Love

I'm so thankful for nights of sleep and mornings that bring new days. I woke up with none of last night's heaviness.

But even as I wrote last night's post, my mind was filled with all the kids in my life - and how much I enjoy them. I guess we're all surrounded by kids, but I feel like I have an extra portion in my life. Babies who know my face and smile when they see me. Little blond girls who love tea parties, and boys who want to show me all their tools. Kids who have elaborate stories to tell and practice their jokes on me, learning what's appropriate and what's not. Teens who might walk by with not a word, or greet me with a hug.

I love each of these kids, and not too often does being with them make me sad. For that I'm very thankful, because these are great kids, and I want to enjoy each of them right where they are since that changes every day!

So this morning, no tears. Just a residue of sadness, but I'll tell God all about it and open up my hands to let him take it away.

Loss

The night is full of laughter and orange lights and cars driving with slow care through our neighborhood.

Halloween.

Tiny fairies, and Batman, and a race car driver, and two bumblebees, and dinosaurs, and a pop star, and a flapper, and a tiny vampire all walk the streets, and the neighborhood feels alive.

But tonight my arms feel empty.

I think it's becoming pretty clear that husband and I will not be parents. We won't adopt, there won't be some late miracle in my body. We won't ever hold a baby and know it's ours. We won't watch that little one take its first steps. We won't help dress anyone for Halloween and walk the neighborhood as Mom and Dad.

Sometimes I'm really ok with all this. Sometimes it feels almost like a relief to know we won't have to walk that hard road. We won't have to do the hard work of discipline and training when we're already so tired we can hardly think. We won't have to listen to the screaming of tantrums when we have company over. We won't have to change dirty diapers until we can hardly stand the sight of little bottoms.

But other times my arms and heart ache with an emptiness that comes with the knowing: I won't be a mother. Other times I can hardly look at a child without envy and sorrow. Sometimes when my nephews turn to me and mistakenly call me "Mommy" my heart bursts in my chest and I can't catch my breath and tears leak into my eyes, but I quietly answer them anyway.

Tonight I'm sad. I'm sad and feel this loss deep in my belly. I'll drink my cup of hot tea, and maybe take something to help me sleep - perchance not to dream. No dreams, please. Not tonight. Just rest and calm and blank thoughts. So that tomorrow I can get up and keep on walking this road toward healing, toward a heart that can rejoice in someone else's gift of a child. Not to deny my sorrow, but to come to a place where it no longer so defines me, controls me, pulls me this way and that.

Because the goal is joy and peace. To grow and let our wounds heal. Insha'allah, someday.

Twenty

Late yesterday afternoon the brilliant blue sky of Colorado autumn turned to gray, and we were warned by both nature and man that the temperatures were going to drop.

Sure enough, this morning, there is not a hint of anything but cloud - if the dense, low covering can be called that. Snow lies on the ground and it is continuing to snow, albeit not with much determination. "I don't foresee much additional accumulation," the weatherman might say.

I, for one, am glad for the change. Fall has, indeed, been beautiful, but I'm ready for cold days when I can embed in my house, sew or cook, and enjoy the quiet of winter. For those of you who dread the cold, my sympathies are with you. :)

Last night Tim and I went to a screening of Pearl Jam Twenty a documentary by Cameron Crowe (see Jerry Maguire, Almost Famous) who began his career as a music journalist in Seattle. He chronicled the band's beginnings, their rise to the heights of the music industry, and their continued journey as seasoned musicians and mature adults. It was wonderful - moving, informative, entertaining, with great timing and an amazing soundtrack.

On the drive home, Tim expressed that it had transported him back to his early college and grad school days in a much more visceral way than he'd anticipated. He had been absolutely engrossed in the film and was almost giddy with joy and memories. I, on the other hand, felt rather low, even though I'd enjoyed the movie intensely. It was leaving the movie that got me down. And listening to him reminisce. After all, those were golden years for him. But not for me.

I arrived home feeling old. I was reminded of the season in my life when Pearl Jam was at the height of their popularity. Those were hard years - between marriage and death, I thought to myself when Tim said, "...between undergrad and grad school." I didn't have a place where I felt I really belonged, my mom died, I had a terribly difficult work situation. Tough years.

So I told Tim that. I said, "The movie made me feel old." I snuggled my head against his shoulder. "I guess we're not young anymore."

He stroked my hair and gently smiled. "You're still my sweetie."

