Meditations of Anticipation

Ahh, December 1st. The first day of the last month. We are here at last. Can you believe it? We’ve almost crossed 2018, another year. Another 365 days of learning more and perhaps wishing to have learned less. Maybe we achieved far greater goals than we set for ourselves. Maybe we didn’t even try to come close to them. Whatever the case may be, we are here in the greatest anticipation that seasons bring.

On my refrigerator is a Native American proverb that says, “Don’t let yesterday use up too much of today.” I’m guilty for disobeying this proverb. Every morning, I mentally trace my steps from the previous day up until that very moment when I woke up. I take a good 30 minutes to do this and reflect on what I did. I write it down in my journal – what happened yesterday, every detail I draw from memory. I evaluate my own actions and, from those actions, I rid yesterday of the things that no longer serve me. Now, the refrigerator magnet, if it had a say in the matter, would disagree. I spend far too much time retracing my past in the morning when I could simply let go of yesterday and allow today to unfold as it may. Nevertheless, I am stubborn and stick to my own ways.

I’m not saying this a practice for everyone. This just happens to work for me. I make time for it, no matter how freaking early I have to be up. But this is the time to start learning more about who you are and anticipating what you are capable of in 2019, if you haven’t already. 

Needless to say, not everything has to revolve around work or your job. Enjoy this time with family and friends. My husband and I are excited to visit my family in California next month. I cannot wait to show him my childhood home, the beaches I went to, the friends I made at the dance studio and the city I grew up in. 

I cannot plan or anticipate each day to happen according to my expectations. As I grow older, I notice that I tend to latch onto the past just a little tighter. I give it a nice squeeze before I have to release it into another chapter of my life. As I write this, I realize just how difficult that is. Don’t we all tend to hold onto memories? We take pictures and frame them to share moments of the past, or share memories on Facebook. We tell stories of people we used to know, whether that be someone else or even ourselves. 

Who’s to say it’s not productive in looking back? We take many forms every year and revisiting that as we approach a new year makes it that much more enriching. It’s worth looking back on who we were then and who we are now. That within itself is productive.  

Most of all, love you. FOR you.    

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Baker Life

I’ve been MIA from blogging since April and an update is most certainly overdue. Well, Matt and I had the wedding of our dreams in Missouri on June 9th. Family and friends flew in from all over the country. We powered through the 90 degree weather with 90% humidity, and instead of going to Nashville for our honeymoon, we stuck around the property simply relaxing and catching our breath before flying back to Washington.

When we came home, Matt received an award at work for Team Member of the Month! Immediately after, I signed him up to take a basic riders course and shortly thereafter, he found and bought his first bike. He’s been riding it to Seattle and back. One of these days, I’ll buy a helmet and jump on the back to ride with him.

We’ve been looking around at homes to rent, because we want a bigger, newer space to ourselves. Nothing has caught our eyes, yet, but we know for sure that we will be moving out of this dinky apartment in the next year.

Right now, loud and obnoxious fans are scattered throughout our apartment, drying the wet walls. A leak spout occurred four days ago from the 2nd-3rd floors above us, causing a cascade through our walls and into the kitchen, living room and bathroom. Repairmen ripped into the base of the walls, so we have holes throughout our home. Thank goodness our bedroom was untethered and we can get a decent night of sleep.

I hear that many newlyweds go through a tough first living condition. Not all… some have the fortune of living beyond comfortable without any strife. I guess our struggles had to happen early on in our marriage for us to later appreciate the simple things that we take for granted… like a place to watch TV or a bathroom to go potty in without fans blowing on you!

Not to mention it’s been a tough year on Matt after transitioning out of the army and dealing with the monster of an ex-wife. There is the proverbial “light up ahead”, but while we’re in this tunnel of daily life (and not so daily life) struggles, we keep faith, trust and love for each other. We are a team. We are so far from perfect, but man, we are perfect for each other in hard times. He picks me up when I’m feeling down, and I hope that I do the same for him.

We know that life will always have its ups and downs, and we gotta make the best of it even when we’re down. He has a bigger faith and belief in God than I do, but I do believe that He or the Universe is looking out for us. When we start to feel uncertain or scared from life’s turbulences, something or someone steps in and reassures us that we’ll be okay.

I feel blessed for the speed bumps we go through together, because it makes the good times that much greater. It would be, however, quite pleasant if those speed bumps grow some distance between them! But we can’t control that. We can only control how we respond to the bumps in the road.

Eventually, we’ll learn how to fly above them.

Reborn as Amanda Baker

Four days ago, I woke up as a Baker and cuddled my husband and our dog. The wedding was a success – small, intimate and perfect. Matt and I made it to the church in the morning where we had close friends and family join us. We went to brunch at a local saloon and enjoyed our first official dance that night at the studio where we first met.

