Categories: Ponderings
Out of My Own Heart of Darkness
My mother passed from this earth a year ago tomorrow. As many of you may have noticed, I took an almost year-long sabbatical from blogging. By Mother's Day last year, it became clear to me that I just couldn't go on blogging about the ins and outs of my days without feeling like it was all too trivial compared to the pervasive grief I was feeling. I had to give myself some time to heal. So, I did.
Today I am asking for your prayers over the next few days. I am feeling pretty well overall, but I know that tomorrow might weigh heavily on me. And, while my mother passed away on January twenty-ninth, she was buried on February second. Her birthday.
My husband is also going to be out of state for a business conference this week. As you can see, I do, indeed, need your prayers. I thank all of you for your prayers and notes of encouragement over the year. They have held me in good stead.
Having said all this, though, I want to let you know that I am now eager to get back to blogging and I have been tinkering with my blog a bit in preparation for my return. And I do so love to tinker! I look forward to catching up with all of you. God bless you, my dear friends.
I'll Fly Away
Will, the girls and I are taking a little family vacation this week. I wish I could tell you about all the educational aspects of our little foray and include photos, but that will have to wait. We are first and foremost getting away to have some quiet time together as a family. Since the loss of my mother, I have been relentlessly pushing people away from me including my own husband and children. I haven't really cried about things, but I wouldn't even know what to cry about if I could.
My mother and I had a complicated relationship. I wish I could tell you what a wonderful mother she was because, in turns, she was. But then, it would feel like a half-lie. And a half-lie is almost always or usually very nearly a full lie. If I tell you of the other topsy-turvy, spinning turns of my life with my mother, I would feel like I was betraying the good in her. She was a woman living her life as best she could on this planet. How can I criticize that?
If I tell you how much I want my mommy right now, you would assume I meant my mother. I assumed I meant her. Now I am not so sure.
I feel so lost. I want someone to hold me, rock me back and forth and softly, through my great heaving sobs, tell me that everything is going to be okay. Someone who won't care that I am getting her shirt all wet with my tears. And I want to stay there as long as I need to stay there. Not until she tires of it all and plops me back down on the hard wooden rocker all alone. I want to be able to cry myself to sleep and wake up still in my mother's arms. But not really my mother.
My husband wants me to get on with my life. To buck up. To be the adult. I don't want to be the adult right now. I want to have a great, screaming meltdown in the middle of the supermarket floor just as the cart is already half full of groceries and everyone is staring and muttering that someone really should do something about this child.
My children want me to help them with their math problems. To fix their dinner. To clean the tub. I want someone to do those things, too. Someone to make sure I have fresh sheets on my bed and a clean dress laid out for tomorrow. Someone who knows where my shoes are.
Where is she? Where is this person called Mother. Who is this person called Mother? Why is everyone looking at me?
Returning Home
The girls and I are back from our few weeks with my father. I am doing well and am glad to be back at Will's side as much as it grieved me to leave my father. And it did, indeed, grieve me. Leaving my father grieved me far more than even my mother's passing. I don't think I have ever felt such pure sadness in my entire life.
Life is so unexpected. I don't think we expect it coming in and everything afterward is just as much of a surprise. If we suppose to have any expectations, we are often surprised by our own folly at having such expectations. The only thing I have found to do is to serve the Lord as best as I am able and cling to his promises. If we don't expect life coming into it, I know that we all can expect to eventually be going out of it. And that expectation guides me. Because I know where I want to go when I do go out. And, if I am grieved to leave my earthly father's side, think how it would be for me to leave my heavenly Father's side. This life of surprises would be unbearable. And I do so want to return home.
Just a Little While
February 2, 1939 - January 29, 2007
I wanted to let everyone know that my mother passed from this world to be with her Father in heaven yesterday morning. I thank all of you who wrote to say you were praying for her and for those who didn't write, but were praying anyway. Please pray for my family as we will be taking what looks to be a rather long drive in bad weather on Thursday. I am going to be taking a little break from blogging over the next week or two as the girls and I will be spending that time with my father. Please keep him in your prayers as he was my mother's sole caretaker and his life completely revolved around tending to her needs. He is lost without her there to focus his attentions on. I will be back, dear friends. God bless you all.
John 16:16
Lonely Winter Nights
I am sending out a prayer request to those of you out there who are thus minded. I have been having a terrible time trying to sleep and I am not sure why. As many of you may already know, I gravitate towards being a night owl, but I have not been able to sleep normally for the past month.
Lately, a typical cycle will be for me to spend several days in a row without any sleep except for a two to three hour nap I take in the mid-morning. I can't seem to sleep at night at all during this part of the cycle and sometimes don't even feel like taking the mid-morning nap! After several days of this, I feel exhausted and end up going to bed between seven and nine o'clock in the evening and sleeping until seven to ten o'clock the next morning. Most often I feel like I could continue sleeping all day.
So, it seems to be either feast of famine around here. I love those evenings when I am sleepy and I can curl up in bed with a good book and read for about thirty minutes before dropping off to sleep. I am really praying that, with God's help, I will be able to go to bed around nine-thirty and read for about thirty minutes and go to sleep by ten. Then I would like to be able to wake up by seven.
In the meantime, I remain puzzled. And, to be honest, I don't even sleep well when I do sleep. I toss and turn and feel overheated or achy all night. This is having a serious impact on my daily life. So, again, I ask for your prayers, advice and any Bible verses you think might be applicable.
