Skating

I've been wanting to take my daughter roller skating for a while now. It's an activity that I LOVED as a kid. I had a pair of roller skates with white boots and blue wheels. I skated on my driveway, played basketball on my skates, and generally adored the feeling of 'flying' around. My nieces in Seattle go skating too and their parents still enjoy skating with them as a family. My girls are young, but as an overzealous parent, I couldn't wait to give it a try.

Last Tuesday I took my five-year-old to the local roller rink for $2 Tuesday. Walking in I'm pretty sure I entered a time warp. The yellowed sign above the counted prohibited short shorts and tube tops and "Ice, Ice, Baby" blared loudly. The smell of a dozen roller rinks from my youth assaulted my nose. The teenager behind the counter lacked the bright blue eyeshadow up to her brows, but she smacked her gum and seemed inattentive.

I proudly paid for 2 admissions and 2 skates. We walked to the skate counter and the employee asked, "Skates or blades?" (Ok, that wasn't even a question when I was a kid. Am I old?) "Skates," I replied, while trying to explain the difference to my daughter, who opted for skates as well. As I laced up my skates, she informed me that she couldn't tie hers. Memories of my dad lacing up my ice skates poured through my head as I knelt next to her and tightened her laces. I held back the tears that formed remembering putting my foot in his lap and wondered if those memories mean as much to him as they do to me.

As we tentatively stood up, the number of years since I had skated seemed to pile onto me. Luckily, it only took me a moment to get the feel of the skates and find my balance. I reached for my daughter's hand as she slid off the carpeted block seat. A look of terror flickered across her face as she felt the skates move under her feet. (A fear that she would hate this and it would be a disaster might have crossed my mind.) But she looked at me with a determined smile and took my hand. She hasn't held my hand in a while, being the oldest of 3 - my hands are usually not available for her. It was a slow start; I sorta pulled and dragged to get her moving and after a few steps she seemed to get the idea.

With her clinging to my arm, I tried not to fall over as we maneuvered to an empty corner where she could practice moving on her skates. She would have none of that idea and instead insisted that we enter the rink filled with skaters. I noted a few other newer folks so we headed for the shiny wood and kept to the outside. She held the wall with one hand and me with the other as we tentatively inched along. That first lap took about 20 minutes, and I cherished every second of feeling her hand in mine. Watching her take on a new challenge while holding on to me for support provided such a beautiful picture of parenting in a succinct package.

I asked if she would like to try a walker (pvc pipe on wheels that you hold onto while skating). She agreed and I dragged her to the rental counter to procure one. Using it, we gained speed and our next lap only clocked 15 minutes. But alas, our good fortune ended. She insisted that she did not need the walker. Two painful laps later, I convinced her to give it another try. She obviously did better with it, but her stubborn determination won out and she abandoned it again preferring instead to cling to me as she slipped and slid repeatedly. Despite the 'mommy annoyance' I felt, as I looked at her I realized that I faced myself in the mirror - the fierce determination that would accept nothing less than the desired outcome coupled with the willpower to make it happen. With that thought in my head, I held her hand a little tighter and saw her determined wobbles with respect.

A referee shirt clad teenager skated to the center of the room instructing all the skaters wishing to play Red Light, Green Light to line up along the wall in front of the snack bar. Despite my best efforts, I could not convince her that either we should sit it out or we should get the walker. As the game began, we left the wall and I became her only source of support as we slowly skated on a green light. At least we had no trouble freezing on a red light since we never moved faster than a snail.

As the game neared its conclusion we had made it about 1/3 of the way down the boards. A boy skated up to us at breakneck speed. As he approached he wildly twirled his walker and hit his brakes executing an artful turn to a stop. "Hi Amyrlin!" he chirped. She greeted him in return and let go of my hand. Within a few moments she skated off with him, sharing his walker. I stood alone on the rink, a bit dumbfound.

I slowly retreated to the wall expecting her to return soon. A few laps later she did stop by long enough to say, "Mommy, I don't need you anymore. I'm going to skate with him now. You can take off your skates." Luckily she skated off before the tears fell.

