Back in Time

I don't always feel like blogging. Today is one of those days. So was yesterday. But it occurred to me that it might be interesting to share some old posts, either 'best of' kinds of posts or posts that have special meaning.

Did you know I started blogging when my father died? I don't know what in tarnation spurred me to decide to blog about the mind-numbing pain I felt, but that's what started this whole shebang. I've come a long way, don't you think?

My first ever post - Misty Morning Musings. (What can I say? I'm fond of alliteration.)

Alright, I'm Listening

The universe wants me to pay attention, apparently.

It's that time of year again... the anniversary of my father's death, several annual memorial events. I try my best to squelch the uncomfortable waves of grief that begin deep down in my core, to calm my latent dread; I wait for that day when it all lifts and I can look at a picture of my dad without the bottom of my stomach dropping out. Without holding my breath.

But reminders are all around at this time of year, even unexpected ones.

Yesterday, I helped Brady with a college class project. He had to produce a live video segment for his Video Production class and my friend Kristin and I were his guests. I interviewed Kristin on - what else? - unschooling, while Brady sat in the control room hoping his crew would cue the lights, cameras, and me at the right times. While we waited for our turn, we struck up a conversation with a young woman who was also waiting to do an interview. She mentioned she's from my town, so I asked her name. I didn't recognize it, but told her my name, including my maiden name, asking her if she knows any Flynns. She paused... "Well, I got the John Flynn scholarship last year, are you that Flynn?"

Wow. Tears welled. I sure am. I wasn't able to attend the scholarship presentation last year, and thus, hadn't met the 2nd year recipient. What amazing serendipity.

When I asked where she was going to school, she told her own tale of woe. She'd taken a year off after two of her closest friends were killed - in separate unrelated accidents - in the same week.

Today, another reminder to pay attention. Scrolling through my Facebook homepage, I spy a photo album posted by someone I don't know titled "John Flynn Memorial Tournament." This past weekend was the basketball tournament named in memory of my father. I took a peek, recognizing a few people, my brother included, when a picture of the trophies and plaque unexpectedly appeared - and on the plaque is a photo of my dad. My heart pounded.

I still have a DVD in my desk drawer - right here, not 6 inches away - of my father giving a presentation to the local Historical Society. A kind neighbor gave it to me shortly after his death, thinking I'd like a copy. It was a sweet gesture, but I can't watch that DVD. Seeing still photos of him is difficult enough. Seeing video of him talking? Breathing? Alive? Can't do it.

I know enough about universal messages to understand that I'm not supposed to be stuffing it all away, pretending it didn't happen, that today is just another day and March is just another month. I can run, but I can't hide.

I'm listening now.

A Different Perspective - in Photos

I realize in trying to relay my conflicted feelings about the other day - the 3rd anniversary of my father's death and the day my soon-to-be step-brother welcomed his first child into the world - I rambled on and possibly didn't make a whole lot of sense. Adding to my sense of confusion was life swirling around me in strange ways: the dog needing to go in and out, in and out, in and freaking out already; Jonathan calling from his friend's house and asking me to bring a Q-tip when I picked him up because his ear felt funny; my brother texting about an old acquaintance who died (much too young as well) but about whom no one seems to have the details. There's definitely a sense of unrest in the air.

So I'm going to let my nephew Armando explain it. In pictures.

When one first considers the symbolism of a new baby being born - the granddaughter of my mom's new fiance - on the 3rd anniversary of my father's death, one might at first think,


"I don't want to talk about it."

Or, one might even think,
"This is a stupid day and you can't make me think about it."

Upon further reflection, however, the significance of the events may begin to sink in, causing one to think,
"WHOA."
"That IS pretty crazy."

"Some things stop, other things begin."

"And in the end, all there is is love."

Thanks Armando.

Something to Ponder

Sometimes, the whole "circle of life" thing has many layers.

Yesterday was the 3rd anniversary of my father's death.

But as often happens with the whole circle of life thing, yesterday, my mom's fiance's son Ryan and his wife Marina had their first child - a girl.

Here's me with Marina, my soon-to-be step-sister-in-law. Or something like that. Marina lives in Denver, where she is right now nestling in with her new wee one. Nothing like a new baby in springtime, is there?

Now I know it's a stretch to connect the new baby with the passing of my father. But I can't help pondering the cosmic symbolism here. I'm all for marking an otherwise deeply sad day with something hopeful and promising like a newborn life. This event hits home not only the obvious circle of life with death and birth but also, for our evolving family, the circle of life as it applies to the old-life death and new-life birth; namely, my mom's upcoming marriage to Gordy and the mingling of two very large local families as a result.

Yesterday I spent most of my time ignoring the fact that it was the 3rd anniversary of my father's death. If you ask my kids they'll tell you I'm not much for big lead-ups to big happy celebrations, much less sad ones. In a departure from what many practice, I almost find it irreverent, in some ways, to make a big hoohah about my dad's passing. I remember and grieve and shake my fists at the sky every single day. I don't reserve my honors and tributes and "why in the hell did you have to go and die, Dad?" for the anniversary. I'd rather that day pass by somewhat unrecognized, not wanting to give any more finality and credence to what's occurred than is necessary.

And so it was rather conflicting yesterday to chat about my new paint colors with my mom, whose blood-shot eyes gave her away, and Gordy, who was eagerly awaiting the update from Denver, while we avoided the topic of my father's passing. It was conflicting to temper my grief about just how much I hate the date 3/11 which will forever be marked with horror and trauma, with just how genuinely happy - and even relieved - I was to hear that a new baby was born into the family. Even if calling them 'family' has taken a while to digest and process.

I like them well enough. In fact I like them all very, very much. It's just all... surreal. You know?

And so my range of emotions tottered back and forth throughout the day and night. Jonathan couldn't sleep a wink all night long. I didn't suggest there may be that cosmic connection to explain his unrest. Brady's agitation came earlier in the month, when he had sudden memories of his final hours with my dad just days before he died. Rob just nodded quietly when I brought up the significance of yesterday's date and said, "I know. I've been thinking about him all day."

I'm happy to have something else - something amazing - mark March 11th from now on. Now when my stomach turns at the thought of that date, it will be followed by a softening... and a celebration.

Our congratulations to the entire Dirksen clan! Now please come visit so I can hold that baby.

Life's Heavy Doses

Does it ever happen to you that you're feeling tired, or agitated, or tense, or ouchy, and you're not even sure why? It happens to me.

Does it ever happen to you that you get a little passive-aggressive about blogging, about attending the usual commitments, about, say, cooking dinner, or... getting out of bed, and you're not even sure why? It happens to me.

Does it ever happen that you set out to type a newsy email to a friend, and all this angst-ridden stuff comes pouring forth, and you realize by the end of it, "Ahh, so that's why I'm feeling like this"? It happened to me. Just now.

This is a heavy week, for several reasons.

~I met my mother's new 'friend.' I liked him fine, so that's not the problem. And he's good to her. It's just surreal, that's all.

~I met with the headmaster at Brady's school to discuss the possibility that he may drop out. I can hear the homeschoolers now, screaming excitedly, "That's not a problem! That's not a problem!" and I can hear the rest of you thinking, "HUH?!? You're not serious..." It's a long story. We're on the fence (including and especially Brady). We're neck-deep in discussion. It's a huge decision. Again.

