I noticed my dog sniffing a spot by the wall. When I investigated what she had found, I realized there was a wet spot on my brand-new carpet. It was odd, as there had never been water in our home before. We wondered if it was a frozen pipe outside or a water pipe in the wall.

As projects like this often do, one thing led to another. After a visit from a plumber and cutting a hole in the wall to remove the sheetrock, it was narrowed down to a drainpipe. A simple fix, right? Well, it turned out to be a bit longer process than simple. The leak was under the concrete floor of our lower-level family room.

In case you are wondering, a jackhammer is noisy when it is in your home and concrete dust does go everywhere. After a bigger hole was cut in the wall and a hole was cut out of the floor, the plumber replaced the pipe. The sheetrock was replaced on the wall. New concrete was poured to cover the hole in the floor. And it was my turn to paint the area so that it matched the rest of the room that we had painted only a month earlier.

It wasn’t a big area, and the new carpet was still pulled safely back, so I put on my trusty oversized denim paint shirt, plastic gloves, and on my hands and knees began rolling paint. I looked across my large family room. The tv area, the exercise area, the pool table area circled me, but from my vantage point I felt very small in my little space. Compared to enjoying my entire room, it suddenly felt like I had been backed into a tiny corner.

I began thinking about all that has happened in the past year.
For months I never left the house. My weekly curbside pickup of groceries became my big outing. Conferences and events where I would speak and meet new people were all canceled. Lunches and coffee with friends didn’t happen. Going to movies, eating out, family gatherings, shopping, travel, … All. Came. To. A. STOP.

Event by event, person by person, my life circle became smaller. I stopped painting and looked around my big room as if I were looking at my life. It is out there, my big, busy live with family, friends, work, and fun. But little by little I have slowly been backed into a corner. The corner was safe. The corner was the right thing to do. The corner was necessary. The corner has also been lonely, sad, and uncomfortable.
I reached out of my corner at times to enjoy phone calls with friends, spoke via webinars and virtual meetings, Zoomed with my family for holidays, and even joined a group for virtual game nights. These helped me feel connected, but once they were over it was back to my corner.

I rolled the paint.

I applied the second coat blending it into the rest of the wall. I could see the weeks of repairs disappearing. I kicked the carpet back into place. Soon it will be stretched back into the corner and all signs of concrete dust and broken pipes will be gone.
I stepped out of my corner and walked through my family room. I looked back at my painted masterpiece. I couldn’t tell there had ever been a hole cut in my wall. It felt good.

I look forward to the day I walk back into my life. I look forward to travel, family gatherings, shopping, speaking, movies, eating out… all without fear. The day is coming and when it does, I will look back at the little corner I have been backed into for so long. I don’t know if my life will look the same. There may be new people. Different places. New experiences. I feel like we have all changed through this. We have been broken open and felt new feelings. My hope is when the dust settles, and the wounds are healed we will feel good again.

Pennie’s Life Lesson: “At times we are backed into a corner so that we can view and appreciate the big world surrounding us.”

YOUR TURN...        
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Have you ever experienced a meltdown…the kind where you find yourself in a messy puddle on the floor?
I have a concept called, Pennie’s DOT Theory, that states:
 “Any event that happens to us, around us, or concerns us is just one tiny DOT in the grand adventure of life. If we over-think one DOT it becomes magnified and joins with other DOTs to form a mass of stress that creates imbalance and unhappiness.”

 If we blow one DOT out of proportion it can consume us, make us irrational, and ultimately we end up in that messy puddle. The problem is we overthink a little DOT allowing it to become a big DOT. 
Remember this – D-O-T- DON’T OVER THINK the DOT! 

It happened to me. It began with a flu shot. Well, the flu shot is not responsible for the entire meltdown, but it is the DOT that began the snowball rolling. For three days after the shot, I felt tired, drained, and far from the perky, optimistic, personality, I am known for.

My fatigue turned into a colossal cold. Another DOT. I stopped working out, stopped meditating, stopped eating right…DOT… DOT… DOT.

As the days continued my snowball began rolling faster. More stressful DOTs showed up. The imbalance grew.  I broke dishes, forgot things, and my blood pressure went up. As the DOTs continued to connect, overwhelm set in. I began allowing the profanities of human emotions to marinate with the DOTs…. You know the ones… words like, jealousy, resentment, anger, insecurity, and ultimately the big four-letter word - FEAR!