The following morning, a wave of emotions overcame me as I stood in the shower and I realized that I was no longer a Ridder. I remembered how one of my female friends told me when she got married that she would hyphenate her name and keep her maiden name. But I always thought that was ridiculous. If you’re going to change it anyway, change it completely. It’s less work and it’s less confusing, but that’s just my opinion.

Still, I felt something change within me. I wondered if every woman in the history of name changing by marriage felt this way. Did they feel that sudden tear in identity? A letting go of who they knew or who they thought they knew for 27 years? I took a moment to honor her – Amanda Ridder. She had done so much. She had fought so much. She loved so much. With the black ink of a pen and a few raw vows, she was gone.

I felt her soul linger a moment in the reflection of my foggy mirror of the bathroom. Glancing back at myself, the old self I knew so well – I was with her, and then without her.

I was reborn.

 

Gratitude

The fire cracks and pops in our fireplace at our apartment in Lakewood, Washington. Outside, the sun is hidden behind clouds and the evergreens, leaving a gray cast upon our neighborhood. Trees sigh with relief as their red, yellow and brown leaves fall to the wet sidewalks. 

I am comfortable and cozy in my warm socks, drinking a cup of coffee, thinking back on Friday night when Matt and I danced a solo Foxtrot to Michael Buble’s “Moondance” at the studio where we first met. He surprised me at the end of our dance and dropped down on one knee, presented a gorgeous ring and asked me to marry him!

I said yes!!  

Love has been pouring in from friends and family all across social media. I am feeling grateful to spend Thanksgiving in California with friends and family, and share the wonderful news.

I am moved beyond words by this man. There is so much about him that I am grateful for.

It was difficult to come up with only 10 things, but here are 10 specific things that he does that I’m thankful for…

  1. He dances with me spontaneously, anywhere at any given time.
  2. He brings me a glass of wine after a long day.
  3. Cooks the best steak and potatoes, ever!
  4. Tucks me in and kisses me goodnight when I turn in early like an old woman.
  5. Calls me on his way to and from work just to hear my voice, until he walks in the front door.
  6. Accepts me for all of my silly, “Damn it, Amanda” moments.
  7. Inspires and encourages me to write.
  8. Shares my love of doing absolutely nothing on our days off but cuddle in our PJ’s with our Australian Shepherd, Titan.
  9. Despite our adoration for being lazy, he shares the same ambition as mine to get outside, play around the park, welcome adventures and one day travel outside of the states.
  10.  He embraces life to the fullest and spreads joy to everyone around him.

 

 

Thoughts with my younger me

If I could transport back in time and speak to my younger self, my seven-year-old self, I’d tell her how beautiful she is and to never lose that imagination. She loved pretending to be Pocahontas and run on the front lawn barefoot as if dashing through the forest. She played in a kiddie pool with her neighborhood friend. She loved dancing in her backyard to her boom box that played Britney Spears CD’s.

I would travel back to middle school and whisper to thirteen-year-old me that I shouldn’t insist that dad buy those boots that I’d never wear to the school dance.

To my seventeen-year-old self, I would tell her that her boyfriend would not be the man she’d spend the rest of her life with and to thank the heavens for that. I’d tell her that she will spend the next ten years of her life with all of the wrong boys.

“The man you’re going to spend the rest of your life with,” I’d say, “is with the wrong ones, too. Be patient, and continue on. He’ll find you when God knows you’re both ready.”

If I could check in with the woman I was five years ago, I’d tell her to be prepared for her life to take a giant turn.

I’d tell her, “The storm will come in and it will be fierce. But like everything, it will die down and you will find an even greater strength within you. You will be braver than you have ever been.”

Checking in with the woman I am now, I am telling her not to crumple up this page and throw it away. I am telling her to keep writing and believing in herself, because I know my seven-year-old self would tell twenty-six-year-old me to do what I love and get my feet dirty.

Seven-year-old Amanda is my guide as much as I am hers. She reminds me to embrace the imagination within me, dance when I think no one is watching, and stay in touch with old friends. Thirteen-year-old me whispers, “Dad will always have your back.” She tells me that in his eyes, though, I don’t need boots in order to be beautiful. Seventeen-year-old Amanda is on the verge of finding love and tells me to never give up on it when I have found the right one. I reassure her that I have indeed found him.  Twenty-one-year-old me reminds me that every day is a gift. Live it as though tomorrow won’t come.

Time collapses upon itself to reveal an untold story: the one I am living now and the one I will continue to live. I honor what me at seven, at thirteen, at seventeen, at twenty-one went through to get here.

