The World According to EDW

I don't love you, but I'm lost
Thinking of you
And the ghosts
Of so many special moments
That passed so quickly at the time
And now they come and track me down
And echo round and round and round
And time goes quickly
Or disappears completely
And I feel like I fade away
Like drowning...

This was a lie, of course, that first line. I did love you. I never would have said yes to you if that weren't the case. I used to feel that way, every time I was with you, that I faded away, and there was only you. I remember listening to this song back then, and thinking about all those moments we did have together, the stolen ones, the open ones, ones that involved clothes, and ultimately, the ones that didn't. Analyzing every second for a hint that you loved me as well.

I don't need you
But it's so hard
To be without you
Though you're not far away
I censor my emotions
And tell myself to bide my time
But every time you come around
You batter my defenses down
But so gently
Like some sweet hypnosis
And the world just slips away
I'm drowning...

Lately I wonder if I should have told you 20 years ago, 14 years ago even, during that last weekend, that I loved you. Would it have made a difference? I didn't realize then that you already knew. These days, I censor the emotions and bide my time regarding some one else, and I think back to you. I don't regret a single thing we ever DID; I regret the things we never did, and I'm scared I'm letting another chance--maybe my last chance--with some one slip away, because I'm waiting for him. Between the two of you, it's a wonder I have any defenses left at all.

It's dark
My heart is pounding
I'm sinking down
Into a pool of passion
There's laughter as I drown
Like so many lost before me
Damned by lust and gone to hell
And then I look into your eyes
And something melts
I shake inside
And cool water
Washes me all over
Washes me away
And still I'm drowning...

Laughter as I drown. I used to think about this verse time and time again, and I laughed the day you emailed it to me with the note, "do you remember this song?" I don't know if you know how many times I listened to this song on my headphones, alone in bed at night, usually crying. And when he spits out the words, "dammed by lust and gone to hell", I laugh again in agreement. Clearly, it was more for me than lust, but the venom that came through those words, that bitter and that sweet, seemed to sum up everything about us.

Music so often helps me make sense of events in my life, emotions I'm feeling. I never knew another song that every word seemed to have been penned from my head. This song was almost ruined for me, but really, nothing associated with you, or our history, could ever really be ruined. We had so much fun together, Rob.

I don't know if I've ever let you know how lucky I believe I am to have shared that first time with you. I learned so much from you in our time together, and it was one the great joys of my life. And, in that one moment, 20 years ago, there in the dark, you opened up part of the world for me.

Drowning - Joe Jackson

MP3 File

UPDATE: Rob's response.

It's hard to follow up that last post, meaning Nick's and not mine. It's true, I was going to write about bras, because I can. And I have something to say about that topic. But not today.

Today it is barely 7am and I am leaving for vacation at 11am. I have to be at my inlaws' house by about 10:45am, so let's say I have until 10:30am, being generous. I went out last night, so it's safe to say I am feeling the effects of that rather yummy Belgian Wheat that tastes like sunshine and happiness. I've gotten in this bad habit of going out the night before I leave for trips, and that's just a mistake. Problem is, I am so organized and pack so early that I have no need to be home, stressing out and putting more things I'm not going to wear in my suitcase, so why not say yes to happy hour, and sit outside with my friends, enjoying the sunshine and my life? So I say yes.

Ok, so now you have the picture, right? The house is quiet, no one else is awake. Bags are by the front door, open for those last minute items, like my entire medicine cabinet because I believe in drugging up early and often when on vacation. I'm sitting here, at my kitchen table, typing on my laptop, listening to Styx, because they do sing the song from whence this post title comes. I have a little list by my side, with inanely stupid things on it, reminding me to bring bras, cosmetics, and Emily. I'm sneaking down here to hydrate, yes, but also to say goodbye.