From anticipation to actuality, fighting through the fear, helping them take the first baby steps, learning and growing together, and finally them letting go to fly on their own, I just experienced the entirety of parenting in a few short hours.

As I sat alone on the bench watching her skate with her friends, I felt alone and rejected for a moment. But those feelings were replaced with a sense of wonder at seeing her blossom. She was a shy, socially awkward child for a while, but her skills have grown so much. Her confidence. Her beauty. Her spirit. Watching her joyfully laugh as she flew past I felt a sense of accomplishment and pride in the extraordinary young woman before me and happiness that I could shared a piece of her journey.

Strength

Strength noun. the quality or state of being strong; bodily or muscular power; vigor.2. mental power, force, or vigor.3. moral power, firmness, or courage.4. power by reason of influence, authority, resources, numbers, etc.5. number, as of personnel or ships in a force or body:a regiment with a strength of 3000.6. effective force, potency, or cogency, as of inducements or arguments:the strength of his plea.7. power of resisting force, strain, wear, etc

What is strength?

I've always thought of strength as those guys on the Ironman TV shows, you know, the ones where they have a race carrying a car or move a 500 pound ball. Strength is tall buildings with thick steel beams. Strength is soldiers in combat or firemen saving lives. Strength is a woman standing up to her abuser or a child fighting cancer. Strength is beautiful. Strength is one of those things that I always admire, but never truly understand.

Last night I learned a lesson about strength.

Yesterday we flew to Seattle, and by 'we' I mean me and the kids. For some inexplicable reason I decided that taking an evening flight with 3 kids (ages 5, almost 4, and 17 months) was worth the almost $200 per seat savings. Note: we only bought 3 seats because holding a 35 pound pile of wiggles and giggles on a 4 hour flight also constituted a brilliant plan. In another stroke of genius, I saved more money by not shipping our stuff or checking our bags - we simply carried on 4 people's belongings for a 2 week trip. The funny part is, had our flight not been delayed, this actually could have gone rather well. The kids are seasoned travelers, we pack light, and they are generally pretty helpful.

We arrived at the airport at 4:00 for our 5:15 flight. My wonderful husband dropped us off at the perfect spot. I only cried a little when we said goodbye. There was literally no one in front of us in the security line. All 3 of the kids politely walked through the metal detector one by one, and no one even fussed. We arrived at Gate A20 by 4:15.

. . . Only to find that our the gate listed a different flight departing for Madrid, Spain and a long, long line of unhappy people. Another passenger said, "If you're going to Seattle, they moved it to Gate A23. Ok, not too bad, but at A23 we found no evidence of a flight to Seattle. We trekked to the nearby sign board only to find that the flight to Seattle left Gate A23 at "estimated 7:30."

While I already felt tired and I knew the baby hadn't napped well, I fought back the urge to yell something or just cancel the trip and go home. The girls had spied a pretzel shop which I knew sold dairy free options for my food allergy kids. I explained the delay to the confused children and offered pretzels and a trip to the airport play area. They happily accepted. (To whomever invented airport play areas: You are the best person in the world!!!) Each little girl struggled to carry a bag as well as the pretzels and the little guy toddled happily along. We reached the play area with only a minimum of trouble, but I could feel the migraine starting. The monthly hormones combined with stress of disrupted travel and the back strain from carrying all the luggage started to add up.

We ate and played for only a few minutes before we needed a trip to the not-so-nearby restroom. (To the person who invented airport play areas: they should include a bathroom! Kids go a lot!) I had no choice but to take 3 kids, 7 bags, and some pretzels with us so a 3 year old could pee 4 drops. I insisted that everyone at least try and the baby insisted that he get to play on the toilet too. Thirty minutes later, we returned to the play area. The migraine hit and I fought the nausea hard. I decided that throwing up in the floor might be a better option than another trip to the bathroom. (To inventor: trash cans?!!??) Luckily that wave passed. A nice father sitting nearby struck up a conversation with me while my son and his daughter played. He even brought me a hot chocolate when he went to get his own drink. His wife was there to watch their child. Wonderful kind strangers are the best! Then the 5 year old had to poop. Yes, really.