This is where I am meant to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Growing pains of the heart

I am writing from a computer in the Warrior Zone at Fort Irwin, California. I am currently on a two week rotation at NTC (National Training Center), learning how to be a role player. This training has some downtime, so while I’d love to bury my nose in a book in the library, I figured that I’d take this moment to catch up on my blog.

It’s been such a long time since I posted about current life. The last time I spoke of my personal situation was in Airborne School at Fort Benning, Georgia, in November, when I was hyperventilating about jumping out of airplanes. I ended up being the first jumper on a couple flights, and loved the experience. My dad was at my graduation to pin on my wings. I arrived at my first unit and immediately wrote an article for LA YOGA Magazine titled “Fear: Yoga for the Courage to Jump from a Plane.” The story was published in March.

A lot has happened between then and now.

I don’t want to bore you with my life story since jumping out of airplanes, but I do want to say how many “firsts” I have had since being stationed in Washington. And damn, there have been A LOT. Each new first experience opened my eyes a little more to a completely different lesson, different challenge, different world. And to think I have only just begun my military career!

Outside of the army, there were first-time experiences, still. I moved in with my boyfriend whom I met one night at a swing dancing class. I have fallen so hard for this young man who has given me an incredible amount of joy since we met.

Not only was it my first time ever meeting such a man whom I trust, love and dance with, moving in together has been a whole other adventure! A wonderful one. I moved into his apartment that is right outside of base. His dog, Titan, welcomed me into his space as well.

I have a home with my boyfriend. It still amazes me every day. My boyfriend has a six-year-old daughter who lives in Missouri with her mom, the woman he divorced two years ago.

This past summer, his daughter flew out to stay with us. This was another big step for me. Now looking back, it was a big step for her as well. I think about how nervous I was to meet her and be introduced as his father’s girlfriend, but I had met greater fears before; this wasn’t any different.

I am fortunate to say that we got along well and learned a great deal about each other. She loved to learn how to spell and hunt for words in word searches with me. We took her to dance and walked Titan to the park.

My parents even came up from California to visit. Many great memories have already sprouted from those occasions. We took her to her first Mariners game in Seattle, to the Space Needle, and around the fish market.

Besides fun visits and trips to Seattle, there were challenges. There was a motherly and authoritative learning curve on my part. Majority of the battle was me adjusting to a new dynamic in the apartment. I have never had a child of my own, so understanding another person’s child and her rhythm, her needs, her tantrums, her favorite foods, her playfulness was a whole new ballgame within itself.

But I was determined to understand and make the effort every day to adjust, to open up a little more if I could. She left me a gift bag in our bedroom the night before she flew back home. When she left, the apartment felt a little empty and, to this day, my boyfriend and I miss her a great deal. We are making a trip out there in September to see her and his family. I am beyond excited.

My heart is so full, and it barely knows what’s happening all around it. It’s beginning to grow more and more. All I can do is breathe and surrender to the growing pains.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Cost of Choice

“Happy birthday, my sweet Angel,” her mother said smiling, handing Emily a few coins and a cup of black tea.

The summer of 1882 was the warmest season the twelve-year-old felt, yet. She sipped her tea beside her mother in the garden beside their living quarters at the Boyd’s Manchester summer home.

Emily gazed across the lawn to the patio where Dubby and his father sat, playing cards. Seeing that paternal bond wasn’t the first time the little girl thought of her own father. But she couldn’t restrain her curiosity any longer.

“Mum?”

“Yes, love?” her mother asked.

“Why didn’t daddy come to England with us?”

Avery paused mid-sip and sighed. She knew this day would come, but she wished it wouldn’t come so soon.

She glanced at the little inquirer, sitting tall in her chair with her chin tilted to the side like an inquisitive puppy.

“Sometimes, love,” Avery said slowly, choosing her words cautiously. “Mummies and daddies come from very different worlds. And sometimes those worlds don’t mesh.”

The mother recalled long days and nights, nursing Emily in the basement of the Donoghue mansion. If she even thought about taking the baby upstairs, she would risk everything. She would risk someone suspecting that the child’s distinct brown eyes mirrored those of Avery’s master.

“So you and daddy didn’t get along?” Emily asked, pulling Avery away from the memory. The question, however, yanked the mother back into another recollection.

She pondered the first time his lips ever pressed against hers so softly and so gently. She remembered the warmth between her legs and the longing to be in his skin, to feel every crevice of his thin, unyielding body wrap around her and consume her.

Colin had quietly crossed the barrier into her quarters as to not wake his mother sleeping in her bedroom on the floor above.

“No, dear,” Avery replied, snapping out of the scrumptious memory and returning to her daughter’s question. “We loved each other deeply. We loved each other very much.”

Avery took a deep breath and decided to protect her daughter from a broken promise.