I've got some friends lined up to blog for me, so this won't go dark and quiet while I'm away. But I wanted to say goodbye myself. Oh, wait, where am I going? Did I not tell you? We are going on a cruise. Nick, Emily, and I, with Nick's parents, his brother Matt, and Matt's wife Kathleen. It's a treat - read, they paid for it - from my inlaws. They are taking the "kids" (that's us) on this vacation, a cruise for 8 nights, leaving New York and going to San Juan, Tortola, and Samana (which is part of the DR, baby, in case you need to Google it, like I did). It should be fun. In any case, I love cruises, and I love free, so there's nothing to lose, right?

So that's why I've been scattered, trying to finish up work and pack and wash every stitch of clothing, towels, and linens we own, which I do every single time we go away for no apparent reason. At least I didn't vacuum all the floors this time.

But I digress.

I'm here to say, goodbye for now. I'll be back before you know it, but while I am away, enjoy my guest bloggers, and have a good week. Say yes to something fun. Reconnect with an old friend. Call someone you love who lives too far away. Have a really yummy beer. All things I did last night, and all worth the bleary-eyed typing this morning. There's a lightness in my heart I wish for you, too.

See you soon. Xoxo.

Hi there. Your good and gracious blog hostess has decided that today would be a good day for me step out of the shadows and into the spotlight for a bit of guest blogging.

Now, those of you that know me, know that I'm rarely one for the shadows. Quite the opposite, right? But for the most part, I keep a healthy distance from this blog. (And for good reason, too, right? I mean, did you read that last post?) I'm a regular reader, for sure. And if I'm in the right mood, I'll leave a comment. But for the most part, this is Liz's gig, and I like it that way. We've each got our own things, and this blog is one of them.

Nine years ago, I'm not sure I would have said any of that. But then again, nine years ago, when it came to this marriage, I didn't know what the fuck I was talking about. Nine years ago, at about this hour (it's 9:30 pm as I write this), I was recovering from a knee injury. I'm probably the only person ever to tear an ACL while impersonating the Temptations with his groomsmen. Totally YouTube worthy, but alas, the wedding video is VHS and we're a DVD household now. (Mental note: VHS-to-DVD transfers make great 10th anniversary gifts!)

So yeah, nine years ago, I had no idea. None. All I knew is that 16 months before that, I decided to marry this girl I was dating. Did I ever tell you what I told my mom, when she first asked me what Liz was like? No, probably not. Not my blog. Anyway, I said "she's a rational human being." I know, I'm a jackass. But a conversation with my mom was just like the Spanish Inquisition, except that you could TOTALLY expect it. Being a jackass was the easiest way around all that.

So, when I married Liz, I had no idea what I was getting into. Wait, that's not true. I had ideas, but I had no clue if my ideas even slightly matched reality. I think every guy, when they marry their girl, has a picture in his mind of what the future holds. That picture may be of him and his wife, his bright-eyed children, and a couple of hunting dogs, all smoking pipes, wearing khaki pants and pith helmets, posed in front of a fireplace framed by the the freshly-mounted heads of their latest trophy kills. (That wasn't my picture, by the way. I look washed-out in all that khaki.)

In fact, I can't remember what my picture was. It was a long time ago, and even if I could recall it, it would be clouded and changed by everything I've learned since then. Reality always gets in the way of your dreams and ideas, right? A lot has happened in the ensuing nine years. We've owned two houses. We've each had 2 cars. We've had promotions, layoffs, new jobs, and career changes. We had a daughter. We've been to countless rock concerts. We've made some of the best friends you could ever ask for, and we've had people leave us - some to a much better place.

But nine years ago, I couldn't have predicted any of that. I had no idea I'd get hooked on a little rock band from Philly, or that the band would have delivered us such good friends. I would never have guessed that my career would have taken me where it has. No way I would have figured on getting a little blonde girl with ringlet curls. And I certainly was not prepared for this marriage, the ups and downs and ups, the give and take, the incredible intimacy that only happens when two people share a home, a bed...and a bathroom. Every married reader of this post can relate to that.

On the way home from dinner tonight, when I got talked into guest blogging, Liz told me that I didn't have to be sappy. (The other day, she reminded me to use soap in the shower. You never know what pearls of wisdom your spouse will offer on a given day, do you?) That's fine, I don't think I've been sappy. But it's been a while since I spent time reflecting on my marriage and my life, and it's hard not to get a little Hallmark over it.