Annoying
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I had a hard time finding something annoying for the photo theme this week. I finally found something that has been annoying me for quite a while. This dress. It is the first thing I have ever sewn and, early in July, I had it all finished except for the hemming. I started it and got this far in just a week thanks to the cheerful encouragement of my sister who was visiting at the time. Once she left, though, I never touched it again. I find this very annoying. I have enough material to make four more dresses. I just find it very upsetting that I got this far with a dress and I not only never finished it, but I would feel intimidated at the idea of trying to sew another one after all this time has passed. I really, really want to sew my own dresses. Anyone want to suggest how to make a nice even hem?
Isn't the material pretty?
Even So
I have been pretty sad this week. My mother is in the end stages of an Alzheimer's-like disease. When I was growing up, my mother had seizures that couldn't be diagnosed as having been caused by anything that her doctors could find. About ten years ago, it became obvious to me that something else was going on with my mother. Two years later, she was diagnosed as having Alzheimer's. She was eventually tested and found to be lacking the gene that is normally found in Alzheimer's patients. None of this really matters to me anymore. I am just telling you so you will know.
I have grown up with a mother who has never really been well. Physically, her body was typically quite healthy, but something has never been quite right with her brain. Knowing exactly why doesn't seem so very important. When I speak of my mother's illness now, I just say that she has Alzheimer's because it is easier. Nobody asks for the particulars and nobody would be able to tell the difference anyway.
My father takes care of my mother at home. In August, he suffered a heart attack and had to have emergency, quadruple bypass surgery. My father actually drove himself to the doctor's office that afternoon and was rushed by ambulance to the hospital. By the time my sister was notified and got to my parents' house, my mother had fallen out of bed and was on the floor of their bedroom. She had been there for quite a while.
I went to stay with my father after he was allowed to go home from the hospital. My sister was taking care of my mother at her own home since she lived in town. I had planned on staying with my father for a few weeks hoping to help him get well. In the middle of my first week there, I called my husband on his cell phone since I couldn't reach him at home and it was late in the evening. He was with our daughter in the emergency room. Eight hours away from me. As it turned out, Lily had to have an emergency appendectomy. I thank God that my husband is such a wonderful and capable father and that he has such a good relationship with our girls. I can't imagine how I would have been able to bear to be so far away from my child during such a major event in her life if he hadn't been with her the entire time. She had to stay in the hospital for a couple of days and my husband stayed on a cot near her bed the entire time. As soon as she was safely in the care of some of our good friends, he came to get me. He was exhausted. I was torn between wanting to care for my family in two different places at once. I ended up only staying with my father for a week. My mother came home a few days before I left. My father would not hear of her going into a nursing home.
As it turns out, my mother can't even stay in a nursing home because she doesn't have a "medically treatable" condition. So my mother is at home right now. She will not eat. She cannot see or walk or speak. She just screams all the time. My father, feeling defeated and exhausted, finally tried to get my mother into a nursing home, but they only let her stay for a few weeks before they sent her home.
I am tired. I told someone recently that "it is well with my soul". And it is. It is well with my soul. This is just such tiresome business. This living.
The Equuschick's Alphabet Survey
Surveys, surveys, all over the internet. Who makes them, and why, and why can't The Equuschick, she wanted to know. She could not discover why, and therefore she decided she would entertain herself with such an activity.
Favourite Animals: Dogs and Banjos
Favourite Bad Habit (You know, that one that you like too much to even try to break. You like being addicted.): Napping
Favourite Cookie: Raspberry Coconut Tarts
Favourite Drink: Vanilla Malteds or Eggnog (non-alcoholic, of course)
Favourite Egg Style: Fried (I, too, like a good egg sandwich with cheese melted on top of the egg, lots of mayo, lettuce, salt, and pepper. Tomato is acceptable only if it is fresh from the garden.)
Five Favourite Fiction Books: How Green Was My Valley by Richard Llewellyn, To Kill A Mockingbird by Harper Lee, Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen, The Yearling by Marjorie Kinnan Rawlings and Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
Favourite Gadget: My camera, of course!
Favourite Hymn: Unto Thee, Oh Lord
Favourite Ice Cream: Rum Raisin or Eggnog
Favourite Jam: Raspberry
Favourite Kid's Books: Peter in Blueberry Land and other books by Elsa Beskow, The Root Children and other books by Sibylle Von Olfers, The Tomten books by Astrid Lindgren, the Flower Fairy books by Cicely Mary Barker, Tales from Grimm and More Tales from Grimm by Wanda Gag
Favourite Love Song: Tupelo Honey by Van Morrison
Favourite Memories: I have too many precious memories to just choose a couple of random ones. Memories are like precious stones that I like to turn over and over in my head. Some of them are more polished from time and constant handling and some are sharper and have clear facets. Some are so sharp they are almost too painful to handle and remain so no matter how much time seems to pass. Favorite memories aren't the same as memories of important events. The day I was baptized, the day my husband was baptized. The days my husband baptized each of our daughters. Those are important days. My wedding. The days I gave birth to my babies. These are all precious and important. My heart, however, is often drawn to the moments that weren't nearly as important in the grand scheme of things. The summers I spent with my grandmother. Playing in the yard as a child and smelling Thanksgiving dinner coming from my house. Sledding down the snow-covered drive with my mother's arms wrapped around me. Curled up on a snowy, winter day in New Hampshire, reading Little Women. That summer evening on the beach when my husband-to-be told me he wanted to take care of me for the rest of his life. Nursing my babies. These are the memories that I savor.
