning 28. I don’t know why; maybe because I don’t feel 28, or because getting older means I can’t act younger; maybe the thought of another generational gap is intimidating/saddening.

Dude, this past year has been hard. Maybe the reason I’m so nervous about getting older is because if 27 was hard, will 28 be harder and 29 will be insane and 30 will kill me?!

I think I’m learning more about who I am. All these stretches are because I’m changing from an immature early-twenties-year-old to a mature, sophisticated-but-still-lively-late-twenties-year-old. I’ve heard age actually brings an element of awesomeness. Women who are in their 30s say they would never go back; life just keeps getting better, they say. Dear God, please, yes.

I’ve questioned everything. Every decision. Every experience. I’m doubting myself; cheering myself on; challenging myself; allowing a little more wiggle room. And, Dear God, am I struggling, but not in a bad way. Think of a butterfly. I’m sure there’s struggle there, right? Just before she breaks out of her cocoon and turns a more beautiful face to The World Formerly Known As STUCK TO THE GROUND, she gets to fly- after she struggles. I hope that for me.

I don’t know what it’s going to take. But I know this for sure, I have to figure things out about myself.

I need a Third Place. Know what that is? You have Home (first place), Work (second place) and a Third Place to go to get away from First and Second Places. A friend told me of this treasure, last week, and I still can’t get it out of my head. I need one of those. Japan has nothing. That I know of, anyway. I’m still looking.

I’m glad I’ve been sticking up for myself. There’s a little voice I have and it tells me, “Deal with it. Suck it up. Just take it, absorb it and move along.” I shut that voice up, this year, with a small slap. It’s not allowed to tell me those words as often, anymore. I know the value of balance, but I just need a season of duck-and-jab, I guess.

There’s a Natasha Bedingfield song I’ve had on repeat these last couple days because it really speaks to me and where I am in life, right now. Take a gander, it might speak to you, too:

Here are the lyrics:

Everyday I fight for all my future somethings
A thousand little wars I have to choose between
I could spend a lifetime earning things I don’t need
That’s like chasing rainbows and coming home empty

And if you strip me, strip it all away
If you strip me, what would you find
If you strip me, strip it all away
I’ll be alright

Take what you want steal my pride
Build me up or cut me down to size
Shut me out but I’ll just scream
I’m only one voice in a million
But you ain’t taking that from me (oh ooh)
You ain’t taking that from me (oh oh)
You ain’t taking that from me (oh oh)
You ain’t taking that from me (oh oh)
You ain’t taking that!

I don’t need a microphone yeah
To say what I’ve been thinking
My heart is like a loudspeaker
That’s always on eleven

And if you strip me, strip it all away
If you strip me, what would you find
If you strip me, strip it all away
I’m still the same

Cause when it all boils down at the end of the day
It’s what you do and say that makes you who you are
Makes you think about, think about it doesn’t it
Sometimes all it takes is one voice

what i learned from the election

This is not one of those blogs, I promise.

A couple days ago, I heard about some estimated amount each presidential candidate spent to smear their opponent How much did each person spend? I don’t know. I don’t care. That isn’t the point of this blog. But, it did get me thinking…

First, a confession: I didn’t vote. Not because I don’t care about who leads our country or because I “couldn’t decide between two evils”; I didn’t vote just because I didn’t vote. As a result, I feel like it put me in a unique position of perspective (unto myself), though, which enabled me to step outside of the drama and see things in a different way. To be honest, I guess, I didn’t vote because I’m sotiiiiiiired of striving. I’m tired of being at odds with half of my country.

I’m tired of bashing the things I hate instead of promoting the things I love.

You know what I love?