At our wedding reception, my parish priest blessed our celebration and offered this to us: "May this day be the day of your least happiness, your least joy." Well, it wasn't. Bad days happen. But marriages can't be measured in daily increments. The sample size is too small. And I can say without a doubt that that first year wasn't our best year. It's gotten better every year. Sure, there are rough patches, trials and tribulations. But we've built a marriage out of all that, and here, in year nine, the best thing that I can say is that I can't wait for year ten.

Happy anniversary, baby.

My friend Jami and I were discussing dating the other night - she wrote a whole post on first dates, which you should go read, right now. Here it is. Go on, I'll wait. She calls my stuff "insanely awesome ramblings", which is pretty much the nicest thing you could say while still being totally truthful. And I totally want to hear the rest of the stories behind her first dates. But I digress.

We were discussing dating, because recently a friend of my husband's asked how many guys, exactly, I'd dated. It felt like the question Dante asked Veronica in Clerks, so I demurred, and said, trying to be witty, "How do you define 'date'?" Thankfully, I didn't have to answer, because the number is an awful lot like 36; 37 including you. I went out on a lot of dates, it's true. If they asked, I went out with them. There were guys I avoided, guys I discouraged, but if they had the guts to ask me out, I went. I gave them a shot.

I went on some less than stellar dates, of course. I went on a first date to a wedding where my escort had his car window smashed in and we drove home in the pouring rain. I went on a date with a guy I had nothing to say to even though we like all the same bands. I went out with a guy who gave me his fraternity letters on the night he got in, when we were far from serious. I went out with guys with British accents, with a guy my family nicknamed "Doogie", with a guy that loved Phil Collins. I went out with guys that made me laugh and guys that made me cry.

But good, bad, or ugly, I liked dating. I liked the romance. I liked the possibility. Recently, while discussing this sort of thing with a few married girlfriends, something came up. "I don't need to have sex with someone else," my friend explained. "But it would be nice to go on a date, and kiss." Even when it's bad, there's something about the possibility of it being good.

Closing in on nine years of marriage, it's easy for me to say. Unlike my single girlfriends, I am never going home with the hot bouncer at the bar, the bassist in the band, the random cute guy from the train. And unlike them, I never have to wonder what their interest in me is, gauge their feelings and mine, deal with what comes. I can happily check out guys and throw my friends towards them, getting all the juicy details and none of the heartache.

It's good to be here, but it was fun then, too.

Friday night was Moira's birthday. In case you need a little refresher on Moira, here's my post from her birthday last year. Last year was a big blowout, her first birthday back east. This year, I wrote it in pen on my calendar, but I didn't know what the plans were until Moira and her sister Eileen (the one who lives across the street from me) showed up at my door at 5pm on Friday night.

I was lying on the coach, still in my bikini from the pool club, watching Gilmore Girls. Not in going-out mode, but I totally turned it around the minute they showed up. They sat on the porch and drank a beer with Nick, while I ran upstairs, showered, and dressed.

And then we went out.

We had beer.


We went to an awful bar.


We went to a good bar, and made friends.


We laughed a lot.


It was a good night, a good birthday celebration. For the rest of the pictures, click here.

I got lost in the woods today.

It started out so simply. As you know, I've been walking and running to get ready for this 5K I'm doing on September 14th, as part of a triathlon relay team. It's been two weeks since I did any training, and I figured it was time to get back on track. So I dropped Emily off at soccer camp, and headed to a local county park. I had two hours, plenty of time.

So when faced with a trail, I picked the longer one. I kept picking the longer one, until I had walked to another town. The park trails were paved and meandered between wooded and cool and sunny and bright. It was stunning, and as I walked and came upon farms and roads and a tiny, old, tended graveyard, the trail ended. "Trail Ends Here" the sign read, but I thought that surely, it must continue. I saw cars driving down the same way I wanted to go, back to my town and my car, so I went.

The paved trail did end, but I walked on the grass. Then that ended in woods, and I found myself on a wood trail, small and empty, but a trail. How bad could it be?