Favourite Nonfiction Books: The Bible (I really do not enjoy reading for information. There are very few non-fiction books that I would call favorites. There are some biographies and autobiographies that I have read over the years that I've enjoyed, but nothing I would call a favorite. I am very much an auditory learner and a pleasure reader.)
Favourite Operatic Song: When I have one, I will let you know.
Favourite Piece of Music at the moment: If by 'piece of music' you are implying that I am cultured enough to know how to play a musical instrument or even read music, I am afraid I will have to disappoint you. Well Tempered Clavier by M. Ward will have to make do.
Favourite Quiet Spot: I long for a quiet spot, but have yet to find one.
Favourite Reading when you're sick: I'm very blessed in that I don't often get sick. However, when I am sick enough to retire to my bed, I am not usually well enough to read. The one time I can think of that I was bed-ridden, I tended to reach for my Bible for comfort.
Favourite Song that you want played at your funeral (Obligatory weird question, sorry. It isn't a real survey if it doesn't have at least one very strange question.): I'll Fly Away
Favourite Task: Laundry. Albeit it's not the task it once was; I love taking dirty clothes and making them clean again.
Favourite Ugly Animal: The Platypus
Favourite Vintage Book:
Favourite Writing of C.S Lewis: The Chronicles of Narnia
Favourite Word That Starts with X: Xylography
Favourite Yellow Wildflower: Japanese Honeysuckle
Favourite Zoo: The Smithsonian National Zoological Park
Bereft
It is not an easy thing to lose your mother. Once, when I was three, I lost my mother in a grocery store. I remember looking at a row of canned food and then looking up for my mother and she was gone. She was there and then she was not. I can't tell you how I felt at that moment because there are no words adequate for the feeling a three-year-old has at the loss of her mother. Unfortunately, it doesn't seem to get any easier with age.
For the past year or so now, I have felt that three-year-old curled up inside of me crying inconsolably, "I want my mommy." I do, too. I want my mommy. I want her so bad and I can't find her anymore. And, this time, she's not looking for me.
When I go to her house, I open her drawers and find things arranged just as she left them. Her neat, little address book tucked away in a drawer with her pens and pencils and envelopes. I read the entries in her address book written in the neatest handwriting you have ever seen. Some addresses or phone numbers carefully erased with new ones penciled in. I try to find the most recent changes. I realize what seems like yesterday was actually several years ago. My mother. Always so neat and organized. I feel like I am peering into a time capsule. Like I am being ricocheted back and forth in time. Just a few years in time, but seemingly a lifetime apart.
I run, crying out for my mother, but she is not there. She was just there a minute ago. I just looked away and she was gone. Somebody help me find my mother. I want my mother. I want her now. I run up and down the wide aisles and I can't find her anywhere. She is not rearranging her pantry. She is not busy decorating a wedding cake. She is not sitting quietly on the couch tatting. She's not sitting at the dining room table carefully writing a letter to an old friend. She's not out in the yard talking across the fence to a neighbor. She's not bringing the clothes in from out on the line or ironing shirts or watering her plants...
When I was five, I watched my mother leave me. I was the oldest of her four children and we all had pneumonia while my father was away on a business trip. When he came home, she told him that she couldn't take it anymore and she was leaving. And she left. I watched her from the kitchen window as she walked down the side street and away from our house. Away from me. I don't know where she went. I don't remember when she returned.
I'm looking out that same window now. I know where my mother is going. I know she won't be returning to me. I want to cry out and bang on the glass, but she is too far away now.
It is not an easy thing to lose your mother.
What A Balm For The Weary
As you may have gathered, I do struggle through the winter months. I have often wondered why we even have to have winter months. Of course, then I must wonder why we have tsunamis or earthquakes or any number of natural occurances we do have on this earth. One could speculate as to the "scientific" reasons for such things and in many cases one would be correct. I, however, am all too apt to look for the God reasons. I wonder why God couldn't figure out a different way of doing things that would, naturally, be more to my liking. More comfortable for me.
Of course, he did.
"But a mist used to rise from the earth and water the whole surface of the ground."
Genisis 2:6
In the beginning, there wasn't any inclement weather. God created a world were there was a mist that rose up out of the earth and watered everything there that needed watering. God carefully created a garden that would be a perfect place for us. He walked and talked with Adam and Eve in the garden in a relationship that is hard for me to even imagine. I long for that with all of my heart.
We messed that up. Not God. But God still loves us and for that I am thankful this day. I may be weary of this world at times, but he has given me hope. Hope that one day I, too, can walk and talk with him. That he will wipe away every tear and I can sit at his knee and ask him about it all. And he will tell me.
In the meantime, I will spend my time walking and talking with God the best way I know how.
T'is The Blessed Hour of Prayer
'Tis the blessed hour of prayer, when our hearts lowly bend,
And we gather to Jesus, our Savior and Friend;
If we come to Him in faith, His protection to share,
What a balm for the weary, O how sweet to be there!
Refrain
Blessed hour of prayer, blessed hour of prayer,
What a balm for the weary, O how sweet to be there!
'Tis the blessed hour of prayer, when the Savior draws near,
With a tender compassion His children to hear;
When He tells us we may cast at His feet every care,
What a balm for the weary, O how sweet to be there!