Aahhh. Those words were like salve on a wound. This man I love, this marriage in which I live, my high school sweetheart who still sees me that way - but with the benefit of 20 years of life shared together, and all that means.

It made me think of the Browning poem that ends, "God's in his heaven - all's right with the world."

Amen.

Blessed

I feel so blessed! I'm telling you - every hike I took this summer, every time I spent a day working in my garden, every heavy basket of laundry I carry - I think about where I was last year with this tender, awful wound on my belly. And now I'm all better! I know I keep saying it over and over again, but I keep thinking about it. I am so thankful for good doctors, my kind God in whose plan it was that I heal so wonderfully, my friends who served me faithfully, my family who loved me through the whole experience. Whew! I am blessed!

And ... today, as I took my morning walk in the fresh, new sunshine, the trees practically glowed in their fall colors - yellow, magenta, orange, and still a little green. Beautiful and wonderful to behold. Ahhh ... my favorite season is filling my heart and soul with beauty!

And ... I got a lovely massage, which means my neck and shoulders no longer feel like I've got rocks under my skin. That's always a plus, besides which my massage therapist is just such a fun lady. Time with her is always relaxing.

And .... I got some dog love this morning! There is a yard I walk by that has 2 labs in it - a young, black one, and a significantly older, slower moving yellow guy. They used to bark at me, running up to their chain-link fence, but as time passed, and I cooed and talked to them as I walked by, they barked from their corner, not even bothering to get up. Then they began to trot up to the fence to sniff me, that progressed to wagging tails, and now they run up to the fence, their whole behinds wagging, and push their ball under the fence so I can throw it. I think they'd do that all day, but I can only stop for a few minutes before heading home. It is too precious and fills me with joy!

And ... I am poised to harvest beautiful carrots, beets and radishes, and I still have lettuce and some fresh herbs. My mind is filled with plans for next year's vegetable garden. Yum-o!

And ... the fall light, that golden light that only comes this time of the year, floods my house, bathing everything in golden hues, as if Hollywood has lit my house for some royal scene. The trees move in the gentle breeze, the shadows play on my floor, and I dig out my sweaters and warm socks.

Blessed. I am so blessed.

Miracle

I don't know why I'm not writing more. Life is crazy busy - especially this last week. (But to any of you concerned about me, I'm actually making progress in that arena.) Life is sort of normal these days. Hmmm, I'm not sure why ... but I do have something to write about today.

Thursday evening Tim and I were lounging around watching TV. The phone rang, and Tim picked it up.

"Hello? ... Hi, Jim ..."

In the thinnest margin of time, in the shortest nano-second imaginable, my heart lept out of my chest - Dad is on the phone?! - No, Dad is dead.

There was no slow leaking of tears, no sniffles. There was instant, full on weeping - sobbing really. My body was instantly wracked with violent tears, and all of it caused by synapses in my brain over which I have no control. Instinct at the sound of my dad's name. The longing in my heart to hear his voice, see his face, glean comfort from his presence. It was odd, to say the least. And it left me shaken for a couple hours. And it resulted in very strange dreams for a couple nights.

How much I still miss him! My brain knows it. My body knows it. My soul knows it.

Last night I went to the symphony. It was marvelous! (I've splurged on season tickets this year as they are both a great deal and a wonderful balm to my soul.) The first piece they played was by Jean Sibelius (of whom I'd never heard - I'm kind of a classical music nincompoop) - Violin Concerto in D Minor, Op. 47. It showcased a solo violinist who was out of this world! And the music - it was so sad. It instantly transported me back to Dad's hospital room, to the day he died, planning his funeral. It was like the piece of music was written to express all the phases of losing someone you love. My heart was so moved, and so fed at the same time. Wonderful and so beautiful.

All this is to say that these two things have brought me to reflect on what miracles we are. Our bodies alone are wondrous in the speed with which they respond. The soloist last night played with speed and precision, her fingers making tiny moves along the strings, the bow moving furiously at times. And out of all that frenetic movement, a wondrous sound emerges - precise, beautiful, amazing!

A fingertip touches a hot pan and nearly instantly messages are conveyed that I should draw away, and my body responds. I hear my dad's name in a greeting, and without time to think, my brain leaps around to places I couldn't possibly have planned.

I am in awe of the wonder of our brains and our emotions.

We are made in a marvelous way. We are miracles roaming this earth - the complexity of our bodies, our minds, our souls and how they are intertwined. Fascinating, wonderful, beautiful.