The birds continued to chirp in the sunlight on that afternoon as Avery allowed her memory to drift back to those delicious nights when   he crept into her quarters and laid with her in the candlelight.

“I promise to love her,” he whispered sweetly in Avery’s ear. “I will make sure she is treated like a princess and has the life she always wanted.”

*

Emily’s birthdays seemed to be the mark of external change. On her seventeenth birthday, her mother fell ill and feverish.

She laid in bed, unable able to swallow broth or medicine. She grew thin, as if her own skin sucked into her bones. Avery felt drained from coughing up blood into her handkerchief and required Emily to take over caring for the Boyds.

“My love,” her mother whispered to her between coughs. “You are meant for greatness.”

Emily Donoghue, with long, braided brunette hair secured into a bonnet, gazed into her mother’s pale and perspired face.

“Shhh, rest now,” Emily cooed, pulling the bed covers over her mother’s shoulders. “You need to keep your strength.”

“Listen to me,” her mother argued, shaking her head. “I never told you the truth about your father.”

The mere mention of him was a shock to Emily’s bones. Her mother refused to speak more of him ever since that summer in Manchester.

“He was a good man,” Avery continued. “He wanted to take care of you. To give you a good life in Ireland.”

Her daughter’s brown eyes grew wide at the thought of living with him there. She could hardly picture the land they sailed away from when she was a wee Lass, swallowed up on that crowded, odorous vessel.

Emily recalled the salty scent of the green island that was lined with cobblestone roads and hills speckled with sheep.

She saw the dark skies they sailed beneath. The skies were even gloomier when they arrived on England’s soil.

Avery brought her back to the present, uttering softly and assuredly, “The choice is yours, Emily.”

The daughter watched as the light left her mother’s emerald eyes, and fell back into eternal stillness.

*

Emily could hardly rest peacefully that night of her mother’s burial. She couldn’t help but to feel the tugging pull of remorse for the loss of her mother and the news of her father.

She imagined that if she stayed in London, she’d die just like her mother: sick, too young, beneath a blank headstone.

Emily tried to repress the thought. When she finally stopped picturing her own death, she imagined, for the first time in her life, a future with her father. In the land she was born in.

Just the idea of sailing back on a ship away from the shackles of duty excited her.

She tossed and turned, her mind at war.

Duty, Em. Duty. You can’t just leave.

The sun peeked through her dusty window, signaling the time to rise and begin another day.

*

Emily carried on, folding sheets and preparing breakfast for Dubby. She remembered to grab his medicine this time on her way upstairs to his parlor, where he usually sits in the morning.

He lingered in the floral armchair, contemplating the reason why his third mistress left him in a fit of urgency.

Questions and concerns reeled through his mind for a moment… just a moment. Then it turned to his stomach which growled ferociously.

“Mr. Boyd?” Emily inquired from the doorway. The back of the chair faced her, but she could smell the thick scent of tobacco. “It’s time for your medication, sir.”

Dubbinger Chester Thomas Boyd III yawned loudly and dubiously, holding his long pipe before him, avoiding Emily’s calling.

“Mr. Boyd, are you in here?” called the young, fair-skinned woman dressed in her heavy, burgundy dress that she sewed together herself. She approached his side with a glass of water and the three red pills in her palm.

“Unfortunately, I am here,” replied the solemn bachelor. “I won’t be taking that with water today,” he said matter of factually. “Bring me the finest scotch we have – on the rocks.”

Dubby took a puff of his pipe, casting swirls of smoke toward the window overlooking their empty curb where his mistress had stolen their only horse and carriage.

Emily realized he was commanding her to walk three miles to the nearest liquor store.

“Scotch?” she asked. “I don’t believe we have any left in your father’s cabinet, sir.”

The young man with a curled mustache, dressed in a velvet robe, reached for his wallet inside his pocket. He elicited all of the pounds he had and handed them gingerly to her.

“Then buy me some,” he ordered in a low growl that sent shivers down her spine.

Emily bowed and took the money obediently. “Yes, sir.”

She slid the few pieces of bills inside her white apron along with the three red pills, and quietly exited the parlor, preparing for the long trek ahead.

*

Stepping onto the wet, muddy street, Emily clasped the money in her apron pocket. She wondered why she didn’t follow behind Madame Colette in an attempt to free herself from Mr. Boyd’s household.

She strolled down the dark, bustling avenue toward the Old Bell Tavern and counted the bills he had given her.

The young woman folded the bills over in her palm, weighing out the cost of whiskey in comparison to the cost of time she would be cleaning the mess he would make.

Emily considered another option.

But what about Ireland? My father?

The funds would be enough for one passenger, plus food and anything else she needed to travel and survive for one month. Emily Donoghue was ready to meet her family and cross the sea to her destiny.

She redirected her route towards the shipyard.