Refrain
'Tis the blessed hour of prayer, when the tempted and tried
To the Savior Who loves them their sorrow confide;
With a sympathizing heart He removes every care;
What a balm for the weary, O how sweet to be there!
Refrain
At the blessed hour of prayer, trusting Him, we believe
That the blessing we're needing we'll surely receive;
In the fullness of the trust we shall lose every care;
What a balm for the weary, O how sweet to be there!
Refrain
Fanny Crosby (1820-1915)
If you need a little extra comfort, I highly recommend you read this post by Amanda of Wittingshire. Thank you Amanda for writing such an edifying post. It couldn't have come at a better time for me.
Tommy Can You Hear Me?
Aw, Pete, don't ruin it for me. The little bit of joy I got over the holidays came from my husband's kind gift of a new iPod. After placing it into its "force field of protection", uploading my CDs to it and slipping it into its own cute, little sock, I happily went about listening to my new Iron & Wine and Guster CDs. In my bed, I lie in the darkness and feel the music become one with the night. I have only want of the stars above me to complete my delirious, child-like happiness.
Then, one day recently, I read an article online entitled "Headphones deafen you, Who star tells iPod fans". What? This can't be true. Pete, tell me it ain't so. Well, being the curious type, I went to the source and read the actual diary entry on Pete's site. Obviously, the diary entry was more fluid than the news article and I felt like I could give Pete back a little credit for being an intelligent human being. I am still not convinced that I should throw my iPod and it's little earphones to the wind.
I am a married woman homeschooling two rapidly growing children. The thirty-six hour breaks I take from my iPod are not self-imposed. They are called running a home and staying connected to my family. I was out in the kitchen the other day and thought maybe I would listen to my iPod while cleaning up a bit. Once I got the dishwasher and the washing machine going, though, I found I couldn't really hear the music anymore. Being the sensible sort, I put my iPod away for quieter moments. This is why you may find me lying awake in my bed pretending there are stars above me and listening to old bluegrass hymns in the middle of the night. It is also why I have to pretend my husband isn't snoring rather loudly beside me.
There are a lot of things that come to mind while reading Pete's diary, but I think I would be stating the obvious. This one quote had me thinking, though.
I have unwittingly helped to invent and refine a type of music that makes its principal proponents deaf. It takes time, but it happens. This is, I suppose, no worse than being a sports person or dancer who knows they have a limited working span, and their body will suffer. The rewards are great - money, fame, adulation and a real sense of self-worth and achievement. But music is a calling for life. You can write it when you're deaf, but you can't hear it or perform it.
I could pick it apart, but I won't. I have only one thing to say. If anything in your life becomes more important than the one thing that can truly complete you, you are always at risk of losing everything you have. If, however, you have God in your life, you can lose everything and still have exactly what you need.
On a side note, what exactly is that dangling from Pete's ear in this photo? Tommy... Tommy... Tommy?
Finding Hope
Hope is definitely not the same thing as optimism. It is not the conviction that something will turn out well, but the certainty that something makes sense, no matter how it turns out. ~ Disturbing the Peace, by Vaclav Havel
I like this quote. I will never be an optimist, but I do have hope. And loving God makes sense no matter how it all turns out.
I have been a bit depressed lately. It is not unusual for this time of year, but it came a little early. I have been told that I think over things too much. What people don't understand is that I often find great pleasure in turning over all the little bits and pieces of life. Whether they are bitter or sweet. Some things are quite heavy, though. Turning them over takes much more effort than one would first expect. I sometimes grow weary from the effort.
That is often when you don't hear much from me on this blog. It is not that I have nothing to say, it is that I am so very tired. Putting things into words that are fitting is no easy thing. I will try harder, though. Sometimes that is how something beautiful is born.
Be of good courage, And He shall strengthen your heart, All you who hope in the LORD.
Psalm 31:24
A Day Late...
Freedom is not an unlimited license, an unlimited choice, or an unlimited opportunity. Freedom is first of all a responsibility before the God from whom we come. ~Alan Keyes
Lost and Found
One of the nice things about being alone is that I get to listen to "mommy's music". Right now, I am listening to the Guster album Keep It Together. I'm eating a banana and drinking orange juice. Is life really supposed to be exciting? I surely hope not because I don't know if I could handle it. I take comfort in the peace. In the familiar.
Now I am wondering where that mentally retarded man went to. The one who used to ride his bike to the curb across the street from our house and merrily ring his little bicycle bell. He had a nice smile. I haven't seen him in quite awhile.
Things are always changing around me without my consent. Sometimes without my knowledge. I suppose this is for the best. Maybe God just likes to step in and remove some of the clutter for me while I am otherwise occupied. I do this to my children's rooms every so often. They don't really need to form a bond with their Happy Meal toys. Sometimes they remember something, though. Something that wasn't a cheap piece of plastic, but I cleaned it out anyway knowing that there was another child out there who needed it more. I wonder if that is where that man went. To another one of God's children.
I suppose that is part of this life. Time keeps moving me forward and I lose things without even noticing. Some people spend their lives striving for something they can't quite put their finger on. I know what I am striving for. I just keep misplacing little things along the way. Funny how I assume they were really mine to begin with.
Part Four: Time and Eternity
XXXVI
I LOST a world the other day.
Has anybody found?
You'll know it by the row of stars
Around its forehead bound.