I love my husband.
I love my friends.
I love traveling and experiencing this beautiful, diverse world with its beautiful, diverse people.
I love Jesus.
I love tea in the late afternoon and warm days in the middle of winter.
I love the smell of the ocean and the way the tide sucks the sand from beneath my feet.
I love ALL THE PEOPLE.
I love flash mobs. Especially when they break out in a Thriller routine.
I love fits of laughter from silly games and awkward moments.
I love being a mother.
I love helping everyone realize their worth no matter the circumstance in which they have found themselves.
I love photography and sun flares.
I love crafting and creating new things.
I love England and Platform 9 3/4.
I love community and connecting with new, interesting people. Even people who might not share the same opinions or beliefs as I do.
I love being pleasantly surprised by the soft side of humanity.
I love spending Monday nights snacking and squealing while zombies roam the screen in my living room.
I love fog.
I love being witness to moments of beauty and strength so long contained within and suddenly liberated from a woman in labor. I also love being a doula.
I love blogging and spilling my thoughts out on paper; it clears my heart to help it beat.

You know what I hate?

soupy sunday

It has been a loooong time since my last random blog and I have a few partially started ones just hanging out in space. So, they’re all being thrown together in one, huge, bubbling pot of random. Here’s a heaping helping of random for your Sunday. 🙂

I wonder how much easier life would be without expectations. I read somewhere that disappointments are the difference between what one expects and what one receives. How simple would life be if we didn’t place our expectations on people? On circumstances? What if we just allowed ourselves to accept anything that came along and didn’t fret over what could have/ should have/ would have happened? With out expectations there are no disappointments, right? But then, would no expectations color life in a monochromatic way? Or would pleasant surprises be all the more pleasant? I’m a deep thinker, today.

Sometimes, I just don’t feel like doing anything except being silent and ignoring my thoughts.

Love doesn’t leave you where are: content with your shortcomings and slipping into complacency. It challenges you to grow, change, morph. I’m sure a butterfly experiences some level of pain while being transformed. But what if the butterfly shunned that temporary discomfort and chose to stay as a caterpillar? It wouldn’t experience anything extraordinary. Our old nature is comfortable, but our new nature is freeing and beautiful. Pain? Sure there will always be some level of pain. But what makes the butterfly beautiful is not her new, colorful guise- it’s knowing what it took for her to get to her new state. The mystery entrapped; visible to no one but God. An intimacy between the Creator and the Creation, experienced by only those two during a specific season. It’s envy-evoking.

I just saw this quote on Twitter and I really like it: “What if God doesn’t owe us an explanation? What if He is…God!?” and it reminds me of answering one of Malachi’s many causewhy?! demands with, “Because I said so! Because I’m the boss!” And also because I know what’s best and he, with his little four-year-old-mind, knows nothing of the world I know. And I, with my twenty-seven-year-old-mind, know nothing of the world that God does.

“Our worst prayers may really be our best. God seems to speak to us most intimately when he catches us off guard.” -C. S. Lewis

I’ve been wriggling around with a certain beef I have with this new social society in which we live. After using Twitter for about a year (I closed by account, re-opened it and haven’t used in since) and since being on Facebook for almost four years, I’ve found this inability to form thoughts or sentences (read: blog) consisting of more than 140 characters; it’s driving me absolutely bonkers! My attention span just calls it quits and I have to concentrate to think beyond my initial thought. Maybe another sabbatical is in order; you know, to maintain the human part of me; to connect with real people in real life and have real heart-exchanges.

I cannot even tell you the glee boiling up in my soul for Japanese thrift stores. I LOVE THRIFTING. And I feel like I shall have to dedicate a blog or two to the epic things I find. I don’t even need to accumulate material possessions to appreciate the cathartic experience of just exploring. Textures, patterns, weird art, teeny tiny appliances- it all adds up to , I feel, the real Japan.

I think my new thrill in life, besides Japanese thrifting (obvsly), is refurbished… anything! When I see old, rugged chairs I want to take them home and make them pretty. My refurbished vanity has sort of lit the spark of excitement, of what could be; but I’m not, you know, at the point of digging through garbage bins or anything, *laughs nervously*…