~Tomorrow we sign papers to buy the main family farm. Because my father died, because my grandmother died, I find myself in the interesting and unexpected position of becoming 1/3 owner of our fifth-generation family farm. It's exciting and frightening and mind-boggling all at the same time. It was Dad's plan and we're carrying it forward.

~Tomorrow is also the 2-year anniversary of my father's death. Two years already. That doesn't seem possible, as I still look for him around corners and among fence rows. And I still haven't been able to visit his gravestone. I've tried.

~And I saw some old friends last week, whose reception of me was so kind and warm and accepting, it shined a very bright light on the fact that I don't have that in the current communities I'm running with.

So I guess, dear friends, I've got a lot working on my mind and my heart, so I've been tired, and quiet, and introspective... and tired.. and, well, tired... Instead of my usual blog chirpiness, I'm loaded down with big things that can't be easily discussed in this blog.

'Twill be a good day when I post blog chirpiness again.

But we need to end this on a high note, because a wise friend recently told me...

~ the thing you feed is the thing that grows.... ~

*****
Good news part one - I've been doing some arting lately, and for anyone who knows me at all, this is pretty unusual. It's been very soothing. And while the feel of pencils and paintbrush in my hand is rather foreign, I find it doesn't matter - it's the process I need right now, not the product. So indulge me, if you will, by looking upon my beginner's work.

One became a bookmark and went to live with my mum.

Good news part two - I sold an article! http://www.everythinghomeschooling.com/ purchased an article I wrote titled, "An Unschooler Goes to School". Subscribe to their web-zine if you want, but you already know the details. :-)

Good news part three - We just returned from our annual homeschooling conference, and it couldn't have come at a better time. I needed the pick-me-up more than ever. Brady and I stayed up until 2:40am on Saturday night, Brady going on 'adventures' through the hotel (which was bizarre and very bad feng shui!) with his new unschooling friends, while I chatted with a new group of unschooling moms. And a very cool serendipitous event was my chat with Ren Allen. She was a featured speaker at the conference and as I'd connected with her online a time or two, I hoped to say hello to her. However, she was swarmed with questioners after each workshop so I didn't have the opportunity to chat with her. Well, our room's coffee maker died, so on Sunday morning, after most of the conference-goers were gone and the hotel was finally still, I went to the hotel cafe to get a coffee and there was Ren. Her flight didn't leave for several hours and I had time to chat because Brady wanted to spend as much time as possible with his new unschooling friends, so we got over an hour to talk. Looks like I wasn't meant to have only a quickie hello with her after all. Good things come to those who wait. So glad to have connected with you, Ren!

*****

Now listen - if Brady decides to leave school and come back home, I'm gonna need all the good unschooling mojo and support vibes you've got to spare. All of 'em. It's hard work going against the grain of society again and again, and it gets harder as the stakes get higher. The collective sigh of relief when Brady entered school did not go unnoticed by me (or him), and it takes a strong spirit to shut out the myriad opinions, doubts, and fears and listen to your own inner voice speaking, and that's what he's faced with right now. Big stuff for a 15 year old.

I am in awe of his maturity, his willingness to be who he is, and his obvious ability to succeed no matter where he is, no matter what he chooses. We want him to be happy, and we will do whatever is necessary to see that happen.
*****
Thank you to everyone who's sent "where'd you go?" and "come back soon" emails - it's a comfort to know I'm missed. And now I ask you for one more thing - a big fat dose of "I've got your back grrlfriend" and some 'there there' if you've got any to spare.

Odds are, I'll be back with more than a little bit of big news any time now.

The metamorphosis continues.

~Namaste~

Inbox Avoidance

I've been busy. Really busy. And not just eating fudge and homemade biscotti, though that's taken up an inordinate amount of time, as my growing thighs will attest. The usual holiday craziness is enough to pickle my highly-sensitive brain cells. Add in two family funerals, two rounds of houseguests, four waves of Christmas in 36 hours, a New Year's overnight get-together, and 732.9 family gatherings, and my regular fixes addictions tasks get pushed aside. I don't get to do the daily crossword puzzle. I don't get to watch any late-night reruns of Sex and the City. And sacrifice of all sacrifices, I don't get to check my email. Gasp!

I'm very passive agressive about email. And if it wasn't bad already, during this busy time it's gotten very, very close to the point of no return. It's not that I don't want to attend to the emails I receive (and I certainly get twitchy when I think my own sent emails are being overlooked); it just gets a little overwhelming at times. You see, when I'm busy, I scan my inbox for messages that may contain need-to-know information, like the time of tomorrow's funeral arrangements. If I'm feeling especially accomodating, I'll zip off a "thanks, got it" or "ok, see you then" reply. If I'm feeling like the top of my head might blow off if I have to do one more freakin' thing, then I don't reply and just gush my apology or thanks later.

But since my addiction is so bad I like to be available for my friends at all times, I do try to make time for my email inbox every day, even if it means ignoring avoiding hiding from excusing myself from our guests for a moment or staying up way, way too late. After reading (and never rarely occasionally responding to) the need-to-know emails, depending upon how much time I have, I may do a very quick scan of the want-to-read emails, like the ones from my friends doing our usual round-robin of thanks to the hosts of our New Year's Eve overnight gathering. I'll skim those and smile and sigh and file a "gotta do that too" somewhere in the deep recesses of my ADHD-riddled mind.

The wish-I-could-read emails are next in priority. If the first two categories are low in quantity, I might just have time to at least scan the titles with a sigh of longing. The DailyOM, the freecrap freecycle items up for grabs, the personal note from Barack Obama's private email account because we're, like, tight. Oh, if only I had time to dish with Barack peruse the pages and pages of drivel important information.

And finally, there are the why-do-I-still-get-these emails. The e-newsletters I signed up for once upon a time that I'm no longer interested in but can't seem to unsubscribe from. The snopes.com-immune forwards that contain the email addresses of at least 9,284 people and enough dancing smiley faces to choke a horse. The requests for my social security number and $5,000 even though I'm sure I wired that information three or four times already.

But occasionally I'll get an email that haunts me in a way that's different from the usual how-will-I-ever-answer-them-all way, and I'll save it, and I'll go back to it, and I will wonder again and again if I should answer it, and if so, how, because it struck a chord in its desperation and I've been to that place and I know how it feels to need to reach out and feel a connection with people after a loss.

A few months ago, I received the following email.

I JUST WANTED TO LET EVERYONE KNOW ON MY MOTHERS FRIEND LIST, THAT SHE PASSED AWAY THIS MORNING 11/09/07 FROM CANCER. IF U WOULD LIKE ANY INFORMATION PLZ, PLZ FEEL FREE TO CALL ANYTIME. IM HER DAUGHTER MY NAME IS ELIZABETH DONT HESITATE TO CALL ANYTIME OF THE DAY OR NIGHT

(###)-###-0725

It was a local number. I don't know who this woman is, even though the girl listed her mother's name in the subject line. I have searched my memory's archives. I have asked around. I looked through the other people listed in the "To" section to find someone recognizable. I was in this woman's email address book and I don't know who she is.

I thought about replying to say I was sorry for her loss, but I don't know how to say it without sounding distant. I thought about explaining that I don't think I knew her mother, but that seems cold. I realize it could be a joke. Or a made-up forward. Or a mistake in coming to me. But it pains me to leave a message like that unanswered, no matter how passive-agressive I can be about email.

So I sent my heartfelt sympathies to the universe in her mother's name, hoping that in some small way, it will reach this girl in her hour of darkness. Whether I know her mother or not, I can speak her name in affirmation. In sisterhood.

