Homeowners

When we bought our first home, we bought three. Three in one. It's possible to cross a major marriage milestone and kill a couple of birds with one stone. In our case, we moved into a 306 square foot cottage (they told us it was 400 square feet) and were the live-in outback landlords behind a lovely duplex, occupied by two young couples. 

Only then the birds aren't dead. And they want to kill each other. 

One couple hates the other's barking dog, so they text us at 10 p.m. And 9 a.m. And Saturday morning. 

The animal couple accuses the hippie couple of smoking pot and partying. And brewing beer. On the front porch.

Suddenly, our beautiful experience of homeownership is more like parenting/camp counselor/mediator.

We can hear the barking dog from the cottage. We can see the potsmoking greenlight glowing from the hippie's bathroom window. And Branson keeps telling me that they pay the rent. 

Now, we've moved out of the cottage and into the duplex. So, the animal couple is out and the hippie couple can hear all our footsteps, coughs, and shower singing. 

We may be surrounded by dead birds, but nothing makes us lovebirds like a tiny cottage and practice parenting.

Songs for my Sister

From our childhood:
Atlas Hands by Benjamin Francis Leftwich "I've got a plan, I've got an atlas in my hands"

For a reminiscent drive at twilight:
Thinking About You by Big Scary "Come on"

Because the video is like the inside of my mind:
Jungle by Emma Louise "My head is a jungle, jungle"

Fear of Overcommittment

When do you know you've overcommitted yourself?

For years, I have claimed to have a fear of commitment. Marriage sort of marred that self-image to which, for whatever shamelessly vain reason, I had clung. Now, I've taken it to a different level. Thank God I do not have children or pets, because I am barely keeping the one other human in my life alive. It appears that once I let the floodgates of commitment open, I couldn't control my own headfirst immersion therein.

In addition to my full-time job, I am currently an active member of Vision Fort Worth, the Fort Worth Chamber of Commerce, the Social Media Club of Fort Worth, World Affairs Council, Global Meridian Young Professionals, Public Relations Society of America, the Education Task Force for Steer Fort Worth (an initiative of Mayor Betsy Price), the CCFW Poverty Committee, and the CCFW Young Professional Focus Group. I also attend weekly small groups with our church. Most of these involve, at minimum, bi-monthly events or meetings. A significant number of them even involve weekly commitments.

I like to make homemade meals, keep my bed made and my dishes done, and water my potted herbs. I have a husband who likes an allotment of my attention and a stack of books as tall as my nightstand, yearning to be read. I am an employee, wife, landlord, daughter, friend, and professional networker. I am afraid I could become one of those people who is 5 months pregnant and doesn't even know it, because I don't slow down enough to notice I've transformed.

I have friends, family, and sleep to enjoy. Am I overcommitted? When do you know you've crossed that line?

As long as I can have one night off a week, I feel like I am doing okay. As long as I can sleep without a pill, I feel that I have made healthy commitments. But what if I run out of time to keep up with The Economist deliveries I look forward to wholeheartedly? What if I start losing the ability to remember, much less blog, about all of these experiences?

I have to prioritize time to write. That is the line between commitment and overcommitment. If I cannot log the favorites parts of the way I spend my days, I will not remember the lessons I learn along the way. If I cannot make myself a cheese plate to enjoy while I read at the end of a long day, just once a week, I should be afraid of myself.

I will not do anyone any good by gobbling up and hording commitments like a troll guarding the gate to success. Worry less about the groups you're not a part of and more about the part you play in the groups you've already joined. Don't miss your own transformations because you're too busy trying to transform the world. Overcommitment is like gluttony. A little bit goes a long way and you can have too much nourishment. A small, indulgent cheese plate is what I need.

The Stairs Between

It's one thing to proudly realize I've finally matured to some degree because I am now filtering the things I choose to say with more thought. I am a fiercely loyal person and daily have to take into consideration the way I present the people in my life, as well as myself.

Blogging taught me to realize that I may not say something offensive, political, or religious, and I can still offend or put someone at risk. What I see in the stories I have of my refugee clients is very different than what someone would see with a very different political and religious perspective than my own.

The same goes for any story I share, any insight into my world. A friend recently jokingly told Branson that I shared mean things about him on Twitter. I laughed when Branson first told me this, then stopped to consider what I shared. I shared what I thought was funny or absurd-little things Branson would say that made me laugh out loud. I realized afterward that if you can't see my love in my tweets, you could see sarcasm, snideness, patronizing, jeering, belittling.

I never want to leave room in my words for any of those things to even be perceived.

I cannot control the perspectives of others, but I can control what I put out their for them to perceive.

I realized I've matured to some degree because I have begun to thoughtfully filter the thoughts that I share. I also realized that I have a long way to go, because I forgot that others may not have that same filter.

You can't control what others share, but you can control your own sharing. Never take it for face value that you share the same filter.