It was bad.

I was essentially hiking around a reservoir, in the woods, no direct or clear path, and by now it was oh, 20 minutes until I had to pick up my kid. And even when I got to the paved part again, it was another hike to get to my car. Normally this might be okay, to get lost in the woods or fields or walk to another town and see farms and old graveyards and parks I've never even heard of. But not when my four year old is waiting for Mommy.

Panic ensues. I consider begging park employees to take me back to civilization, but the thing is, I don't see any. Eventually, I manage to get to my car by sprinting through lovely, scenic, nature filled fields. I am a good 20 minutes late, but my friend has Em, so she's not this abandoned waif. Still, I learned my lesson. It's called a trail map. I need one.

Just another example, ladies and gentlemen, of why exercise is dangerous. You have been warned.

Driving home from Jodi's house Wednesday night, I was formulating a post about ex's, musically and romantically. I had it pretty well down.

And then I got this message on my iPhone:

"This is one of the members of your favorite, former favorite house guests...and I'm calling to leave a message to let you know how hurt and upset we are about being bumped off the list. If you would have answered the phone, I wouldn't have even talked to you...that's how deep and sore and fresh the wound is.

I'll have you know, we intend to raise our game, Olympic style, not Canadian Olympic style, but like American Olympic style, like that super sexy gymnast, Alison, who fell over, but she's hot.

You know what, I'm just not feeling the love...Might I suggest to you that you rethink your post on your blog and get prepared for the World's Greatest House Guests...I don't want a phone call, I don't want a text message, I want a post. (Pause.) That's it, goodbye."

How can you not love someone who leaves you a hilarious message about their status as favorite house guest? And while leaving the message, mentions your country's Olympic superiority and good-looking women, and whose wife can be heard quietly cajoling him, in the background, as she so often does in their life.

Well, the answer is, you have to love them. On a day when you're calling your cousin to bitch and moan, and prompting your closest friend to say, after reading your post, "Who's getting cut?", you have to love the friends who call to say, "We are AWESOME." Seriously, when you are looking around, ready to cut bait on some people, there is nothing like an incredible friend doing something so normal for them that reminds you why they are A list.

So instead of 80's music and ex's, we have friends present and future. Instead of writing about my first lyrical love, I am cracking up over a message left by friends who really, truly, are two of my favorite people in the world.

Since the album came out, I have always known that I would use this lyric for them, because that is how I feel about them, throw down or not. They are just indelibly in my heart and my life. I never fail to be amazed by the ease of being with them, the connection we have, the trust that belies the time we have known each other. We just got lucky to find them, that's what I think, and if this is just another love letter to a friend, wrapped in a whine about my life, so be it.

Best voicemail message EVER. I love you both. Come to NJ and kick some house guest ass!

Since this is the shame show/true confessions today, I'm going to roll with it. Right now, I am sitting outside on my friend Jodi's deck, listening to the new Kid Rock album. I think I've solved his little problem in "All Summer Long". He can just change the line to "We were doing it different ways, smoking lots of jays" and get the same point across without having the awkward non-rhyme of "things" and "things". In general, I'm not crazy about the CD. I like about one and a half of the songs. I own a Kid Rock CD, but I think somewhere along there I passed from being someone who could listen to a whole Kid Rock CD to being someone who can listen to one and a half songs.

In other news, I have uploaded photos of myself at the Poison concert, singing along, and wearing a Poison shirt - which is NOT mine, because my shame doesn't go that deep. I do not own a Poison shirt. It's Teri's. We all tried it on. She only bought it to wear to the gym. Swear.

As for the singing along, I looked up the lyrics on my iPhone for some of the songs, and the rest I knew. 22 years, and I still know the words. Sad, but true. There's gotta be something I could do with that brain space, re-purpose it or something.

So the other thing I haven't mentioned is that I took my kid to the Poison tailgate. Sometimes babysitting just doesn't work out, and my husband does have a job, so I had no choice. Em slept while we sat outside, and then woke up to enjoy her PB&J and milk and we all played a round of Princess Charming, in which you try to get the princess home to her castle. Then Daddy showed up and took her home - she was pretty insistent about staying for the concert, but I told her that she wouldn't like it and it would only be a source of later shame, as in, My mom took me to see Poison when I was four. WTH? She's going to have enough to deal with, why add to it?