I can do it every time I come upon that email. Busy or not, I can make time for that small thing.

Weighted Ice

The midwest is shrouded in snow, ice, and slush today. Trees have snapped off their tops. Power lines have fallen. There is a heavy gloom all around. It seems fitting.


For a long while now, I've been feeling centered, feeling 'high', feeling inspired. When I'm in that place I wonder why others can't 'feel the love' and join me there. I wonder why people let the little things bother them. I share my wisdom like I have it all figured out.


Unfortunately the pendulum's pattern of my life shows me that after each high there must be its accompanying low. And there's where I find myself today.


It started with the day when Rob and I sniped at each other the way old, married couples, who've never found a way out of the ruts, do. It continued with an even worse day on Saturday, despite my 'lessons noted' if not learned. Edgy, edgy, edgy, trying not to spill it but it brims over anyhow. And it carried on yesterday when I got a bee in my bonnet (more like a bug up my *ss) and spent all morning cleaning our disgusting garage, then cleaned the house, then rearranged the furniture, got the tree, made dinner, put up decorations, and fell into bed, exhausted. It was one of those 'keep moving' sort of edgy days.


So I wasn't entirely surprised to wake today and find I'm edgier than ever. School was called off but I couldn't find it within myself to make it a fun day. I couldn't think of one d*mn thing to do; I knew I was going to let the day pass with no fanfare. And then mom called.


My grandmother died.


This was not entirely unexpected; she's been failing for a while. And she was 95. But, still... it's my grandma, and she's always been here, and she's always bounced back; was always the tough one. And when I cried, I'm a bit ashamed to say the tears were mostly a release of all the buried grief for my father.

I get a bit wacky when I grieve these days. My answer to the edginess I felt was to make a Thanksgiving dinner with all the trimmings. For no good reason. I had to slog through ice and slush in a barren, shut-down countryside to get a few ingredients. I gave dirty looks to other shoppers because I was feeling surly. I cooked and cooked and took out my angst on the mashed potatoes. I didn't heed the messages of the lost measuring spoons or the the spilled bottle of safflower oil or the vase that shattered on the counter. I kept cooking. We had turkey dinner, d*mn it.

This is when I hope-hope-hope there's some sort of next stage, because I'm pretty sure my grandma really needs to see her son.



And I'm pretty sure she needs to see her husband, who died over 50 years ago, leaving her with a farm and three kids to care for.

And I'm pretty sure she needs to give him a stiff upper-cut to the jaw right after their reunion kiss.

We've asked her to give dad one too.

After the hug and kiss, of course.

Learning to Love the Fine Lines

I'm having technical difficulties tonight and can't seem to upload any pictures. That is a problem, considering I wanted to work on a sequel to my "Why I'm Not a Food Blogger" series and the post is set to contain some 30 or so photos. Egad. It's also a problem considering option #2 was to post about the lovely evening of sketching we had last night. Not so interesting without pictures of the sketches. So I will instead wax on about a rather profound moment I had today. And no pictures were taken.

I've been worrying a bit more than usual about the fine lines in my face. They're growing deeper, the aging process sped up, no doubt, by the trauma of the past few years. And while I plan to age gracefully - as gracefully as possible - and don't care much for the trappings of the stay-young-at-any-cost marketing vultures, it is nevertheless a little harder than I expected to see the patterns of age furrow deeper and deeper.

Particularly on my forehead. I have crease lines in my forehead, well worn, apparently, from years of some serious eyebrow raising or something. Since I don't consider myself easily shocked, I don't know why I obviously insist on furrowing my brow on a regular basis. That alone is enough fodder for some quiet-time contemplation on facial expressions of choice. I've been rubbing a double dose of heavy face cream into those creases every night, not happy until my face leaves an oil slick on my pillowcase.

But today I went to visit my grandmother. My father's mother. She isn't well.

There were two women in her room when I arrived at the nursing home, and they weren't dressed like nurses. They introduced themselves as Hospice. That caught me by surprise. So that's where we are, then.

Grandma woke up and recognized me. But then a few minutes later she didn't recognize me. Then she recognized my son and talked about how kids really do eat a lot. Then she asked who my son was and mumbled a couple of things I couldn't understand. This went on for a short while, and Jonathan's forehead got some furrowing practice this time.

Then she nodded off to sleep again. I didn't try to stop her; we'd had a good enough chat. As she slept, I held her hand and took some good, long looks at her. And as I studied her face and her hair and her frail body and her withered hand, I was suddenly drawn to her forehead.

Crease lines. Many of them. Deep ones. Too many to count.

It would never occur to me to look at my grandmother, or anyone for that matter, and think "wrinkles, ugh!" I don't see people that way, especially the people I love. I see the whole picture, the whole person, and if you asked me right now to name who has the deepest forehead creases I wouldn't have a clue. And I couldn't care less.

With my grandma's failing it is one more part of my father that is slipping away. But if we can't have her much longer, he should get her. I quietly cried a little as I watched my grandma sleep. My son looked carefully from me to his gameboy, from me to his great-grandma. He waited while I went to the bathroom for a tissue. He gave me that sort of slightest-upturn-of-a-smile that says everything it needs to say about love and empathy and how he understands even if it's scary.

Grandma has hit rock bottom and come back before. Once, I swore she died right in front of my eyes - I visited her and she had pneumonia and she slumped over at the kitchen table while we had tea. My hands trembled as I called 911 and I cried with relief when she came to. She recovered from that episode and many more, and she's proven that a lifetime of smoking cigarettes and drinking gin and eating creamed beef on toast and playing Old Maid for nickels makes for long living.

I was glad for the visit. And I was glad for the reminder of what's important. Sometimes we forget.

And in my worry, the lines grow deeper.

It's Back

We interrupt this newly-fun-loving blog to bring you this update.



Enough with the wise cracks, I feel like I have a little 'splaining to do.

It's been raining for 3 solid days here. Every time I woke up last night (which was often) it was raining, a different intensity each time. But when I finally rose this morning there was a wee break in the deluge and I was able to squeeze in a fast bike ride. I made it just in time... there's now a downpour outside my window.... but I really needed the ride this morning. I probably could've ridden twice as long, seeing as it wasn't nearly long enough to melt my emotional build-up.

The grieving process over the past year and a half was so incredibly difficult and draining and all-encompassing, I was actually pretty relieved when my smart *ss side returned. It felt good to crack jokes and laugh at how stupid I can be, make sarcastic comments and talk about silly stuff, normal stuff, regular life - shoe shopping. And if you've been with me for a while, you may have noticed the radical detour from the original writings on my blog. I'm sure some are relieved and others are wondering just which one is the real me. I'm sure - I'm hoping - the answer is somewhere in the middle.

I was relieved to actually grow tired of feeling like a wet blanket all the time, but that had to happen in its own good time. I remember I even researched the stages of grief because I always felt the same - heavy, detached, incredibly sad, and very lethargic about life. Where was the denial? I had many moments of say-it-isn't-so but the loss was very present. Where was the resentment? I recall only a flash or two. Where was the anger?

I actually recognized my own impending pattern of crash-and-burn this time, which is a curious thing. All of a sudden (on a bike ride, of course) I realized all my writing was heavy on the sarcasm and light on the paradigm-shifts, and noticed I was starting to feel a bit manic. It doesn't help that it's been raining for almost two-weeks straight; or that our crazy soccer schedule has kicked in; or that my hayfever leaves me with the undesirable choice between having a drippy face or suffering med-induced sleepless nights; or that we just learned of another sudden, senseless, accidental death. And people keep asking me when Brady starts school and how that's going and are we excited and will it be difficult. And oddly, I've been fine about the whole thing. Juuusssst fine.