Finally the time of our flight neared. I allotted 30 minutes to walk the 10 gates down the concourse. We loaded up, but by this point the kids' tempers had started to flare. I ended up carrying the baby and all but 1 bag. The pain from last week's foot surgery flared up badly and I could barely see to walk through the blinding headache. Tears filled my eyes as we trudged on. By some miracle we made it to the overcrowded gate after several stops along the way. It took the whole 30 minutes.

No empty chairs remained. I chose a relatively unoccupied plot of floor and started divesting myself of children and luggage. The kids all 3 obediently sat while I rummaged through the remains of the free snack pile in hopes of something dairy-free. After locating 3 bags of pretzels I collapsed on the floor beside the kids. A few tears leaked out as I obediently opened tiny packs of pretzels. The pain in my head overtook me and I fought the blackness tugging at the corners of my eyes. A grandfather seated nearby engaged me in polite conversation. My son made friends with an older lady and her dog. Our flight time moved 21 minutes later. I wondered if I would survive the trip at all.

When it came time to board I corralled the now-pretzeled kids and channeled their excitement for seeing Grandma and Grandpa. After the lengthy wait, they agreed to board the plane relatively easily. My 3 year-old made a friend in the boarding line and the 2 little girls giggled all the way down the jetway. I loved seeing her emerging social personality and the distraction helped us all get onto the plane in good spirits.

By the time we arrived at row 34, my arm ached from hauling all the baggage almost as much as my head hurt. I located overhead bin space and wrangled the suitcase and 2 bags into it. I settled the 5 year-old in her seat and then the 3 year-old and I sat down across the aisle with the baby in my lap. Luckily, watching the other passengers board the plane entertained the children while my mind relaxed a bit. All of the kids seemed happy and our seatmate turned out to be a sweet young lady who didn't mind a seat next to a wiggly preschooler.

With the airliner finally packed to capacity, the flight attendants began the usual motions while I made a quick trip to the lavatory. As we began to move, I sought the airsickness bag while hoping I didn't need to use it. I managed to turn Frozen on the seatback TV through my bleary eyes. Another harsh wave of nausea hit and all I could do was clutch the armrest and try to keep my pretzels down. My vision swam and I fought for consciousness. As I faded in and out, I tried to sound normal answering my kids' innumerable questions, secretly thankful for the built-in electronic babysitters.

Somehow the wave passed and a twinge of relief washed over my body. As I awakened from my stupor I noted that an hour had already passed. The flight attendants neared with a beverage cart and all 3 of my kids remained happy and pleasant. Thankfulness flooded my mind that I had lasted through another wave with no problems. I sipped some ginger ale and accepted more pretzels from the flight attendant. The remainder of the flight defied my hopes in terms of small-child behavior.

About 45 minutes before landing my 5 year-old fell asleep. My 3 year-old didn't sleep at all - surprisingly she handled things really well with no potty accidents, no tantrums, and a cheery, helpful attitude. My son snoozed on me a bit towards the end of the flight. He has never slept on me his entire life, and I have to admit, it felt really sweet. I entertained a momentary sense of loss that I had never let him fall asleep curled up on me.

A few minutes before landing I began trying to wake the oldest up, and realized that she slept soundly. (Aside: I'm that mom who never, ever bends bedtime at all. Not one time have my kids ever fallen asleep at a friend's house and been carried home. They've only stayed up past bedtime for the 4th of July fireworks. They don't sleep in cars and never miss a nap.) Even after a long sit on the runway, finally parking, and re-parking, the plane, and most of the passengers deplaning I couldn't rouse her. I felt awful that I wouldn't be able to just carry her off the aircraft like I noted other parents doing with their sleeping kids. I realized that with three kids and the luggage, not only did I need her to wake up, but she would have to walk and hopefully tote her bag.