I've also got pictures up of the Counting Crows show, and I'm working on the ones from my family's visit. So, here, for your amusement. My name is Liz, I go to cheesy concerts and listen to questionable music. I have kissed men that would make me cringe now. I think I look cool when I so clearly do not. Rock on.





The rest are, regrettably, here.

When I left you last Friday, my cousin was on her way to my house. That's where I've been, with my cousin and her family - her husband and three kids, and my kid and husband.

You might think 8 people in a 3 bedroom, one bath, house would be stressful, but it wasn't. In fact it was so not stressful, it was like magic. They were the best house guests ever, and I am sorry to tell Rob and Richelle like this, but it's true. They have been inched out by a family of five. Although it was pretty darn close, and I still really love you guys and consider my guest room yours.

They left on Tuesday, and all day I felt sad. I was almost too sad to cry; if I was a kid I'd have said I wanted my mom, but as it was, I wanted a real friend. It was so, so good to have them here with us, I missed them the minute they got into their car and drove home to Illinois.

While they were here, we had a surprise birthday party for Nick, went to the beach, went to the boardwalk, went outlet shopping, had a big lobster dinner, ate at the diner, saw my mom and dad, and spent the day in NYC. Even the ordinary things worked out so well. It was a great couple of days.

Now it's over, and I have to go back to work, and my life, and I'm sad. I want everyone to come visit me, right now. I want to call up my best friends and beg them to do something.

It's very interesting, my life, lately. I find myself a lot more relaxed about things that used to stress me out. I find myself really aware of who my real friends are, who I want on a desert island. I have a lot of friends, but those few are becoming more and more important to me, whether they know it or not. There's some shit falling away, that's all I'm saying. A shit load of weight, a lot of life stuff, but a lot of interior stuff, too.

I have the time, but don't want to waste it on the chaff.

So what did I do, too sad to cry? I went to see Poison.

Yes, readers, your vote counts. You said Poison, I went to see Poison. Have you ever run into someone you were in love with once, and felt nothing for them? You were thinking that maybe you'd feel the chemistry, wish you could hook up one more time, but then, in the flesh, nada? That was me, last night.

True confession: I was in love with Poison. In 1986, 1987, 1988, I loved them. I went to see them open for David Lee Roth's solo tour, the one where he sailed over the crowd on a surfboard. I went to see them at the Arts Center, where I was last night, and remember it being a totally awesome concert. Last night, I felt vaguely embarrassed that I had ever loved them, much like I feel about the ex-boyfriend who said I had fat thighs. Like, did I really claim to be in love? Really?

To their credit, they played well. They played the hits. They thanked the crowd 5,000 times, and they managed to work in "JERSEY!" without sounding like assholes. Bret's got something going for him, for sure. He was downright sweet. They even hung around after the encore, shaking hands and signing autographs. They were appreciative, thanking us for our consideration. No shit. And maybe, that's the problem.

What I loved about Poison at age 13 was not sweet, it was slightly dirty and forbidden and not cleaned up. It wasn't parent-approved, bring the kids - which people did, by the way. I saw a stroller. A fucking stroller, at a Poison concert? Oh, the humanity. No, Poison was bad-girl music, in a totally suburban-girl way. Shocking but safe. Packaged perfectly for a teen.

Poison now is a bunch of guys just happy to still have a job. And I get that, I do. Much like old boyfriends bald and get fat, so do old bands fade from unapologetic rockers to VH-1 fame-whores. It's the natural progression of things. Which is why, when you find that band that still rocks, like The Police, or that boyfriend that still looks good to you (for me, that's my husband) you gotta represent.

Wheat from the chaff, baby.

Lest you think every concert experience I have is transcendent, let me tell you about last night.

Worst Counting Crows concert ever.