There's another Dad-like quality of mine - I go along juuust fine, and I don't notice the tension building as it's masked by busyness, biting humor, and increasingly intense bike rides. And then bam - I crack wide open.

I remember discussing the book The Artist's Way with an acquaintance once. I was going on about how difficult this or that was for me, how I'd like to feel more confident about certain things, how I was working on it and whatnot, and the woman looked at me with mouth hanging open. "You?!" she said? "But you always seem so... so... confident, and secure, and happy. I always assumed you had it all figured out." That surprised me in so many ways, but especially because that meant I'm quite adept at showing the strong side and hiding the weak underbelly.

Writing about my grief was the first time some folks saw that other side of me - the side who delves into my own sh*t, wrangles with it for a while, stays in the fray until something good comes from it or I learn something about myself, and then emerges anew. My social side just shows the end product - the newly evolved me - or even just a slick advertisement of myself, keeping things light but together. Blogging about my journey through grief was simply sharing more of the process of how I get from a bad place to a (hopefully) better place. Not to mention it was the only person I could be at that time.

And then when I was feeling stronger, I didn't want to be so heavy anymore. I was ready to move on.

So I pondered my latest rising angst and finally saw what is going on - I'm in total denial about the pain of Brady going to school. In one week. One freakin' week.



The anger has arrived. It started a few days after I learned of the latest senseless young death (46). I could feel it rise in my throat and I wanted to shake my fists at the universe and scream "WHAT THE F*CK!" It visited when I was conflicted about attending a golf outing in my father's memory because the associated heaviness was interfering with my joy at rushing off to Willow. It's here as I wrestle with the helpless feeling of launching my first child into school after eight years of unschooling, a new process which has brought out both the best and the worst in me. (Thankfully, these days my 'worst' is better than it used to be.)

And when I get p*ssed off, the tears follow right quick. Gawd I'm so bloody tired of crying.

School folks, go ahead and roll your eyes (or think back to the first day of your child's kindergarten perhaps), but this really hurts. I'm excited for him, hopeful that it'll be a wonderful transition for him, and eager, even, for all of us - that we might be entering a wonderful new phase and adding a wonderful new community to our lives. But we've been together for so long, and it's been such a beautiful thing to grow together and work through the hard spots and savor the good spots and know each other in a way that only comes from such intense togetherness... I just can't believe that's going to change. I fully support and honor him in this process - but the good of every change is also tempered by grief about what gets left behind.

I remember when my kids were young it seemed like the teen years were so far away. People say it goes by quickly, and it does, but I don't know that there's any way to prepare for such parting, just as there's no good way to prepare for any loss. You just muddle through it and put one foot in front of the other.

My intuitive Pisces grrrlpal Sharon knew it was coming and called to check in on my emotional well-being. I told her I was handling it surprisingly well as I rambled in hyper-drive about other stuff. She knows, though, she knows. (And now she knows why I couldn't return her phone calls for over a week - I wasn't ready to crack open.)

But now it's here, and I'm out of time, and the emotion is spilling whether I'm ready for it or not. And it's ok. It's a let-down, and I'll come out the other side again, in time, and be wiser and stronger and calmer. But in the meantime I'll need to retreat and be quiet and sift through it in my own messy way, and spend our last week together celebrating my son, his transition, and our ever-evolving life.

The next few blog posts were penned yesterday in "rising angst mode", so keep that in mind, laugh a little, send me some positive energy and light, and I'll catch y'all on the other side.



~Namaste~

One Year

On Sunday, my father will have been gone one year. Look at all he's missing.






Dad, where did you go?

Perspective

Photo: Snowy morning in January, view from our deck

During quiet moments, even as a child, I've known I am one of the lucky ones. I've often wondered why others struggled in so many ways while I lived in relative ease and calm and comfort. Who decides who among us get born into a life of poverty, abuse, illness or tragedy? And is there, contained within my privilege, an obligation to those less fortunate? A responsibility to do something larger?

When kids in high school ranted on about how much they hated their parents or about how their lives were so miserable (and some were), I remained supportive yet silent. It's no easy task to refrain from chiming in with an, "I hate my parents too!" when acceptance and conformity were the social lifelines of the day, but it simply wasn't true. I found other ways to act in solidarity with those struggling friends without selling out my family (or my own dignity) by lying. Fact is, I had it pretty damn good and I knew it. And knowing how emotionally high-maintenance I've always been, it was even more clear that I should appreciate those who suffered me through my growing pains.

That was the thing I chose to tell Rob during our recommitment ceremony, when our church offered a quiet and private opportunity to renew our vows. We were asked to think on one thing that stood out for us that we so loved about our spouses, and then share them privately with each other. Ever the rule-breaker, I of course had a couple things to say (how can you choose just one?), but most important was my deep appreciation that Rob unfailingly stands by me through my tidal waves of emotions, and is always there on the other side waiting for me, without judgment, when I crash from the ride. And as with my parents, I know that while I can think of a zillion petty things to complain about (and do) I cannot ever claim to be alone or unsupported. Because I'm not.

I think now, those moments of quiet, when I pondered my lucky fate in life, those moments were building a foundation for future struggles. Now that life has dealt me a bit of perspective, I can work to place this pain and sadness on the continuum and see that while this past year has had its share of darkness, there has been far more light in my life. I'm not only glad I know it now, as I tentatively emerge from this dark hole of grief and dip a toe back into living again, but I'm so-so-so glad I knew it then, even before I had the opposing dark to expose the light. Because I took those moments to thank the universe for its blessings, and I accepted the responsibility contained within that grace, to feel deep feelings of empathy and love for those less fortunate and to hopefully, on occasion, express my gratitude to those who made it so.

I told my mom the other day, now I know why adults are no fun. I recall whining at my parents on occasion, when I was a teen, that they were no fun. Why didn't they go out with friends more? Why the seriousness all the time? Why not let loose and laugh until your sides hurt and act spontaneously? They just smiled.

I now understand that once that innocence is stolen, it marks a new phase. And now things that should and can be happy and joyful are tempered with worry and caution and "please don't let anything bad happen" kinds of neuroses. And while we say "Oh, you can't live like that," we know that we can, and we do. As parents, we see visions of our toddlers having tragic accidents because we turn our heads for just a second. We imagine all manner of horrid possibilities when our teens hitch a ride with a friend. We get a little nutty about knee pads and bike helmets and looking both ways a thousand times before crossing the street and not being able to look when they swing from the top of the jungle gym or an uncle tosses them into the air. Things that occur millions of times without incident, though we know it only takes that one time....

When I agitate on tragic moments, I lament that could we retrieve just five seconds, would that have made a difference...

Rob wisely pointed out that it probably makes a difference every single time. When we had this conversation, he'd just run back into our friends' house after realizing we'd left something behind, and he commented... did leaving 30 seconds later than planned save us from a tragic fate? Or put us closer to harm's way? Is there some sort of divine predetermination about these things? Are some of us destined to live only short lives while others trudge through a century of mostly-healthy years like my still-living almost-95 year old grandmother?

