In the weeks leading up to my departure, my mind barreled at manic speeds as I juggled my responsibilities and choices back and forth. Nestled in my sister's rocking love-seat, I wrote down my negative self-talk, burned it in her bathroom sink, and replaced it with positive affirmations directly counter to my fears.
"I am powerful. I am as strong as I need to be. I do not need to run faster than I have strength. I am a daughter of God and He loves me. I CAN let go of what I cannot control, I WILL let go of what I cannot control. I will be peaceful in my anxiety because Jesus is my anchor and my firm foundation.
Why will I have such an amazing time in New Orleans? because I am amazing."
Folded in my purse, this mantra carried me, not away from my fears, not freed from my anxiety, but through my fears and through my anxiety to my place of strength.
Miraculously, I hardly felt any anxiety while I was gone, just smidgens here and there and one sit-up-in-the-bed-and-gasp-for-air episode. I'm not sure if that woke the saint of a woman who let me share her bed when there was no room for me. She didn't say.
I went in full force to learn and to share and it was AMAZING. I made friends with several people. They laughed, and said yes, when to their faces I asked, "Will you be my friend?", referring to Facebook, but also life.
I learned from masters, women and men who serve on state and National PTA boards, children with wisdom beyond their years, and mothers, struggling to balance their own crazy lives but driven by vision and passion to better the lives of their own children and the children of America. But, most of all, I was touched by the woman working in the bathroom. The convention was held in the largest conference center I have ever seen in my life. It stretches .62 miles and 11 city blocks. Near the main ballroom where we had our general meetings, was a mammoth bathroom and a woman who worked there.
She was there every time I went inside.
On the second day I went the to bathroom 4 times between 7 a.m. and 4:30 p.m. She was in there every time. She works in the bathroom. ALL DAY LONG. And the bathroom smelled bad. ALL OF THE TIME. I wanted to know her. I wanted to know her story. Is she grateful for her job? Does it bring her joy? Do her feet hurt? Does she feel invisible? Does she feel trapped? What is her story? What could she teach me?
I was pretty bold last week, but not bold enough or rude enough to invade that woman's realm and pepper her with personal questions. Yet, I admired her. She smiled as she worked. She showed up. Her office is a bathroom. She was always there, despite difficult circumstances.
And, without talking to her, I felt a kinship. She's doing what she has to do. And so am I. And if she can show up each day and work long shifts in a windowless, smelly bathroom, I can do the hard things, both placed in my life and there by choice.
I needed to share this and, on my very last day, as I walked and walked and walked those halls, and walked some more, eating the most delicious dripping double scoop Bluebell ice cream waffle cone, I decided to stop once more in her bathroom, just to see, "Is she really always there?" And as I approached, I saw her, OUTSIDE OF THE BATHROOM, laughing as she talked to a co-worker and pushed a trash can across the polished floor, briefly emerged from her "office", not completely trapped after all. She was beautiful. She is strong. And so am I.
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