A rich man might not notice it;
Yet to my frugal eye
Of more esteem than ducats.
Oh, find it, sir, for me!
Emily Dickinson
Thoughts of Home
--C. S. Lewis
Can you guess what we are?
Life and Death
We drove to South Carolina on Monday, attended the funeral on Tuesday and then visited with Will's side of the family. On Wednesday, we were able to stop by and see my parents. My mother has Alzheimer's. It is a heavy thing to see my mother progressively getting worse and my father steadfastly tending to her needs even as he is growing older.
We drove back Wednesday afternoon. It is about an eight hour trip for us each way. We got back that evening with enough time to stop for some fast-food burgers and then go to church. I saw my good friend was still enormously pregnant and chided her about that, but fell into bed that night without much thought on that matter or any other. I was exhausted. My children were exhausted. My husband was exhausted. It was good to be home in our own beds with our own pillows. It was good to have Maggie, our geriatric dog, sleeping on the floor beside my bed and our cat, Sam, sleeping in a fluffy, white ball on Lily's bed. Home. A constant mess, but otherwise practically perfect in every way.
When I woke up on Thursday morning, I had every intention of catching up on the laundry, getting the girls back on track with their lessons and perhaps even contributing some time to the grand effort I have undertaken to organize our book collection. Instead, I got a phone call letting me know that my dear friend had gone into labor during the night and was in need of immediate prayer because she and the baby were in such a dire situation that the doctors were afraid of losing them both. I spent the rest of my day praying with my girls and by myself for my friend and her little one. I was on the phone or the computer receiving or passing along information for the better part of the day.
I can joyfully tell you now that both my friend and her baby are well and in the process of going home this week. This is her sixth child. She has five other children at home awaiting her. The thought that we nearly lost both her and the baby would be so heavy if not for the joy of their recovery.
Sometimes I wonder if God knows how much I really dislike rollercoasters. It's not the heights or the depths that bother me, so much as it is the sensation of falling. When the bottom drops out and you have no control over the fact that you are, indeed, falling. And it just keeps happening over and over again. How can I take any comfort as long as I am on this earth? I used to see people and think that life was not that difficult most of the time. I know better now. This life will never be comfortable. It is not without its joys, but it will never be a place to rest.
I returned, and saw under the sun, that the race is not to the swift, nor the battle to the strong, neither yet bread to the wise, nor yet riches to men of understanding, nor yet favour to men of skill; but time and chance happeneth to them all.
Ecclesiastes 9:11
Real Life
When I first started this blog, I wanted it to be an outlet for the side of me that I felt I had been neglecting for too many years. In my younger years, I had dreams of becoming a writer and a photographer. I preferred writing poetry to prose and I loved toting my Pentax K1000 around with me wherever I went. I have a few poems and many photographs that are near and dear to my heart from those years. As the years flowed forward, though, I quit taking the time to write down the little word songs in my head. I always thought that I would remember them later, but with two small children running around my thoughts were nearly always replaced with more necessary mental and physical activity. Fortunately, the camera was never so displaced during those years. I have beautiful shots of my children as they experienced the world for the first time. I am thankful for these.
As my children have grown a bit older, though, I have found myself wondering and longing for the dreams of my youth. Of course, they seem so much more enchanting than climbing mountains of laundry, collecting tumbleweeds of dog and cat hair, disrupting the natural cycle of dust in my home and other such futile tasks. I wanted to create a place where I could separate myself from these things. A place where I could be "me". And, so, here I am.
The problem is, I am not only more than a mountaineering, tumbleweed-collecting, dust displacer. I am the mountaineering, tumbleweed-collecting, dust displacer. I have been cutting myself into parts that are never equal to the whole. The simplified and idealized version of myself doesn't acknowledge the parts of me that are just as valuable and create a clearer picture of who I really am.
Why did I ever want to create an outlet for only a part of me? I know that there is that part of me that has been neglected for a long time, but it has been by necessity. It does not mean that it is dead or that I have to separate it from the whole for it to survive. How on earth, could it survive without the whole?
So, today, I am here to tell you that I am a homeschooling mom of two beautiful girls. That I am a wife. That I engage in seemingly futile work like laundry, vacuuming and dusting. That my house is never clean and I am more often teaching math lessons than taking photographs. That I am more likely to write a grocery list than a poem. That you will find me more often at our church building than at a photo gallery or a poetry reading. That this is not just a photo blog or a poetry blog or homeschooling blog or a mommy blog. That this is about my life and, from now on, it is as real and complete as it can be.
Having said that, here is a picture I took yesterday:
Automatic Alarm
Airplanes have automatic alarms that go off when they get too close to the ground. Most cars let you know when they're running low on gas. If you could have an automatic alarm installed in your brain, what would it be for, and when would it go off?My first reaction to this question was that I would love to have an alarm that would go off when I hit my ideal caloric intake for the day. Wouldn't that be great? I could stop at that bite knowing I wasn't going to see the scale so much as wiggle one way or another from its intended destination. That cheesecake I was going to have for dessert would be perfect for breakfast. I don't mind being hungry so much.
Having said that, I will tell you that I thought a little more seriously about the question. If I could only have one automatic alarm installed in my brain, shouldn't it be for something more important than my weight? Something deeper, loftier, more spiritual? I believe that God gives you a conscience, though, that is ultimately an alarm, if you don't fry it. Sinning isn't really something you do by accident. You do have a choice. So, after being presented with something you know is wrong and contemplating what you should do, if your conscience isn't enough to stop you, what will?