I finally managed to get her up enough to stumble down the aisle while I hauled the grumpy baby and the 3 year-old walked with a nice lady who held 2 of our bags. Once inside the airport I secured a giant backpack on the 3 year-old, convinced the half-awake 16 month old to walk, and stacked the duffels on the rolling suitcase. Looking around it dawned on me that we had a trek in front of us from the far end of the airport to the pick-up area where grandma awaited.

We inched along with the kids doing their best to just keep moving. The baby stumbled, my arm began to shake under the weight of the bags and the oldest child just cried. I know that she's easily overwhelmed and struggles in new situations. I felt awful watching her fight with her emotions as she bravely trudged through the cold airport. My younger daughter's back hunched under the bulk of her large bag, but her joyful spirit remained.

As we neared the exit, my luck ran out. She couldn't carry it any further. She'd tried repositioning it, but her little body just could not handle the weight any longer and I could see her struggle, not wanting to disappoint me. I located a small space beside a wall and we stopped so I could try to figure out another plan. I looked at my tired kids, our luggage, and the crowded busy airport pondering what to do. My own back ached and my limbs threatened to give out. My toe throbbed in pain, but I had no choice other than to keep walking. As I reached to take the bag from my frustrated toddler, my son took off after a dog another passenger walked nearby. I turned to catch him.

When I looked back, I watched my 5 year-old, with tears running down her exhausted little face. With a wisdom beyond her years, she sized up the situation, saw my need, and stepped up to offer a solution. As she took up the backpack from her little sister and put its weight on her own shoulders, she whispered "Mommy, I'll take it."

Tears flooded my tired eyes and we walked those final steps to the car - not the tears of illness, exhaustion, or sadness, but instead tears of pure pride. I witnessed the definition of strength in the quiet whisper of a girl who looked beyond herself as she reached out to help someone she loves.

My First Ice Cream Cone

For those of you who knew me growing up (and, ok, probably a lot of you who know me now), I could easily be described as rigid.  Tough. Inflexible. Uncompromising. Or some other such adjective, maybe with a slight negative connotation.

In many ways, that can be a good thing. I hold my values dear, and don't give allow them to be violated. I have strong personal boundaries and I don't hesitate to stand up for what I believe in. When I make a decision, I stick to it, no matter what. Now if you are meeting me for lunch, you can be 100% sure that I will arrive, pretty much on time. I may be violently ill, dragging 5 kids, and passed on an opportunity I waited 6 months for, but I will be there - and the funny thing is, I will enjoy the lunch! (Ok, so I've also probably never met a lunch I didn't like!)

So you are wondering what this has to do with ice cream, right? Well ice cream should be served in a cup. I decided that at a young age. So young that I don't remember when or why. I just know that I always chose a cup. And if cups weren't available, I ate the ice cream and threw away the cone. I never even tasted one. And I never considered doing so. There was no need. I had made a decision: cups. And I stuck to it. I never lamented my lack of cone eating, or wondered if I would like the cone. I simply did not consider a deviation from my decision.

This week I took my daughters out for ice cream. My 4 year-old ordered first and selected a bubble gum ice cream in a cone with sprinkles. It looked tasty. My 3 year-old then asked the employee if the cones contained dairy. After learning that the chocolate dip did, but the cones did not, she selected dairy-free raspberry sherbert in a cone with sprinkles on top.

At this point, I still have no idea what came over me. I ordered chocolate ice cream with cookie dough mixed in a chocolate-dipped cone with sprinkles. Now I'm sure to most people, that's not a big deal, but for me . . . . well, it's a first in a lifetime decision.

I sat at the table with my little girls happily eating, with me making the biggest mess of all. I had no idea what to do with the drippy thing. It kept crumbling onto the table, my face, and my pants. I have no idea how people eat these without making a mess. More practice, perhaps?

My 4 year-old held her cone up giggling that, "we match!"  We said, "Cheers" and tapped our cones together. Such delight from such a simple thing.  I felt delighted too. Trying something new turned out to be fun (and delicious) and opened up a way to share joy with my daughters.