And so it is that another tragedy has occurred... 16 year old Kaitlin Miller, family friend, was killed in a skiing accident last Saturday. She was skiing fast, she fell down, she hit her head, and she died. When I heard the news from a friend, I had to call back a few minutes later and ask.... are you sure.... because I just couldn't wrap my head around it.

I won't attempt to memorialize Kaitlin here, to lay claim to something that is not my right. But when one of us loses a child, we all lose a child. And the pain we all feel for the Miller family goes as deep as any pain has ever gone. There are no words to say, no deeds to lessen their sorrow. We can only grieve with them and for them and let them know they are not alone through this.

Life can be so incredibly cruel. And while this tragedy doesn't lessen my pain for my father, it adds another layer of perspective to it. That was the "proper" order of things - my father was supposed to go before me. Just not yet. But this... the loss of a child shakes every foundation and shows just how little control we actually have.

But Kaitlin knew what she had, too. Her parents found notebooks she'd kept, containing all the little inspirational notes her father had written and left for her at various times ("She was my project," he told us), but also notes of affirmation she'd written for herself, acknowledging her weaknesses to be worked on and her strengths to be celebrated. What amazing insight for so few years.

So, while it's difficult to see in the looming darkness, the examples are still before us. Be grateful for what we have. Acknowledge the goodness that is our fortune. File it away for when the time comes to draw upon the strength of it. Seek light and bask in its warmth.

And to Kaitlin and my father and all those who travel on ahead of us.....

May the road rise up to meet you. May the wind be always at your back. May the sun shine warm upon your face; the rains fall soft upon your fields.... and until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

~Namaste~

Masquerading Sadness

Photo: Jonathan with his regular order - a bacon cheeseburger

When we're tender from tragedy, grief wears many disguises. One can attend a function on auto-pilot and have concerned friends misinterpret it as "handling this so well." We can get annoyed with one another for not intuiting our needs. And anger can crack like a whip over seemingly trivial things.

The early days of grieving were marked with much confusion and little activity, and so it may have been an act of insanity to attempt anything so bold as an outing with the kids. But in a misguided move toward normalcy, Mom and I struck out one day, only two weeks after my dad's death, to take the grandkids to see a movie.

I didn't have the mindfulness thing quite down yet at that point, it was much too early. With time, I've become more discerning in discovering the triggers we all have, and therefore can back up and mend fences before the cows run amok. Most times. On the movie day, though, I let a simple thing turn into something big and ugly.

Hungry but not in the mood to cook, we stopped for sub sandwiches after the movie. A video gaming shop was next door, so Jonathan gave a quick order and the older kids left to browse gaming shelves while we picked up the food. My mother and I made our executive ordering decisions (we had five more at home to feed, in addition to our movie-going group) and ordered four big sandwiches, one of which was similar to what Jonathan asked for.

The dinner time was a loud affair, with mom cutting fruit, me cutting sandwiches, and the kids tossing all the couch pillows on the floor for some jumping. I served Jonathan his sandwich slice and even picked off the tomato since I knew he'd frown at it. Well, the sandwich had some kind of sauce spread on it and he complained it wasn't what he'd asked for. So I began offering all sorts of remedies. I'll scrape the sauce off. I'll get different bread. I have ham in the fridge and will make a new sandwich. But he continued to explain, tearfully and red-faced, that this wasn't what he'd asked for.

I wasn't angry or frustrated, and I was lovingly "fixing" the problem. Well, he refused to eat the sandwich, refused my offers for something different, and decided not to eat anything at all.

Jonathan's grandpa had died, unexpectedly, three weeks before. We were all extraordinarily fragile right then. Jonathan hadn't eaten any food before dinnertime on one single day since my father had died. And this movie-sub sandwich outing was our first venture back into life outside our dark grief. And I ordered the wrong damn sub.

When I told an acquaintance about it, who had, incidentally, just lost her daughter to cancer, she said, "I've been taking many, many deep breaths and reminding myself ***DON'T TAKE IT PERSONALLY!*** and soon it's really not about the sandwich anymore, it's just sadness leaking out disguised as anger and frustration."

I went to Jonathan and I held him and told him I was sorry I didn't order the sandwich he'd asked for. I'd made a mistake. I should have ordered the right one. He said, "Ok" and we were better. Not fixed, but better.

It might sound crazy, but if it wasn't for the amazing insights I glean from people further down the path than I, people who help me see how even - or especially - the slightest change in perspective can improve our lives, that scenario would've ended much differently. That night, Jonathan had one of his worst nights yet, coming to bed with me, choking back tears, saying he couldn't sleep, didn't feel well, and fidgeting late into the night. Everything makes a difference. And that day's lesson woke me up.

Expressions

Photo: Lone Tree that caught Brady's eye

As I sat down to write this morning, I found my time taken up instead by perusing old writings. I have several book beginnings (but no books), many journal entries, and columns written for newsletters, magazine submissions, and this blog. Reading through my writings on grief, I was taken back to the earliest days and the heaviness of that time. I'm grateful I penned much of it, because already I'd forgotten some things. I only wish I'd written more, and more often. It is good to remember.

Somehow, that's a difficult thing for me. I can recall emotions and feelings and senses about things, but not necessarily the particulars. Those are better kept by journaling - if only I'd stick with it more regularly. One particular journal entry I titled, "Expressions." I share some of it now for the beauty it contains, a small memory of the kids and some ways they processed their own grief during the intense, early days.

"My life is a topsy-turvy inner struggle right now, as I shut out the world and wrestle with the demons death has rained upon me. I'm having incredible dreams, and so many thoughts are visiting, so many things to ponder, memories to revisit, new feelings and experiences and perspectives to absorb and sit with... I feel like I've shed my old skin, and it will be amusing to see what my new skin looks like in time. For now, I am home - tending my mother, making muffins, barely getting dressed, and screening my calls. I feel like I'm visiting every ounce of sadness I've ever known, and taking the long rest that I've needed for a long, long time.

The kids' expressions of grief have been incredibly moving and powerful, even when they seem simple. My niece Ana (7) wrote a letter to my mom asking if she should sleep with her, and she drew a picture of grandma alone in bed and wrote "Lonely Grandma" above it. Niece Maddie (4) drew a picture of her and Papa John, with hundreds of tears streaming down their cheeks and onto the ground, even though she had declared, "Everyone is crying for Papa so I'm not going to cry." My son Brady (13) says he has conversations with his grandpa, and feels comfort in hearing his voice. He also decided to play basketball because Papa John had just taught him how to shoot baskets, 4 days before he died, and told Brady he is a natural. And my son Jonathan (9), true to his quirkiness, picked all the hard-boiled egg pieces out of his tuna sandwich, formed them into a sad face on his plate, and said, "This is my face ever since Papa John died."

I worry about my mother, and that gives me reason to rise in the morning and something to tend to. She is so scared and lost. There is no place where Dad's absence isn't deeply felt - he was everywhere, very very present. Funny, we used to complain about it.

Dad was quite the busy-butt, and he was *everywhere*. So his absence is so great and obvious and painful. There were 2,000 people at his visitation! I met people whose names I'd heard my entire life, since Dad was quite the storyteller. I only wish I'd met them under different circumstances, of course. Oh how Dad would've loved all his favorite people in one spot. He was a tried and true extrovert, who loved everyone he met. So many people said to me that Dad was the only person who ever treated them like they were human beings. The outpouring of love and sentiments and stories has been very healing, and very surprising. I knew Dad knew many people, but really.... "

The days have grown a bit easier, finally... the highs get a little higher each time, while the lows catch me more and more by surprise when they strike. The other day I attended a conflict resolution session, sure to be rife with emotion. I was fine up until the moment I walked in, when I suddenly felt very weepy. It seems I can operate if things are on an even keel, but if I have to dig into anything, it slices me wide open. This fragility is difficult.