I suppose, the bottom line is that God has wired us perfectly for what our needs are on this earth. It doesn't take brain surgery to control ourselves. It just takes the maturity to step up to the plate and make the right decisions.
Out of the Box
Well, I have put up a gallery for my photographs and added a link to it over there to the left, for future reference. There are some pictures that I took with my trusty, old Pentax K1000 and had to digitize, a couple taken with my newly acquired Canon EOS 20D, but the bulk of them were taken with my Epson PhotoPC 3000Z. I have had my Epson for four years and my Canon for only a few short months, so most of my favorite digital images are from my Epson. I am anxious to take more pictures with my new Canon, though. The images are so much better in quality.
Something that has become quite apparent to me is that I take an awful lot of pictures of children. This has given me cause to think. (As if I needed one.) Among the obligatory pictures of birthday parties, holidays, vacations and visits to relatives, the ones that tend to jump out at me are the ones of the children. I shouldn't be surprised since I have always enjoyed being with children. I taught in a Montessori school and worked as a nanny before I had children of my own. The thing is that I think it goes even deeper than that.
When I was a child, I was considered quite serious, anxious and shy. I now attribute that to the fact that I was almost overwhelmed with sensory input each and every day of my life. My seriousness came out of the fact that I was in a constant struggle to maintain myself in the face of what amounted to a cacophony of sights, sounds, smells and feelings. Even though I was the youngest in my class, I was considered more mature than my classmates mostly because of my silence.
I have always had a very detailed memory of my childhood from the time I was about two until I became an adult. I don't believe the people who claim that you cannot remember anything earlier than three or four years of age. I remember things that had nothing to do with my parents and my parents are often surprised to know, so they are not family memories that were somehow implanted into my memory later in life. I am so familiar with my childhood that it often seems as though I can time travel.
Before I had children of my own, my photography seemed to revolve around attempting to capture what ended up being almost haunting images. It was like I was trying to capture the way I perceived the world because I knew by then that most people didn't experience things the way I did. When I had children, suddenly I was completely absorbed by them. I took pictures of them constantly trying to capture them in little time capsules. Taking pictures of them seemed to be all that really mattered, as far as my photography was concerned. Recently, though, I have come to realize that I am blending my desire to capture the world as I've experienced it with capturing the experience of childhood itself.
One of my favorite photographs is of my nephew wrapped tightly in a hammock while we were on a camping trip in New Hampshire. I see myself in that photograph more than most. His small, serious face. The comfort of being wrapped cocoon-like in a quiet place. The way the sun dapples his face in warmth. A place to daydream uninterrupted. I am still trying to find these things.
Sending Letters to Myself
I started this blog to encourage myself to write more often, but I am more drawn to photography than to writing. And it is so easy to post a photo to my blog instead of having to sit in front of the keyboard and actually write something. I think the key is that I need to just write and not worry about who's reading this stuff. Trying to be clever or thoughtful is a lot harder than actually being clever or thoughtful. I don't want to have to think about it all. I just want to write. I suppose that, if I write something terrible, I can always delete it. Or... I can just let it sit there and be what it is.
I don't want to even think about each post having to be some polished piece of information that I am disseminating to the world. I just want this to be me writing to myself, for the most part. If anyone else is interested, so be it. Read along.
Lullabies
A member of our congregation and a friend of mine was the first to die over in Afghanistan. I have cried many times over his loss, tried to comfort his wife and children and sung sad lullabies to his baby. And, yet, I do not hate "those people". As our preacher pointed out, we are not to compare ourselves with other people, but to God. It doesn't matter what other people have done throughout history or even that they may have actually done these things directly to us. God is our standard, not other people. How many times have I had to tell my own children this? You don't set your standards by what others do.
Let me be clear. I support our troops and our President. While my friend was over in Afghanistan, he wrote to his father that we needed to support our troops even when the bodies started coming home. Especially when the bodies started coming home. Little did we know that his would be the first.
I ordered a CD a couple of months ago and, while I don't necessarily agree with the politics of the man who put this CD together, I fell in love with the music on it. It is a CD of lullabies from Iran, Palestine and Iraq sung by native singers.
I take some small comfort listening to the lullabies that are actually being sung to the babies in the heart of such sadness. It makes me remember that we are all human. We need to treat each other humanely even in the midst of war, as much as that is possible. I walked and sang sad lullabies to the baby of my friend who died. A little boy who will grow up not ever having had the chance to know his father. I feel a connection when I listen to the soft, often sorrowful lullabies sung to the babies of Iranian, Palestinian and Iraqi mothers. Unfortunately, war is sometimes necessary and in war there is almost inevitably death. I think that we will ultimately be measured by how we treated the life left over.
Motto
What would your motto would be for the place you're at in your life right now? Is it different than it would have been five years ago? 10? 20?
I thought this writing prompt was interesting because of my instant response to it. My first response was what it would have been five, ten or twenty years ago. I immediately thought of the Rolling Stones song You Can't Always Get What You Want. When I was between eighteen and twenty-eight-years-old, I remember feeling comfort in the chorus,
You can't always get what you want
But if you try sometimes
You just might find
You get what you need
I even remember riding around my college campus in my roommate's red Mustang convertible with the top down, this song blaring and me singing right along. During this period of my life I always felt acutely lost.