Maybe I'll try more new things . . . . .

Schism

Split. Rift. Division. Fracture. Fissure.

Sometimes it's time to break up.

I've realized that my Magic blogging has taken on a life of its own, and thus it needs a place of its own.

I've created a new home for it on my new blog A Judge's Journey, where I will still be chronicling my path through the Magic: the Gathering judge program.

This allows my judge friends to read about the game we love and spares them the details of my personal life. It also removes the over technical judge-speak from my personal blog.  My hope is that this move creates a better experience for my readers of both types.

I welcome your thoughts and comments, and as always  Thanks for reading!

DDR and ZPD

You know that feeling when you make that jump? When you actually feel yourself get better at something? When something clicks in your head?

I did that tonight!

In our house we have an In the Groove arcade machine. It belongs to my brother-in-law who is overseas in the military. We play it sporadically, and lately we have been playing a lot. We have fun friends who come over and play with us and sometimes just my husband and I play for a workout. Tonight me, my husband, and a guest played for about 2.5 hours.

During that time, we each achieved new milestones.  The songs in the game have difficulty ratings ranging from 1 (easiest) to about 15(most difficult). For me, I passed my first 6. Our friend passed So Deep (a 9) with dramatically improved technique. My husband passed Determinator (a 12). I have been playing in the 3/4 range for years, and because my play was interrupted by pregnancies I never really advanced. Over the past few weeks I've been reaching for more. I've tried a few harder songs, but have just been unable to read them. Then tonight, it happened, I could just see it. My brain could make sense of things that yesterday it couldn't.

I'm not sure what changed exactly, but it did. Like riding a bike. Once you 'get it,' you never go back.  You may have days that are better than others, but you will never again go back to pre-getting it days.

The zone of proximal development, often abbreviated as ZPD, is the difference between what a learner can do without help and what he or she can do with help. It is a concept introduced, yet not fully developed, by Soviet psychologist Lev Vygotsky (1896–1934) during the last ten years of his life.

In my education courses in college, this effect was studied as Zone of Proximal Development or ZPD. When someone is in their ZPD they are at the point where they can learn the next step. If they are below their ZPD then they may be refining their technique or perfecting a talent, but they are not actively acquiring a new skill. If they are above their ZPD, they may learn bits and pieces, but they lack the scaffolding to truly understand and internalize the concept. This is not to say that there is not value in all three stages. However when you are trying to advance in a area of your life, you need to actively seek ZPD experiences.

In parenting, my ZPD is with my three-year-old.  My four-year-old and I think very much alike, so I feel like I understand her well and often play to her maturity and intellect to help her handle the stresses in her life. My baby's easy, happy disposition makes him a pure joy and he currently poses little challenge for me. My middle child's energetic personality and complete disregard for order and how things are 'supposed' to be confuses me. I don't understand how she thinks, but I am eager to understand her worldview. Luckily for me, she enjoys expounding on pretty much everything and has enough energy to put me in my place repeatedly. I feel like when I have success connecting with her, I am in my ZPD.

In my cooking, vegetables are my ZPD. I can grill just about any type of meat and I can produce a wide variety of pre-cooked side dishes. Breads and baking - well, I don't go there. But creating good tasting vegetables comprises my current endeavor . I enjoy purchasing a random vegetable (usually selected by my children) and then figuring out how to make it both nutritious and tasty.

In my Magic judging, my ZPD is currently floor judging at larger events.  Head Judging puts me in a little over my head, and floor judging a small event has become mundane. If I desire to advance, I will need to keep working with my mentors to find appropriate opportunities to develop my skills.

I could list examples all night because in every area of my life, I have a ZPD. And so do you! However some people actively seek out opportunities to improve, and others don't. Sometimes staying below that ZPD is safe and comfortable. Sometimes we get too ambitious and try to work about our ZPD which can lead to frustration and failure. Sometime we don't care about advancing a specific area or task, so the ZPD becomes irrelevant.