And on we press.

~Namaste~

Pondering Patterns

Photo: Walking the labyrinth at Sinsinawa Mound, Women's Retreat

I've always needed help discovering my own rhythms, patterns, and needs. Countless times my mother has wisely interpreted my situation, pointing out the simplest things before they registered on my own radar. Usually, it's when I get sick or "hit a wall," as I call it. I will wonder why I've suddenly crashed and Mom will gently point out how busy I've been, how many things I've been juggling, how it's no wonder my body said "no more." And then when I think on it, I see she's right. Funny how someone else can see the inevitable crash coming, and I haven't yet learned to always sense it myself.

That's probably because I've got a lot of my father in me. I can go and go and go... and then things get all a'jumble. I start forgetting things, I get weepy or easily angered, and bam - I crash. But Dad rarely crashed. I don't think he ever crashed in the early days. He just kept on. That man had more energy than the rest of us put together, and it made for some unreasonable expectations. I once told him, after he'd complained about the lack of work ethic in someone else, that his comparison was unfair since his work ethic was not only off the charts, but so far off into the ozone as to never be seen with the naked eye. That man could work.

Not just physical work, though that was his forte (my Dad is probably one of few who'd regularly utter things like, "Why use a bulldozer to take down that silo when I can do it with my bare hands?" - and damn if he didn't actually do it), but cognitive 'work' as well. My father was a "man with a plan." No, not 'a' plan, several plans. He was always planning, and if the physical labor under his heavy hand didn't wear us out, his "I've been thinking...." did. If he wasn't making plans for the upkeep of the family farm, or my brother Matt's future, or the extra acreage I've let grown wild, or for the school district funding, or his insurance business, or Rob's career in insurance - and so on - he wasn't awake. He couldn't stop himself, we know now. It was a compulsion for him, as thrill-seeking is for others.

But he slowed down in the later years. Finally. It'd been a long time coming, and perhaps, too late. He drove himself too hard. For too long. He looked tired. He was tired.

And now without his intense energy and constant oversight, we struggle to get our bearings. We create new patterns, though for most of us, at a much less frenetic pace without Dad hovering over us. Not so with sister Jackie. She has taken over Dad's role as farm manager, and as if that wasn't enough to learn by immersion, she also took a part-time job with the Natural Land Institute. This, from my introverted, content-with-the-simple-things-in-life, mother-of-three sister. And I, the one who thrives on busy-ness like my father (though still out of his league), have grown more and more quiet, seeking solitude in the quiet spaces that I didn't notice before in my mad rush of living.

And Mom, well, now I'm the one to notice her patterns as they unfold. One particularly striking one is that at the moment when we notice, "Wow, she's doing really well today," we now follow it with, "Too well," as we've learned it's the high before the plummeting low. And we struggle on with our own unreasonable expectations and compulsions. Jackie, to fill the spaces with farm work, farm business, and her new job, and Mom, to "be fine" when she's really not.

My new patterns have brought some good from the bad, though, and I can't deny it. In my quietness, I've learned that in all my seeking and searching "out there," I have what I need right in front of me. It's made me not only appreciate but finally understand that I can easily miss what's right here when I'm so focused on other things and other places. It's brought a sense of calm I've never known. When I'm not pulled in a million different directions, I can more easily attend to the tasks at hand, put more of myself into them, give more than just a fleeting, scheduled, allotted-amount-of-time sort of attention, but rather the full me.

Everything takes on a new depth and meaning with this sort of acuity. Cooking has become less harried and more nurturing - both the ingredients chosen with greater care, and the actual meditative and therapeutic act of preparing itself - as I engage with more mindfulness. Tending to daily tasks can remind me to be appreciative that I actually have the time and I'm not doing them in a mad rush or with rising resentment, as was often the case. And answering a child's request for attention with actual undivided attention is a gift of presence, and serves to give on many levels.

At my last women's retreat, a friend led us in meditation. Many of us were rather new to it, and wondered if we could actually accomplish the 20-minute goal set for us. I was more able to settle than I expected. Before, and not so long ago, I'd have fought to contain my fidgeting, struggled to focus on something other than those around me, and spent most of the time trying to get relaxed so I could begin. But this new awareness, this new mindfulness, allows me to have a sort of tunnel vision that is freshly satisfying. It's not even something I asked for - it's something I needed and didn't know it.

Is this the sort of silver lining that comes from tragedy and great pain? I don't know. I know now that I can't control all the changes that come from such a life-altering event, and I see now that the lessons that come from pain are very different from the lessons that emerge from joy. When we experience a transition that is joyous, such as marriage, or the birth of a child, or having a new friend, the lessons come of willingness and eagerness and seeking. When our transition comes from pain, the lessons come of survival.

On an unschooling e-zine I read last night, a reader asked unschooling mother and author Rue Cream, "What’s something you keep in mind to help you be the kind of mother you want to be?" and she replied, "Memories."

She shares her fond memories of childhood with her children, but she also suggests that we know not which moments become the fondest memories of our own children, and so therefore ought to make each moment meaningful. Or put a different way, to be mindful so every moment and its choices are based in love, freedom, and respect. Put that way, how we answer our child's request for yet another drink of water provides an opportunity to deepen a pattern of mindfulness or a pattern of angst. Which shall we choose?

Finding this solitude within myself is a true gift, and it soothes that restlessness that I once saw as a 'given' part of my make-up that I must accept and obey. If the loss of my father has given me the gift of awareness, then his giving to me doesn't stop with his absence. It continues on. As we will continue on, taking up some of his patterns, like storytelling, and discarding others, like taking down silos with a sledge hammer, and ever mindful that through his example and in these days of retreat and healing, we continue to grow and become better.

~Namaste~

Coffee Confusion

"God of the Wild, you are different from what I expected. I cannot predict you. You are too free to be captured for the sake of my understanding. I can't find you in the sentimentalism of religion. You are everywhere I least expect to find you. You are not the force that saves me from the pain of living; you are the force that brings me life even in the midst of pain." ~Adolfo Quezada

Irony is sometimes cruel.

On the day of my father's death, I was attending a homeschooling conference in Arlington Heights. It's an annual conference and we've attended every one for the past seven years. Consider us junkies. It's a family affair; workshops for adults, workshops for kids, a massive vendor hall, and a hotel teeming with homeschoolers. It's a yearly getaway for us as a family, a yearly pep talk for me.

My father and I were planning to take a trip together. We'd talked of it for years and had looked at everything from a hike through Nepal to a stay on an Idaho ranch; from a rigorous backpacking experience to a cushy inn-to-inn hop while others tote our belongings. Dad urged me to decide, to pick a date. I thought I had all the time in the world. I mean, I was busy! I'd get to it soon enough.

During this year's conference I registered for three workshops that were conducted by parents and their children. Now that Brady is a teen, I thought it would be wonderful to hear from some homeschoolers on the tail end of the journey. The workshop I attended that morning was about road trips...