When my husband and I married, I no longer felt lost, but our first ten years together were quite difficult and I often felt very much alone. Marriage is a difficult thing. I remember still clinging to the chorus of this song during this period like it was almost a spiritual anthem for me. I could sing along and gain not only comfort, but strength from the words and music.
A little more than five years ago, though, I started feeling like I not only didn't have what I wanted, but I wasn't getting what I needed, either. I remember dancing to Paula Cole's song, Where Have All The Cowboys Gone? with my young children nearby and feeling totally disconnected. Completely lost.
Where Have All The Cowboys Gone?
Oh you get me ready in your 56 Chevy
Why don't we go sit down in the shade
Take shelter on my front porch
The dandy lion sun scorching,
Like a glass of cold lemonade
I will do laundry if you pay all the bills
CHORUS:
Where is my John Wayne
Where is my prairie song
Where is my happy ending
Where have all the cowboys gone
Why don't you stay the evening
Kick back and watch the TV
And I'll fix a little something to eat
Oh I know your back hurts from working on the tractor
How do you take your coffee my sweet
I will raise the children if you pay all the bills
(Chorus)
I am wearing my new dress tonight
But you don't, but you don't even notice me
Say goodbyes
Say goodbyes
Say goodbyes
We finally sell the Chevy
When we had another baby
And you took the job in Tennessee
You made friends at the farm
And you joined them at the bar
Almost every single day of the week
(Chorus)
I will wash the dishes while you go have a beer
Where is my Marlboro man
Where is his shiny gun
Where is my lonely ranger
Where have all the cowboys gone
Yippee yo, yippee yeah
Today, though, I was listening to the Jars of Clay remake of America's Lonely People and I couldn't help but think that my life is so good today. My husband and I will have been married sixteen years this summer, we have two beautiful children and I no longer feel lost or lonely. I think this would come as close to a motto or, perhaps I should say an anthem, as anything for my life today.
Lonely People
This is for all the lonely people
Thinking that life has passed them by
Don't give up until you drink from the silver cup
And ride that highway in the sky
This is for all the single people
Thinking that love has left them dry
Don't give up until you drink from the silver cup
You never know until you try
Well, I'm on my way
Yes, I'm on my way
Well, I'm on my way back home
This is for all the lonely people
Thinking that life has passed them by
Don't give up until you drink from the silver cup
And never take you down or never give you up
You never know until you try
Heraclitus
Heraclitus
Translation of Callimachus' 2d Epigram
They told me, Heraclitus, they told me you were dead,
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears to shed.
I wept as I remember'd how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
And now that thou art lying, my dear old Carian guest,
A handful of gray ashes, long, long ago at rest,
Still are thy pleasant voices, thy nightingales, awake;
For Death, he taketh all away, but them he cannot take.
William Cory
My father-in-law has died. I want to tell you all I know about him, but I am too tired inside just now. I love him. He used to call and ask for my husband when he and I both knew that Will was not home. I would tease him that he just liked talking to me until it slowly settled in that he actually was calling to talk to me.
When my girls were babies, I would step out onto the deck of our condo where I could keep an eye on them without having to worry that they might coo loud enough for their grandfather to abruptly end the conversation saying that I needed to take care of my baby. It wouldn't have taken much of a coo to provoke this response from him. That was just the way he was. I remember leaning on the deck railing watching the sky slowly turn pink as the sun slipped below the buildings in town and talking to him about so many things. Listening to him about even more things.
When we moved to our present home, the girls turned two and five that summer. It wasn't as easy to leave them to their own devices when Grandpa Sparky would call. I became adept at putting videos in the VCR and looking sternly at the girls as I stepped back to their playroom to listen to whatever my father-in-law had on his mind.
As the girls got older, a stern look was enough to allow me to step away to the room that had been transformed from their playroom into their bedroom. I would lean against the ladder of their bunk beds and look out the window watching the sky turn ruddy as the sun slipped behind the trees in our neighborhood. Standing back there, listening to him and occasionally teasing him to get him to let go of something that was upsetting him was comforting. Sometimes he would be angry about something and I would have to divert his attention or, if all else failed, I would tell him how much I loved him. This never seemed to fail to quiet him. He would often brusquely tell me that he loved me, too. And I did love him in all his ways.
I would often be left standing in the dark looking up at the stars through the tree limbs from the bedroom window. I would always tell him that I loved him when we would say our goodbyes and he would always tell me that he loved me. Sometimes, I wasn't sure if he really did or if he just felt obligated to say the words. A part of me knew, though, that he never felt obligated to say those particular words.
The last time I spoke to my father-in-law was about a week before he died. I told him that I loved him and he told me that he loved me. That is enough. That is everything.
Discarded
This is a picture I took towards the end of last October. It was the day that we brought Maggie home from the shelter to live with us.
A man drove out into a heavily wooded, mountainous area of the county just as the nights were starting to turn frosty. When he thought he found a suitable spot, he dumped Maggie and another dog out on the side of the road and drove quickly away. A woman who lived nearby saw him and went out to check on the dogs. She called the shelter and they came to pick the dogs up.
It makes me sad to this day to think that someone would just dump a pet in the middle of nowhere. Maggie is an old dog, but she is the most grateful, loving and obedient dog I have ever had. Sometimes I just don't understand people. I am not a person who goes nuts about animals and their treatment because I think there are more horrifying things that happen in this world every day to human beings. I just don't understand how human beings can be so callous in so many ways.
