Faith + Gratitude = Peace + Hope
When I was young, my dad would always say, "Crystal, you can choose your attitude." One day I chose to believe him.
I was scared
for a moment
to remove the bandage
and the gauze
and face the scar.
In the hesitation,
a bold voice said,
“Why, Warrior Woman?
You are a survivor.
Scars show strength,
how you fight and heal,
overcome and thrive.
Fear is human.
So is pain.
This too shall pass.
May you be happy
and well and free
of suffering.”
Life is the consummate teacher, and God keeps showing up with strength, peace, and hope for the lessons. May you be happy and well and free of suffering.
I count on one hand
my visits to Houston
before making the move
before my entire life changed.
On a Union Pacific bridge
while driving south on 45,
there’s a sign.
Some call it graffiti.
I call it gritty.
Be Someone, it says.
It’s more than a sign,
The skyline stands stong behind.
A gateway for opportunity.
A beacon for possibility.
A call to action visible only
on the way in,
again and again
like a mantra.
Be someone.
Be someone.
Be Someone.
Inspired by poets Gail Mazur, Langston Hughes, Gwendolyn Zepeda, Deborah D.E.E.P. Mouton and their poems about Houston, along with my good friend Dr. Doni Wilson who taught an outstanding Writespace workshop last weekend. I left buoyed by my possibilities.
It’s not that I crave fame and glory, but occasional acknowledgement is nice. On October 19, 2023, as I tweaked final wording on my 300th post, I thought I might see a digital certificate of congrats from WordPress. I clicked Publish and held my breath. Nothing happened—beyond a new live post. Nada. Nil. Zip. Zero. I was a bit disappointed. Still, I understood the milestone. For six years plus, I had poured my heart and soul into those 300.
Then came the epiphany.
Sometimes there’s no one there to congratulate you, and that’s okay.
Often we do things out of an intrinsic desire to do it, and that’s enough.
Sometimes we must cheer ourselves on and throw our own celebrations. Woot. Woot.
From me to you—Thanks so much for reading my blog! It’s way more fun with you here. Many of us criticize ourselves far more often than we praise ourselves, and we often don’t give ourselves enough credit for the things we achieve. I hope you recognize your milestones, big or small, and celebrate yourself throughout the year.
Last Thursday after my first period class, a kid I’ll call J stayed behind and handed me a new yellow paperback.
He hesitated and said, “I’m sorry that I missed your tutorial yesterday. I know you’re here to help us and that people take advantage of you….”
Oof! Gut punch. Kids say the darnedest things.
The day before I had hosted a lunchtime tutorial, pizza provided by the school, for students who haven’t taken the SAT (Scholastic Aptitude Test) and need to pass another government-mandated standardized test (TSI—the Texas Success Initiative) created by College Board (the entity that makes beaucoups of cash by selling both tests plus Advanced Placement). These kids have taken the test before and failed and must retest. The test deems the students college-ready, and if our school has a certain percentage of students who don’t pass this test, then we look bad. We lose some prestige. Therefore, the intervening tutorial. We discussed grammar and multiple-choice test-taking tips. Some of the kids were one question away from passing on their last attempt. Meanwhile, J, who had a lead in our all-school musical Mamma Mia last semester was giving me a book about how to stop doubting my greatness and start living an awesome life. Somehow, I know he is college ready, and I don’t need test results to tell me. If he doesn’t go to college, who the F cares? J is already living an awesome life and sharing his secret with me.
“…but I think you’re amazing,” he said, “and I hope you’ll read this book.”
I may or may not have had tears in my eyes when I gave him a speechless fist bump. I was touched by the gift. “I will absolutely read this book,” I said. Students filed through the door for my next class, J left, and I composed myself.
Yesterday, I left work at lunch. This morning, I stayed home. The struggle is real. I was supposed to tutor during my lunch again today—and I just can’t. The test is March 22. There is time to postpone. I picked up the book from J and read. Chapter 4 resonated.
“In the self-help/spiritual community, ‘Ego’ is used to refer to the shadow self, or the false self, or the self that’s acting like a weenie. It’s the part of us that’s driving the bus when we do things like sabotage our happiness by cheating on our husbands or wives because deep down we don’t feel worthy of being loved, or that refuses to follow our hearts and pursue an acting career because we are terrified to be seen for who we really are, or that goes on and on and on and on about how great we are and shows off our muscles because we’re insecure and need lots of outside validation that we’re good enough.”