The road trip workshop was given by a father and his teenage son. They take an annual road trip that spans as much as a month. Each year they select a different destination and painstakingly plan their itinerary, each choosing their "must see" attractions and also allowing for down time and off-the-path wanderings. Their enthusiasm for their yearly ritual was intoxicating... they finished each other's sentences, laughed deeply as they recalled stories of mishaps and unexpected adventures, and had the entire audience smiling and vowing to start such a tradition for ourselves and our children. Or for me, with my father.

After the workshop I spoke with the man and his son to tell them I, too, was planning a long overdue road trip with MY dad. I bought their $3 booklet on frugal travel tips. I told them I was inspired by their talk, and left with a renewed commitment to my dad and our own travel plans. Dad would be so happy....

On the way to the next workshop I grabbed a french vanilla latte. I love coffee; coffee does not love me. Coffee can sometimes set my stomach in snarls, but I can usually get away with an occasional splurge and this was such an occasion.

I was quite eager to attend the next workshop, given by the keynote speaker, Pat Farenga. But when I got there I felt unsettled. My stomach was doing loops. I'd only consumed perhaps a sip or two of the coffee, so I was quite surprised it would affect me that quickly. I fidgeted in my seat; I tossed and turned. I kept muttering, "This damn coffee," and finally, feeling more uneasy than is reasonable, I got up and marched down the hallway to throw out the cup and pace for a few moments to calm myself down. I had no idea why I was feeling so suddenly distraught. I returned to the workshop and my friend Kristin, sitting next to me, frowned in that concerned "what's up?" sort of way.

I managed to wait out the rest of the workshop and next was lunch. I had plans to meet up with some women I'd met online (to chat about unschooling of course) but first I needed to check in with the family, make sure Rob and the kids found each other. The elevator area was a zoo, so I took off down a hallway to find a staircase. I finally found one, in an obscure faraway location. I opened the door to the stairwell and there was Rob - white as a ghost. He'd taken the phone call from my brother that there'd been an accident.

The rest resides in my memory in fits and starts. Dad. Snowmobile. Airlifted to a trauma center. Internal bleeding. Don't know how bad. Can't be good. We should go.

Time of the accident.... 10:30. Where I was at the time of the accident.... fidgeting in Pat Farenga's workshop, blaming coffee.

Grieving for not taking a trip with Dad... well, it's just another of those things. I saw my dad often; our lives were intertwined. I am one of the fortunate who can say there wasn't lost time. And I'm so thankful for that.

But I can't get over the amazing power of connection that allowed me to sense something was amiss. I believe we all carry within us greater powers of intuition and clairvoyance than we know; they're simply dormant from lack of use. And the sting of irony... well, such is the way of things sometimes.

~Namaste~

Evolving Mantras

Photo: Martha, Diane, Me, Dana at women's retreat

The other day I told a friend it seems there has been some sort of seismic universe shake-up this year. I am different now. Every cell of my being is changed. Nothing will ever be the same. Things are just not right.

To be expected, I suppose, given that my father died in March, six days before my birthday. (When we scrabbled together a fragmented birthday party, I opened a card that said "Love, Mom & Dad." Mom's color drained as I opened it, and that was the end of the charade.) But it's not just that - all manner of things have gone askew this year.

I won't list them, because tempting as it is, I will continue to travel the high road (new mantra #1) - those folks who've thrown obstacles in my path know who they are.

I suppose it's just as well - I mean, this year is already ruined. But these crises, coming one on top of the other, well - they offend me. I was doing quite well at grieving, if I do say so myself. My friends knew I was going to be quiet and reclusive for a while. My children understood that some days are weepy and others are dry. And I was really trying to give in to the grief.... avoiding the process would mean carrying around a sickness in my soul.

So as the other problems arose over the past few months, well, they distracted me from my grieving. Emotionally unstable, I was afraid to make decisions and unsure what to make of the additional stress. They were a rude interruption to my grieving and it was only recently, as things seemed to settle for a short while, that the anger struck like a lightning bolt. How dare they? What the hell is the matter with people?! I need to grieve for my father, I need to reinvent myself and my way of being in the world without him, and yet I've had to deal with some very unsavory things. Mantra #2 - People Suck.

Always one to 'seek the lesson', I pondered the possibility of karma. I admit I've always had a rather easy go of things... I've even felt somehow protected, grateful that the ugly side of life had not visited me, and often wondered why I was so lucky. So perhaps this is just my time? My year of reckoning? I shared this thought with my grandma Alice. She told me there doesn't have to be a lesson. She said, "Oh honey, you're just emotionally exhausted, that's all" and held me while I had a good cry.

The stress of dealing with many big things at once had me quite nervous and shaken, and so a retreat with some of my favorite women friends was a welcome refuge. As we sat in circle, someone asked me to share all that had been happening. Too tired to rehash everything, I gave the short version. As I told my stories I got more and more riled up, and I suddenly felt a new clarity. I used to be quite confident and out-spoken, but these past many years have been marked by a 'softer' me - a kinder, more empathetic, inclusive me. It served me well for those years of childrearing, homeschooling, and networking. But now... these times call for a new spark. Or an old one, rekindled.

After sharing my utter disgust with certain things and certain people, one wise and wonderful friend blurted out, "Oh, f*ck that sh*t!" The severity of the comment gave us all fits of laughter, and first I replied, "Yeah! F*ck that sh*t!" And next thing you know, she laughed, "Let's all say it together! One... two... three.... F*CK THAT SH*T!"

Definitely mantra #3.

There is freedom in accepting that some things are just ugly, and I don't have to fix them. So here I sit, acknowledging that some things can't be fixed and that's ok. If this year has taught me anything, it's that. I will take the high road for my own integrity and peace of mind, but I will walk away from darkness and seek light. When people suck, I don't have stick around and be the punching bag. F*ck that sh*t. I've got bigger things to attend to.

"Besides the noble art of getting things done, there is the noble art of leaving things undone. The wisdom of life exists in the elimination of non-essentials." ~ Lin Yutang

~Namaste~

Metamorphosis

Photo: My dogwood tree at night

I'm a night-owl.

It's not very convenient any more, and I've tried many times to change it, but fact is, I come alive at night. I feel very creative, very philosophical, and very inspired during the dark hours. Trouble is, those attributes fade by morning. The idea that sounded oh-so-perfect the night before seems unreasonable the following morning. The commitment I made for myself in those wee hours loses its appeal by daybreak. By morning, the magic is gone. I feel sluggish and uninspired and like procrastinating the day away. It's a frustrating cycle.

Sure, I could stay up late and give in to my inner clock, but when the rest of the world doesn't operate that way, it's more than a little challenging.

Recently, however, my days have become the productive refuge from nights that have been taken hostage. After all this time, the physical manifestations of grief have returned, and with a vengeance. Night after night I wake barely able to breathe, tears at the ready, and thoughts and images flooding in that cannot be stopped. It's rather, well, upsetting.

I can rationalize all manner of reasons. There has been a flurry of attorney meetings to address some estate and inheritance issues. There are holidays and my father's birthday approaching. There are myriad local groups erecting public memorials in honor of my father and related stories peppering the local newspaper. And there are the constant reminders that someone, someone usually so incredibly present, has gone missing. I think a part of me still clings to the hope that perhaps Dad is just 'away' for a while. Like, around the corner. On vacation. Too busy at work. I mean, really, this cannot be.

It's really brought an awareness of mortality out into the light, and that alone makes me feel a sense of urgency about life and my children and the plans we make and why we make them and whether or not it's worth the trouble. As my mom tells it, one of the things she felt as she sat at my father's bedside was, "Ok... I get it now."