But tonight, I fought in my ZPD and won. I selected songs that challenged me, but that I could almost do.  After about 3 songs, I considered giving up.  I felt kinda tired, and my body suggested calling it a night. I almost did it, but I pushed through it. Sometimes that stubbornness manifests itself as determination and takes on a positive connotation.  I forced my legs to move when they wanted to rest and after about 2 hours they were doing things I never even imagined.

I'm so excited to have taken a giant leap tonight!  That feeling of success is what keeps a person coming back time after time (golfers, I'm talking to you!). So I'll leave you with the reminder that when frustration strikes, look for that 'next step' or ZPD and it will move you in the right direction even if you can't yet achieve your final goal!

Writer's Block

In my much younger years, I first heard the term 'writer's block.' I assumed that a writer's block was an implement used for writing, like a quill pen or an inkwell. Perhaps archaic and definitely not used currently (at least by anyone I knew), but certainly necessary for writing. It must be a rectangular object that sits on a desk and serves some purpose in the writing process. Or, my imagination surmised, it could be a special seat used for writing - a block that you sit upon. I wondered if I would ever get one. Unfortunately I have not yet acquired a physical 'writer's block,' but I certainly have lots of the conceptual kind.

I don't actually have writer's block, because I am not a writer.  That's right. I'm not a famous person with published novels who gets paid to write.  I don't even aspire to be someone like that. Those people are highly intelligent, supremely motivated, and generally brilliant. I'm just a silly girl who enjoys writing as a hobby. It's not my job. It's nothing serious. It's just a way to maintain my sanity in this crazy, ever changing world. I write to process my thoughts. To examine each event that has occurred in my life, compare it to past experiences, and seek the meaning behind it. I only started this blog because my handwriting is too awful for a paper diary,  . . . and because I do too much editing.

So as I sit here contemplating the half-dozen half finished blog posts I'm stuck on, I can't have writer's block. I'm just still working on them.  And when I realized that my best posts tend to be about what's on my mind, I also realized that what I'm actually thinking about is writing.  I know that's getting a little 'meta' for some people, but hey, you guys have stuck with me this far on my writing journey.  So I thought I'd take a minute to share a bit of the process.

The Idea
Most of my blog posts are born as in idea in my crazy mind. I ruminate on it for a few hours or a few days and mull over ideas and angles.  Then finally, it hits me!  I see the perfect way to approach a subject, or find the perfect quote to introduce a topic, or stumble across the perfect example to illustrate a concept.

The Draft
Then I dash for my computer and frantically commit my musings to text. It usually comes out in a burst and my husband often asks what I'm so excited about as I attack my keyboard. I may also ignore food, kids, pets, or nuclear explosions caused by a toddler in my living room when I am writing the first draft. My single focus is to get the 'meat' of the post onto the screen.

The Edits
While I write I pay attention to spelling and some grammar, but mostly it's about content. I never publish anything the day I write it. I have to get away, sleep on it, and seek other eyes before I consider it finished. As I re-read my posts, I edit for flow and clarity. I rarely need to massively re-write, but I often find myself filling in additional details or removing superfluous ones. I consider my audience (parents, Magic judges, friends) for each post and try to keep it relevant. Once I am comfortable with it, I ask someone else (usually my husband) to read it before I publish it. Another person's perspective can be difficult to hear sometimes, but it adds a lot to the final product.

The Finishout
My final steps before publication are to make it look the way I want it to look. I add formatting such as bold or italics. I add links to relevant content. I insert pictures if the post needs them. I preview the post to ensure that things came out the way I intended them to.  I add the tags that create the searchable categories for each post. Then, finally, I hit the 'publish' button. There's always a feeling of completeness that accompanies that button. As a completionist, it's the best part. My final step is to head over to facebook and add a post introducing the blog post, since most of my readers enter my blog that way.  (I do hope to skip that step at some point in the future, but for now, I'll go with what works.)

So it's funny, writing about writing. I started out frustrated because my ideas wouldn't come, and now I've filled up this page with passion and a post that I'm excited to share with you.  So you see I didn't have writer's block at all; I was just writing about the wrong stuff.