Jen Sincero
Ego—the self that’s acting like a weenie. That’s funny. How many of us are driven by our insecurities and the need for validation that we’re good enough…smart enough…sexy enough…rich enough…skinny enough…badass enough…just simply enough? Yeah, that’s what I thought.
“The leading cause of sucking (staying broke, dating morons, uncontrollably crying in public because we hate our lives) is that we haven’t yet woken up to how truly powerful we are or to how massively abundant our Universe is.”
Jen Sincero
Speaking of the Universe, I’ve heard the part about its massive abundance before. Seeing these words again seems like a message tailored for me.
“The [ego] operates according to your limiting false beliefs. This is the garbage that was stuffed into your subconscious as a kid that doesn’t ring true for you, as well as the decisions you’ve made about yourself that are less-than flattering or empowering. It gets validation from outside sources (I’m doing this to win your love, your opinion of me is more important than my opinion of me), it’s reactive (My circumstances control my life, I am a victim), fear-based, and extremely committed to keeping you safely confined within the reality you’ve created based on those false limiting beliefs (otherwise known as your comfort zone). The [ego] lives in the past and in the future and believes you are separate from everything around you.
Your true self or your higher self or your superhero self (your non-BS self)…is the part of you that operates according to your connection to Source Energy. It gets validation from within (I love and trust myself, this feels right to me, I have a purpose, I am loved), it’s proactive (I’m in control of my life, I think I’ll head on out and kick me some ass), love based, and is committed to creating a reality based on your limitless potential…Your true self lives in the present (not stuck in your head), totally believes in miracles and is one with the Universe.
Jen Sincero
The false self (based on your subconscious and limiting false beliefs) vs. the true self (connected to a higher power AKA Source Energy). The true self validates from within, takes action, seeks limitless potential, stays out of head, believes in miracles, and loves their fellow human. Suddenly, I find myself thinking of 1 Corinthians 4-8. What a lovely truth!
In a lovely little chapel on the campus of Houston Baptist, I received kind words, a pen, and a pin. This was the last Friday night in May. I had taken the classes, put in the work, and completed requirements for my MFA.
Now, I hear Frank McCourt in my head, and he says, “Stock your mind. It is your house of treasure and no one in the world can interfere with it.” I notice his two polysyllabic words and the strength of his monosyllables. Now, I will work with my tools, read books, study language, and hone my craft. I will put my bloody manuscript in a drawer and let it rest. Same for me, sans drawer, just rest. I’ve learned that good art takes time.
Even though my angel mother grew up in the Baptist church, the “B” in HBU filled me with trepidation. I leaped with faith anyway. God played a role in my story, and I wanted to do Him justice. Still, I never imagined I would find my tribe of like minds at HBU. Now, I see God’s plan. I’ll be forever grateful for these people—my cohort and professors. They became my friends and family, encouraging and inspiring me with their ideas and insight, persistence and growth, love and prayers. All of this without judgement. Even their criticism was kind.
At HBU, I’ve learned to make time and space for my writing and for me. And I’ve realized we all feel like imposters sometimes. I’ve learned to be scared and do it anyway. And I’ve realized the power of continued progress. Anything is possible with belief and persistence. I’m still learning trust and patience in God. At the same time, I believe He is using my story in a way I never could’ve imagined.
The truth is — my clothes weren’t fitting, and I refused to buy bigger ones. I even noticed being short of breath from time to time when doing simple things like laundry. Something needed to change. April seemed as good a time as any, and so I chose to take some action.
My eighty-one-year-old father wakes up around 5:30 each morning and does a whole routine of calisthenics, and I mean seven days a week. Weekdays he still works full-time, and knowing him, I’m betting on some major overtime. He’s the picture of health. I’ve asked about the particulars of his workout, and he has told me. I would’ve needed to write it down to remember. It’s a lot, but I know he exercises in sets.