And all this wonder works together as my body and mind work out my grief and healing, as I garden, as I spend time with lovely people, as I play with nephews and hike with friends. I am amazing and so thankful for my good health this fall. Look how I've healed! I am a wonder to behold.

Blessed day

The first snow of fall is coming down, filling the sky, but not sticking to the ground yet. The flakes are big and fat, like nature's sparkles in the air, and I have a quiet day at home to snuggle in and enjoy the quiet that winter brings. My windows are closed for the first time in months, and so I can't hear the traffic. There are no neighbors mowing. There are no dogs outside barking. The neighborhood has the hush of a winter's night - and it is only October.

Today I was going to go with a good friend into the mountains to see the beautiful fall leaves, but the mountains are expecting 3-6 inches of snow, and I didn't feel like braving the roads. Instead I made waffles for my neighbors and me. :-) It was lovely - them in their pajamas, sleepy-eyed, and me deeply gratified that they feel comfortable enough to slouch on over and eat breakfast on a Saturday morning. Not a small blessing - but one that fills me in the deep places of my heart.

And now my day is empty with nothing I have to do. Sure, I could do laundry (and still might), but I might also just sit and read, or write, or nap. I might take a walk in the cold. I might pick some lettuce in the snow and have a crispy, cold salad with my grilled cheese. I might call a friend. I might write a letter.

I might sit and stare out the window at the golden leaves, the trees that are still fully green, and the white flakes that are falling.

Splinters

I wake early in the morning from a dream. Dad is gone, so is Mom, and we have to sort out the clues of where they've gone and why. And as I lie in my warm cocoon, Egg pressed against my face as we share my pillow, both of us under the blankets, his paw in my hand, my fuzzy mind sorts out the dream and reality.

Mom and Dad are gone, and it isn't the why they've gone that needs sorting, but the how we go on. My eyes fill with tears. Some days without Dad are beginning to feel normal, and the missing isn't such a deep pain. But still, the painful days are deep in my gut, and despondence flits across my day like a skipping stone - causing ripples across the whole pond.

Like splinters that scatter across the forest floor when a giant tree falls, I have boxes of Mom and Dad's stuff to sort through. What tangible splinter of memory will I keep, and what will I relinquish, trusting that the memory ... without the touchstone of this item, this trinket, this photo, this hat, this bowl ... trusting that the memory will remain intact.

And perhaps the hardest part of letting go is not really the physical, but letting go of the memories themselves as little by little, so many of them slip away, and most of what you're left with is the essence of the person, like strong perfume in a vacated elevator. Of course I have many specific memories of both Mom and Dad, and always will, but some things I thought I'd never forget, like the sound of her voice, are foggy and distant, and the letting go, the not working to hold onto it, the recognizing it is all right to leave it behind is a pain and a grief in itself.

So I start this morning teary and weary from my last hour of sleep. But the sun is rising golden and lovely with that particular glow of fall, I have a day to be quiet at home, and I can salve my heart with hot tea, prayer, and the comfort of knowing that, despite the pain and sorrow, my life is full of good things that daily sustain me.

A tree

There is a tree in my neighborhood that must be one of the prettiest in the city.

Is it the particular spread and lie of its branches?

Is it the shape and size of its leaves?

Is it the just-so yellow color that it turns?

It spreads beautifully with long, graceful branches making it as wide as a house, and the proportions of its width and height are just right. It turns the most beautiful shade of yellow, and is one of the first trees in our neighborhood to fully blossom with fall color, making it stand out even more.

My neighborhood has something else that distinguishes it - a special high school that focuses on reaching kids who are about to permanently fall through the cracks - kids from the worst homes, kids with criminal records, kids to whom no one has payed enough attention. The 125 year old brick building has seen an awful lot of the world pass by its doors, and now it is a confluence of old and new ideas, methodologies, philosophies. It is a place where these special and often downtrodden kids can come and learn in a way they might not have expected, and be respected by adults in a way they may have never before experienced.

The most beautiful tree and this wonderful high school are on the same block. Why should I be surprised that these two things exist together? That tree, a living proof of adaptability, changing season by season, yet somehow the same year after year, is such an example of life itself. It is death and renewal, it is jaw-dropping beauty in the middle of the city, it is learning how to thrive where you're planted.

And the kids have that chance, too. Day after day the block is filled with kids lounging, talking, waiting for rides, buses, girlfriends. Day after day they walk past that tree. Do they see how beautiful it is? Do they believe they can grow and mature and change and adapt and learn to thrive? Do they see the beauty right in front of them, and inside themselves?

I hope so.