Apology Accepted

What are the most powerful words anyone has ever spoken to you?

Many years ago, I played a video game called World of Warcraft. I served as the leader of a group of 30-35 guys who played together in a pretty tight-knit group. In truth, I was the 'mom' figure to this bunch as well as the personnel manager.  I hand selected each member and handled all their concerns, complaints, and needs in terms of playing the game, as well as being a personal friend/confidant to many of them.  When it came to actual gameplay, I employed a Raid Leader (or dad figure) to bark the orders and get things done.  Our roles fit together nicely and while I wore the 'Guild Leader' tag, we led as a team.  All of our Guild Leader/Raid Leader discussions, disagreements, and flat out arguments privately never spilled over to the raid.  In front of the guys, we presented a unified front and stood behind one another's decisions. 

One of my Raid Leaders was a guy who went by the name Zygore.  He was a funny redhead from Kansas City who had served as Guild Leader in the past, but real life had taken him away for a time and then he returned as my Raid Leader. We worked together well, and we played 'good cop/bad cop' exceptionally. Most of the time we were on the same page seamlessly, but when we weren't . . .  well, there were fireworks. 

After one particularly bad explosion, I offered him an apology. Now that's pretty hard to do in the first place, swallow your pride and say "I'm sorry." Additionally, a true apology includes an admission of guilt, a request for forgiveness, and a promise that it won't happen again. I expected him to really let me have it at that point (and I would have deserved it), but instead he simply said, "Apology accepted."  Then he moved the conversation on to the next topic we needed to discuss. While the opportunity to bring up my mistake presented itself multiple times, he never did. NEVER. He never again brought up that issue. Never made me feel guilty. Never chided me about that mistake. Never reminded me not to do it again. It's as if it vanished. We both moved on with cool heads and clear hearts. I also never forgot that moment. Funny thing, I can't remember what I apologized for, but I will never forget the feeling of that forgiveness. 

Not too long later he made a mistake - a big one. He breached the integrity of the game in a way that was counter to our guild's values. And he did it in front of everyone and then laughed it off. I felt (understandably) furious. I debated kicking him out of the group. Later that night, I unloaded on him. (Not my finest moment.) He started to defend his unconscionable action, but then stopped, and apologized. He outlined a plan to make things right that included a public explanation and apology to the guild. A part of me wanted to nail him to the wall, but luckily I recognized the opportunity to offer forgiveness.  "Apology accepted." Accepting that apology did not change the plan to right the wrong or the consequence that came with his action. And he willingly accepted that consequence.  What it did do was allow us to move on without malice between us. I later marveled at the freedom I felt in not holding a grudge or being mad at him. 

It's been at least 6 years since that conversation, but those words still heal. When I struggled with forgiving my first husband for issues in our marriage, that same model of forgiveness and acceptance helped me recover and move on with my life. When things at work went insanely bad, I learned to let go and not hold grudges. 

This week, someone close to me hurt me. I'll not go into detail because the details aren't relevant.  He would never intentionally hurt me in any way.  He made a decision that I ultimately agreed with, but the result didn't turn out the way either of us had hoped. When I expressed my frustration over the situation, the temptation to blame him danced in my head.  I refrained. And later, he apologized. A simple, sincere apology.  "Apology accepted."  The relief washed over me.  I let go of my anger, my hurt, and my frustration.  Those words turned what could have be an angry fight into an opportunity for us to share our feelings and work through the situation together.  Skipping the blame and the pain freed us to spend our time healing the hurt rather than dwelling on it.  That painful experience has brought us closer together.

So I'd like to share a challenge with you, my readers. The next time someone apologizes to you, try accepting their apology. Not with questions. Not while demanding an explanation. Not if you are secretly planning to get them back for it later.  Really, truly, accept their apology and let yourself release the pain and the hurt. Instead focus on the steps to rectify the situation and move on from the incident together. I hope you'll find it as powerful as I have.

"Apology accepted."
The most powerful words