On the first day of April, I decided to come up with a routine of my own. I wanted to keep it simple and doable. Situps, pushups, and squats. “I can do that,” I said to myself. I had a plan. I started with ten situps, ten pushups, and twenty squats. Each day, I would add five. After the first Sunday in April, I decided to take Sundays off. On another day, I decided I would quit adding five when I reached one hundred repetitions. Modifications are sometimes necessary. Progress is progress. By April 14, 2021, I was up to seventy situps and pushups and eighty squats. The squats were not a problem. The push-ups were harder. And the sit-ups were f-ing ridiculous. I broke them down into sets. If it took me all damn day, I would do them.
But, I sort of hated my life mid-situp and needed some motivation. You know what I did? I Googled the benefits, and Healthline.com gave me nine great reasons to just keep going:
On Monday the 19th, I reached one hundred squats, and yesterday, I reached one hundred situps and pushups. I must admit — I feel stronger, my shape is slowly morphing, and my lower back pain (of the past few years) has improved. Benefits aside, I’m not sure 100 situps a day is sustainable. April is proving I can do anything one month at a time. When May rolls around, I may reassess.
In 2013, I received an opportunity to teach a Creative Writing class at the high school where I also taught English. As a new elective without an established curriculum, I had the freedom to teach it however I wanted. I adopted a two-part philosophy. First, writers must be readers, and I structured classes with time to read for pleasure with an eye toward author’s craft. Next, writers must write—every day. I gave the students daily prompts that they could use or not for their writing. The point was sustained practice.
In the beginning, I felt like a hypocrite, and so the second part of my own philosophy forced me to write—almost every day. I kept a journal and notes in my phone, bits of dialogue and scenes. As I wrote alongside my students, I often stuck to a theme of my son Drew, our new normal with schizophrenia, and our quest for help. Little by little over the next few years, I realized my story might help someone else. Finding help had been hard, especially when my son didn’t see a need for help. Maybe I would write a memoir. I quested ahead with my writing practice. My structure was episodic. My ideas were fragmented. Some of it was pretty good. Some of it was horrific. I didn’t know how to make it all publishable.
For my fiftieth birthday, I gifted myself time for grad school and started a new quest for my MFA. Who knew I could study Creative Writing? As my program winds down, I’m questing toward my degree and the latest draft of my memoir Help in the Time of Schizophrenia. When I submit this work on April 26th, two of my professors and a third contracted reader will read it and provide a final round of feedback. I’m super thankful for the extra perspective.
And soon, I’ll be on a new quest. To be determined.
Carrie Williams Clifford
My goal out-distances the utmost star, Yet is encompassed in my inmost Soul; I am my goal—my quest, to know myself. To chart and compass this unfathomed sea, Myself must plumb the boundless universe. My Soul contains all thought, all mystery, All wisdom of the Great Infinite Mind: This is to discover, I must voyage far, At last to find it in my pulsing heart.
People like to make New Year’s resolutions. I like to make New Month’s resolutions. Anything is doable a month at a time, and the first of the month seems like a good time for a new beginning. For April, I’m abstaining from alcohol. By the way, I realize the irony of the announcement on April Fools, but I do not jest.
As far as the A-to-Z challenge goes, I’m choosing a theme of action. My actions of the past year have largely involved sitting on my butt and typing words and reading books. Speaking of large and butts—something must change. And so this month instead of imbibing daily, I will attempt to take more action. I have a celebration planned in May that includes sun and a swimsuit and a beach. So let’s see what sort of headway I can make concerning my beach body, and let’s see if I can take twenty-five more actions to distract me from my alcohol habit. My action plan is somewhat sketchy, but I suppose I will figure it out, like I always do. One day at a time.
Back in July, Monday the 13th to be exact, I made a friend while walking in my neighborhood. I remember the date because the previous Friday I had a doctor’s appointment, and I saw an unfamiliar and frightening number on the scale. Though I had walked every day in April, I nursed an injury in May, and then June and July rolled around. Summers in Houston are a sweaty hot mess. My walking habit suffered leading up to my visit with Dr. Fong. On July 13th, I resolved to walk every day and make headway on my weight situation.
I don’t remember how the conversation started. She probably said something like, “Do you walk every day?” or “Is this your house?” That morning around 7:30, we stood sweating on the street near my driveway, and she asked me if I wanted to walk with her the following day. I swear, God places people in my life. I needed some accountability.