Now, if you're not a fan, you could say that about every Counting Crows concert, I suppose. But I am a fan; they are one of my Top Five Favorite bands, and I write it like that because I have lists like that. I have seen them maybe six times - I think last night was the sixth, but I'm not sure. It could have been the seventh. It was Jodi's third show, that I know. and I think Nick went with me twice, if not three times, and I've been without Nick, too. So. I've seen them before.

Last night they were just off. Adam was on the sauce or maybe off it; who knows? Whatever, he was mumbling like a drunken sailor, and it was hard for even a diehard like me to throw my arms around that. We still had a great time, of course. We made friends with other 30-somethings to share our dislike of Today's Youth and What They Wear Out. We made fun of the legions of drunk men who would stumble up to our table of women and smile vaguely, the combination of alcohol and possibly pot rendering them speechless. We sat under the stars and sang the songs the way they were supposed to be sung, in the order of the lyrics. To his credit, Adam did perk up when he sat down at the piano, and manged to get an entire tune out. With the right words and everything.

Well, I've got houseguests to get ready for, so I've got to go. But I will post pictures later. Have a good Friday!

Today is Nick's birthday. When I was 20, and I loved The Proclaimers and this song in particular, I never thought much about the kind of man behind it. I thought about the romantic notions of that man, but not who he would be or what he'd stand for or what he'd bring to my life.

Today I am married to a man who has embodied every romantic notion I've ever had, and that's saying a lot from a writer. He's also been the man I was raised to marry, the solid and steady one. He's been a good provider, an good father, a good husband, in all its hokey sentimentality.

But more importantly, he's been the one to make me laugh, to listen to my stories endlessly, to share my dreams. He's the one who will go to Ikea spur of the moment, the one who will make an adventure out of a day or weekend. Life is never boring with him. He fits me like no one else does.

I adore and value my friends and family, but I know in my heart that nothing would be like it is without Nick. He's the linchpin in my life, and I love him.


Happy birthday. baby.

So, back to the present day. It's been a crazy few days, a crazy week, in fact.

Bruce was Thursday; you already know about that. Friday I went into NYC to meet my friend Michelle, and see her friends Mary Jo and Lori. We had a great dinner, got into Chickalicious - a new must do - and ended the night at Jay Z's bar. By accident. Enough said.

Saturday was book club, and if I gave out recipes, I'd give out Lisa's. But realistically, I asked for them and will probably never make them, because that's the kind of woman I am. Instead, I'll ask her to make them again sometime. Sad, but true.

Sunday, last night, was The Police. OhmyGodIlovethePolice. I would go to that concert every single night for the rest of the year. Maybe the rest of my life. With breaks to go see other bands and eat dinner and see my friends and stuff. But you get the point, right?

It was a fantastic concert. I want to belt out every song every day for a week, at least. And now, for the pictures.



With Michelle:


Jodi:


Me, with Jodi's hat:


The rest are on my flickr. Even Emily got some Police swag! And now, back to work. Happy Monday!

I have some new friends, people who have only known me for about six months. Two of them commented that my life seemed golden to them. I said, yes, I could see how they thought that. Things are really good right now. But, I countered, it wasn't always that way.

But you know that.

Last winter, it was really bad. Last summer it was rocky. This past fall, it was scary. It was not this happy, neat little package of a life. I lost my job, we had a house fire, a woman hit my car. My marriage hit a bump, my mom got diagnosed with cancer. Again. There were money issues, too, so add that on. I was depressed, unhappy, desperate. I said daily that I was cracking up and even my nearest and dearest agreed. I thought about linking to all the awful posts, but maybe I should just say, go read the archives. Jan 2007 to March 2007. Then go read all of November 2007 and December. Then, for kicks, read about how my marriage kind of sucked, that's summer of 2007.

Read my last year. Read my tears and my pain, but please don't ask me to read it to you. I can't. It was horrible and awful and I don't want to link to it because I don't want to go back and cry for the woman I was then. Suffice to say, she was in a bad place, and she tried her best to pull herself out of it.

You meet me today, and I'm in a better place. That's the truth, but it's not the whole story.