One of the recent night terrors was about my grandmother, my father's mom. I've only seen her a few times since Dad died, but that's not unusual for me. I'm not very good about such things and somehow opt to carry around the guilt of "I should" rather than just doing it, slow learner that I am. But the other night I sat straight up in bed and the thought racing through my head and pounding in my chest was, "She lost her son...."

I finally visited the cemetary. I'd been avoiding it, telling myself I wasn't ready. The church is a mile from my house, can be seen from my bedroom window, and yet I'd not gone. But I've taken up jogging as a change from my usual biking, and since it's the perfect distance away for a good run, I set out in the direction of the church without thinking the other day... I stopped dead in my tracks about 1/4 mile away when I realized where I was headed, and decided there was no turning back then. It wasn't the still-muddy burial ground that got me, nor the silk floral arrangement. It was the red University of Wisconsin "W" staked into the ground that stole my breath away. This cannot be....

On my way back home, iPod fully cranked, a new mission - escape - in my stride, something caught my eye. I stopped to find a raccoon - which, if you're blinded by tears and breathless from running, can look remarkably like a badger - sitting in a barren patch of field, looking at me. I rarely see these creatures in the light of day, and we sat and looked at each other for quite a while. It was a chilly, damp morning, and it cocked its head at me as I wiped the sweat and condensation from my face and talked to it, wondering if it was sent to soothe me. And then, after looking from cornfield to me and back a few times, it finally, slowly, lumbered off. Curiously, I felt a bit better.

These "grief attacks", as I may take to calling them, really do sneak up on me. It's amazing what the rational mind can do to keep the demons at bay so you can function, but it's all just right there under the surface. An admitted NPR junkie, I caught the beginnings of a 9/11 piece - a family member who'd saved an answering machine message left by her spouse just before he perished in the twin towers. The rush of pain that swept through me in that instant was overwhelming, and I quickly turned the channel. Picture me driving down the road, crying to "Jungle Boogie", the song playing on the very next station! What a wild ride this is indeed.

It's really the long-ago past that gets me the most. It's not so much missing the recent past as grieving for the early years that trips me up. When I feel sadness for Dad, I get sad for the dad of my childhood. I get sad for recalling all the energy and eagerness and dreaming and struggling that took place all those many years ago, and I mourn for the path that was unexpectedly cut short. My dad took living very, very seriously, and damnit, he wasn't done yet. He wasn't done.

As I took a walk this evening I looked down and saw, for the millionth time, the patterns in the road, the bubbles in the tar, the way the imprints trapped moments in time, and marveled that I've been looking at these same markings for most of my life. These are the small comforts that ground me. This is a place my father loved so very much. This is how I stay connected.

So that's where I am right now. And before you don your psychologist hat and declare me mentally unfit or clinically depressed, hold on a minute. You won't find me walking in a fog on the average day, and I can be seen laughing and carrying on as usual on many an occasion. It's just, as I've said before, I've got to go straight into this one to heal. My close friends will tell you I'm quieter than usual, and a little less excitable. But I'm in my cocoon, and all creatures rest when they undergo a metamorphosis, no?

These things take time.

~Namaste~

In the Shelter of Healing

Photo: Path at Sinsinawa women's retreat in May
I can't watch the news anymore. And I can barely read the newspaper.

I've always felt it my duty to be informed of goings-on. Certainly it's expected that one can sufficiently converse at the water cooler, and since I often feel a sense of guilt for living a life of relative ease, the least I can do is be informed as to what's going on around me and in my world and take on some of the soul-work of praying/meditating/sending energy to alter the paths of horror occurring daily, worldwide.

But right now I find I simply cannot take it. At least not without melting into a puddle and losing entire days to wandering aimlessly and muttering, "I just don't understand." When the mere mention or fleeting thought of my father sends tears springing to my eyes, the horrific news of wars and abuse and lies and deceit are very much more than I can handle right now.

I'm a pisces. The symbol for pisces should be a sponge, because while my water-baby status allows me the ultimate flexibility in adapting to all manner of situations, it also makes it quite difficult for me not to enter into every realm I encounter and take on the accompanying energy. I enter as water enters, fully and taking up any and every available space.

So when I hear of all the heartache and suffering and loss and fear (much of it uneccessary; unless, of course, your social or political status depends upon it) I cannot help but take on the sadness and let it consume me. And it's a helpless feeling to know of these things and see no end in sight, no break to the patterns of domination and selfishness and audacity, no gathering of mothers and others screaming, "That's ENOUGH!"

One of my wise women friends, Joanieji, once told me I shouldn't disparage that thin-skinned quality that is my fate because the same faulty filters that take on the pain allow me to feel the rain on my face, the sun on my skin, the joy when I look at my disheveled long-haired boy in the backseat and stare at him just long enough that he looks up quizzically, and says, "What?" And she's right, even though it doesn't always feel right after I've read another story that drops me to my knees.

My friend Sharon once told me she stopped reading the paper because she had to spend so much time meditating for peace and healing and love afterward she couldn't attend fully to her own daily needs. My guilt- and obligation-ridden martyr self didn't quite understand at the time, but I've slowly come to see the wisdom in it. Isn't it true that unless we care for ourselves we cannot care for others? My wandering angst did nothing to change the situations I read about, it only served to worsen my own personal situation, and likely that of those who depend upon me.

The torrent of cards, letters, visits, emails, and stories that have come to us since my father's death have been such an incredible gift. I've dreaded standing in the visitation line all my life, and often declared I simply would not, could not, do it. My mother, my nurturer, pulled me aside before the day and told me I could do whatever it was I needed to do, be there in that line or not. It was that gift of acceptance, of honor for my needs, that allowed me to go to my place and stand in that line, with all my vulnerability, pain, and fear displayed in what was, for me, the ultimate submission. But the gifts that came to me that day, that I would not have recieved had I not laid myself bare, brought things full circle in a way I had not anticipated.

My father was a storyteller. He told his stories again and again and again, so often and in so predictable a fashion that cousin Heather and I always teased we could be two lines ahead of our dads all night long. But his stories weren't fiction - they were stories of the people he loved. As the familiar and unfamiliar faces filed through the line at the visitation, I could see all of my father's love and all of his stories, all there in one place. Time and again someone would begin with, "You don't know me, but I am...." and I would know the person - I knew the people through my father's words. And I saw how my gift of knowing of them and their relationship to my father and their story together was as healing for them as it was revelational for me. Here they were, all the people who loved my father and now bestowing that love upon us in our greatest hour of need, and my pisces-skin soaked it all in and bathed in it.

Who knew I'd find healing in the dreaded visitation line.

And for a short time, I saw potential for the world in that outpouring of love and support. I saw how things can be different. People I barely know can sustain me; people I am not particularly close to can come to my side and heal me with their presence; circles of friends and family can stand there and say nothing and soothe me simply by being nearby or holding my hand. This is the energy I crave, this is the medicine the world needs, and its taste is not bitter.

Thanks to the wise and insistent support of those who've gone before me, I've accepted it's ok to shut things out for a while, as I heal. I cannot attend to my wounds if I'm pulled in opposing directions. I have to go into this one fully - for me, there's no other way out.

So stop the presses. Shut off the television. Sleep deeply, write until my hand aches, eat colorful food, weed the garden, practice discernment, sit and feel and cry and give thanks, and attend to what's right in front of me. It's my most difficult to-do list yet.

~Namaste~