Then it happened. It doesn’t matter what the “IT” was… it was just another DOT, but the most dangerous kind for me…my feelings were hurt. The snowball aimed right for that DOT rolling around in it until every dirty bit of it was connected to the DOT party forming in my head. It was just the DOT to heat up the snowball enough for it to come to a full stop, a complete meltdown, and a DOT EXPLOSION!

The pity party wasn’t pretty. The meltdown was ugly. The DOT explosion was epic causing a massive heart attack. You see, when you over-think little DOTs they join with other DOTs in the same way blood cells stick together to block your arteries. You don’t function well and it eventually leads to a heart attack. 

Thank goodness DOT heart attacks don’t send you to the hospital. Yet, they have the power to do just as much damage. Accumulating and over-thinking DOTs stifles your happiness. Fear takes over attacking your heart and breaking down its protective covering until an explosive meltdown occurs. A crack is formed, and your heart is scarred in hidden ways. 

Finally, I stepped back from the dirty puddle I was sitting in and realized I had broken my own DOT rules. By overthinking every little DOT I had given them the power to become huge in my mind. I allowed them to connect one, by one, stripping me of my calm, my contentment, and my happiness. They blinded me and I couldn’t see around them. I carried the huge DOT mass around like a collection of boulders in a backpack. Only as I dropped the backpack did they tumble out before me and I could see the tiny pebbles each of them really were. Just tiny DOTs in the grand adventure of life!
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Pennie’s Life Lesson: “Any event that happens to us, around us, or concerns us is just one tiny DOT in the grand adventure of life. Don’t Over-Think the DOTs!”

I have learned hard lessons. Lessons that have given me benchmarks that guide my life.
I remember the Christmas during my divorce that I sat alone in an apartment eating a bag of Hershey Kisses and watching the clock tick. I was certain I wouldn’t survive the day. I did.
I learned that loneliness can be hurtful, harmful, and healing. I had a new benchmark to help me understand that I could survive being alone.

There was a time when I was driving an hour commute to work on treacherous roads, working too many hours, worrying about contracts, profit and loss statements, and stressed to an extreme level. Then, my dad was diagnosed with a terminal illness. In a short period of time, he disappeared before my eyes. I was holding his hand and rubbing his head as he passed. In that second the contracts, the commute, the work worries seemed of such little importance. I was holding my dad’s hand and rubbing his head as he left this life- that was important. That was a benchmark to help me keep in perspective the big from the small things in life.

I changed a few things after that and thought I had my priorities straight. And then, a phone call brought me to my knees telling me my 22-year-old-son had died.

You can read about the stages of grief, but that does not guard you against the reality of it. I was on the ground in a dirty, ugly space of hopeless helpless grief. I wanted my little cowboy back. I wanted to see him when he was two years old wearing his hat, chaps, and boots, perched on his bouncy horse as he watched the “Three Amigos” movie. I wanted my baseball player back that could hit home runs every time he was up to bat and then danced around the bases because to him it was all about having fun. I wanted the schoolboy back with his huge smile wearing his favorite t-shirt that had a picture of a can of spam on the front. I wanted my musician back who filled my home with the vibration of his drums and could hear a song once and play it on his guitar. I wanted, “J.T. and the Basement Boys,” back in my basement driving me crazy with the musical noise. I wanted to see his smile when I handed him the keys to his truck. I wanted to hear him sing to his baby girl. I wanted to feel his beard brush next to my face and feel his hugs.

At his funeral, I thought I would die. I wanted to die.
Gratitude saved me.
Being grateful for the gift of him in my life, being grateful for the years he was with me, being grateful that I got to be his mom and no one else could say that - saved me.

Standing in front of an oak box that held my child, with his guitar silently perched on the floor next to it, created an unmovable, unbreakable benchmark made of granite that I will carry forever. I survived the most unthinkable, unimaginable, pain a mom can bear and I am still standing.

I have been through a lot in my life. We all have. I hear others complain about their life, their jobs, and their kids. I see the challenges and craziness in our world. I witness the hate and anger that causes people to do terrible things.

I see the other side. The side we should all look at. The side where we should be grateful for life – the good and not so good. The experiences, the joys, and the sadness.

My benchmark of comparison is rock solid. Nothing can hurt as deeply as the loss of my child. I know what is big and what is small to worry about. I know what to be grateful for.
And I will continue standing.
I believe we all will.  

Pennie’s Life Lesson: “Watch for benchmarks when they are given to you and allow gratitude to guide your life.”