Why not ask my friends? Ask the people whose calls I ignored. Ask the people who kept emailing me and kept calling, and never called me on the carpet for it. Ask the ones who sent packages. Ask Jodi, who stopped by daily, because I was not okay, I was so far from okay it wasn't funny. Ask Jackie, who went out with me weekly just to hear me crack up. Ask my cousin Lisa, who I called crying for months in a row. Every time I called her, it was to cry. I wish I was exaggerating. Ask my husband, who puzzled over how to help me, who took a hit as I took a hit. Ask him how happily married we were then, how laid back and easy he felt.

I was so desperate and sad I think it was hard to love me. But love me they did; they loved me hard. Richelle, when we spoke, was loving me so hard I could practically see her. There is a faith among friends that allows them to see past your train wreck of a life and throw their spirit behind you. I had a lot of spirit behind me.

Friends sent me CDs that saved my life, and again, not exaggerating. Lisa L called and called. Molly got in the car and came down, bearing Smart Food and dark chocolate M&M's. I was too numb to say thank you. I listened to one song over and over, a live version my friend Chrissy made me a copy of. It was called "If You Didn't Laugh, You'd Cry" and although the words were hard to make out, I tried to write them down, starting and stopping the song, headphones on, like I was 12 and trying to figure out the meaning of life.

It got a bit better.

And then November came around, and I got to play the What-If-My-Mother-Dies game, which isn't very fun.

But maybe, that's when things shifted.

I don't want to say it was okay, but I think maybe I did a little bit better. Maybe I learned something. Maybe I reached out a bit more. Just a bit. But it was something. I wasn't in a dark spiral.

And now I'm happy, really happy. Now I'm in a good place. But if you think the woman you see before you has it easy, think again.

I have worked to be this happy. I have said forgive me a lot, to myself and others. I have gotten out of bed when I didn't want to, made myself live when I wanted to exist. I have taken a sad song and made it better.

I'm not annoyed you think it's easy for me; I'm delighted that I've shifted things so much that I don't look like I did, on the inside, anymore. I would never want to relive that, and I'm glad it's over. I'm glad I'm not carrying it around like a bag I forgot to unpack.

But mostly I'm glad I survived it. I'm glad the people who loved me still love me. I'm glad I'm not the train wreck of a friend, the fragile mom, the wife who can't cope.

I'm glad I'm me, and I'm glad you know me, and I'm glad that you readers and friends and loved ones are still here, reading this post.

And thank you, thank you so much.

I've had a crisis of faith the last few days. Well, maybe not a full on crisis of faith. But definitely some doubts, some reconsiderations, some thoughts about resorting some previously sorted things.

I have great faith, and to me that's always been what's important. I'm attracted to tradition and sacrament and mystery and symbols, but I don't need them to believe. I just like them. I like the practice, the cadence. I like the liturgy and the worship.

I like to hear what you did in your temple, what you believe in the secret of your heart.

I have come to discover that I am not like all of my people, that I do not believe what they believe, that what I teach will not be what they teach. At the same time, I see now that where I am is where I was always supposed to be.

I once read an apologetic that said that the Trinity is not like a family, but a family is like the Trinity. But we understand one and not the other, so we flip the metaphor.

It's an interesting concept, no? It turns what we say right on its head, and maybe that's not a bad thing.

So last night I went and worshiped at one of my altars. Seeing Bruce at Giants Stadium is like seeing the Pope, and by Pope I mean JPII, the one we all loved. I've seen him on Easter morning in St. Peter's Square, surrounded by hundreds of thousands; I've seen him in Central Park with the entire Diocese present. I've seen Bruce before with 50,000 other fans, and it's the same thing. There's energy and excitement and he delivers, but you either get hit with it or you don't.

Maybe you get touched in a crowd of thousands, and maybe it's the quiet moment alone, in joy or desperation. What matters is you get touched, and you see the light.

This post isn't just about religion or music. It's not a big metaphor to unravel. It's just me saying that sometimes I think, maybe this needs to change, and what am I doing? and sometimes I do. But sometimes, my path is the right one. I know what I believe, and my path is the right one.