“Okay,” I said.
“6:30?” she said.
“Um, that’s a little early for me,” I said. I had just met this woman. Since I’m not currently working, I couldn’t remember the last time I had set my alarm.
“6:40?” she said. “I have a five-year-old. I have to be back before my husband leaves for work.”
“Okay,” I said. “I will try. My name is Crystal.”
“My name is Rosa. See you tomorrow,” she said. From my house she walked north to her home at the opposite end of our street.
Rosa is my age, fiftyish. With a five-year-old. Her oldest is thirty-three. Another one, twenty-eight. Another, twenty-one. And a stepson eighteen. Can you imagine? She moved to Houston from Mexico, a child bride at seventeen. She knew NO English, and she had babies in this country with no other family except for her husband’s brother. For the next thirteen years, she did not learn the language, and her husband was a drunk and had a girlfriend in Mexico. Pregnant with her third child, Rosa realized she held the future in her own hands.
I’m not sure of all the details. Rosa and I have a slight language barrier. But this I know. She divorced him and chose to stand on her own two feet in the USA with no other family here. She sucked it up. She had to be strong for her kids, and the United States held opportunities. She took a job cleaning while her older kids Cesar and Jackie were in school, and she carried her baby Kimberly with her to work. Rosa attended classes to learn English, and she studied to become a citizen. She told me about driving round trip from Houston to Iowa and back in a car with her children and parents visiting from Mexico. Throughout the vacation, she listened to CD’s in English to help her prepare for the citizenship test. Her dad said, “Do you know what they’re saying?” He spoke in Spanish, of course.
And Rosa shook her head and said, “No.” The same word in either language. Rosa kept trying and kept taking classes, and her English improved. She supported herself and her kids with no help from anyone. Then, she passed her citizenship test. In English, of course.
Eventually, Rosa remarried. Her husband has a successful painting business, and Rosa accounts for the money. She owns and leases a couple of condominiums. She makes home-made tortillas every week. Flour one day. Corn on another. She has lunch on the table for her husband at noon, and supper on the table by 6:30. Since I’ve known her, Rosa had some sort of electrical problem at her house, and she fixed it herself by Googling help. She takes an online upholstery class, online nutrition, and online cake decorating. And last week for Independence Day in Mexico, she cooked enchiladas and posole and shared with me and my family.
Meanwhile, I sit on my couch and read books and write words and let my husband cook for me. I know I’m spoiled and a little complacent. I’ve never had to work that hard in my life. Is this white privilege? You better believe—Rosa inspires me.
Since it’s dark now at 6:30 in the morning, Rosa and I have moved our walks to a beautiful little park with a walking path and lights. She picks me up in her Infinity QX something at 6:15, and we drive a short distance to walk and watch the sunrise. I failed to mention that we run some. If she can run, so can I. Even if I have never claimed to be a runner, I decided it’s not too late to give it a try. Like I said, she inspires me.
Sometimes Rosa’s daughter Kimberly comes along for the workout. Now Kimberly is a real-deal runner. Anyway, last Friday Kimberly was in the car, Rosa and I chatted, and Kimberly said, “I don’t know how you can understand what she is saying.”
I said, “I just understand about every fourth word and somehow get the gist of it.” I was exaggerating. Kimberly and I laughed.
Then she translated for her mother in Spanish, and we all laughed.
“Seriously,” I said. “I just listen and try to understand.”
And do you know what I understand most of all? Good energy.
Some of you might have noticed I left out the Monday Re-Make. I had an idea and scratched it— “Jolene” by Dolly Parton and Miley Cyrus. I like the song and both versions, but I never understood the woman who fought so hard for her cheating husband. I’ve officially concluded the Monday Re-Make Series. Sometimes, life calls for a new song entirely.
That crazy thing I thought might happen did not, and that’s okay. For 2020, I have enough. Who needs extra cray cray? But the possibility taught me, in the way possibilities do, that you never know until you try. And so on to the next— as opportunities arise. Champions adjust— my new mantra, when things don’t go my way. And so I adjust— my thoughts and plans, my words and days.
Faith + Gratitude = Peace + Hope 