Twelve + Thirteen
Lily will be twelve this summer. While going through the pictures in this plastic tub, I came across a picture taken when I was thirteen. My best friend, Dee Dee Fortin, took it and it is dated May 1979. I looked long at this picture. It was familiar, but suddenly I was seeing it through a different lens. My mother had redecorated this room and moved my sister into a different bedroom so that I could have a bedroom all my own. I remember her bringing wallpaper books home to peruse as she redecorated the entire house. We lived in an old Victorian house on the nicest street in town. A street lined with huge elm trees and wonderfully different, but equally nice houses from the same era.
I vaguely remember how it all came to be, but I really have no recollection at all of choosing wallpaper with columns of what appear to be blue cabbages up and down them. Neither do I remember choosing a glaringly blue carpet or a powder blue bed ensemble with more ruffles than any dress a Southern belle might wear. What I do remember is coming home from school one day, when I was twelve, and my mother opening the door to what was now my bedroom. I remember the feeling of freedom it evoked. No little sister muss and fuss. Just me and my Donny and Marie eight-tracks playing as loud as the player could manage. (Mind you, these were given to me by a friend who was a Donny and Marie fanatic and, at the time, I was under the impression that one must play what one has available. I actually much preferred Rod Stewart.) I felt like I was in some heavenly realm and I never wanted to go back to sharing a room with anyone. Of course, when I went off to college it became a necessity. I then married Will and now only occasionally dream of having my own room.
I decided to set this picture aside to show Lily what I looked like when I was about her age; hoping to give her some insight into the fact that I was not always a thirty-eight-year-old mother. When the girls came home from their piano lessons, I brought out the picture to show them. There I was, posed on the window sill of my bedroom. Thirteen. Skinny. Wearing my favorite shirt and framed by columns of blue cabbages. I was wondering what Lily's response would be, but unprepared for it. Lily was speechless. I looked at Clara and Clara spoke what Lily was unable to.
"Mommy, you had boobage!"
Now I think I remember why that was my favorite shirt.
The Friday Five #3
If you...
1. ...owned a restaurant, what kind of food would you serve?
I could see myself owning a restaurant that sold just coffee and dessert. I would serve all types of coffee and the best desserts on the planet. As far as I am concerned, dessert is the one, truly necessary, food group. And, of course, I would serve lots and lots of flan. Maybe I could call the place Just Desserts.
2. ...owned a small store, what kind of merchandise would you sell?
I would sell old books. I would love to have an antiquarian book store. It might go well with my coffee and dessert shop.
3. ...wrote a book, what genre would it be?
Definitely, any book that I initially write will be autobiographical fiction. That's where all of my writing eventually leads me.
4. ...ran a school, what would you teach?
I would love to be around small children, but I would never propose to teach them anything in the traditional, academic sense of the word. I would read lots of good books to them and let them have lots of time to play. We wouldn't have a lot of toys, but we would have an amazing amount of hardwood blocks, dress-up clothes, art supplies and small, felt dolls. We would go for nature walks, listen and dance to all kinds of music and I would show them how to do different handicrafts. I would insist that the parents play a strong role in the program similar to a co-op program. In the end, though, I would prefer that the mothers stay home with their children and do all these things with them. That's why I homeschool.
5. ...recorded an album, what kind of music would be on it?
With the right musicians, I would record an album of instrumental bluegrass hymns or maybe some instrumental Quaker hymns.
Tom
That was my Saturday. I didn't mention falling asleep on the loveseat after I had vacuumed behind it, did I? Well, a nap should have been on that list of things needed to be done. I would have assured myself greater success by listing at least one nap.
My Sunday was much different than my Saturday aside from the nap I took on the loveseat after church. I stayed up much too late on Saturday night and did not want to get out of bed Sunday morning. My thinking gets muddled when I have only gotten a couple hours of sleep and I groan pathetically whenever anyone says anything above a whisper. Will would have none of it, though, and told me to push myself. I did as requested. We all got to church in time for Sunday school classes. Will has a separate class that he has been attending that is about leadership. I have been attending the main class in the auditorium. We are starting a new class this term. I was very sleepy, but the lesson revolved around whether the modern-day Jew is still waiting for the Messiah. The gentleman teaching the class used some information he found on the web at Judaism 101. It was fairly interesting because I had always assumed that Jews were still waiting for their Messiah. It suddenly seemed odd to me that I have known many Jewish people and have never attempted to ask them about their beliefs on that particular topic. I used to work as a nanny when Will and I were first married. I worked for two different Jewish families and never once did I broach the subject. I am usually more inquisitive than that. I suppose I didn't want to jeopardize my position by having them think I might have strong Christian beliefs. One family included me in some of their holiday observances and I really appreciated that. This was also the same family that would openly speak with distaste about Christians. I am glad that I am not a person that things like that stick to. I often find it interesting how much I can remember about my life without it having any actual weight to it. I love people and I love their idiosyncrasies. God did make us wonderfully interesting.
The thing that happened this weekend and left a most heavy imprint on me, though, happened as we were singing the invitational hymn. The hymn that is supposed to encourage those who need to be baptized to come forward. Will and I were sitting by ourselves up front on the far left. We always sit there. Lily had decided to sit with the youth group and Clara sat nearby with her friend's family. We all stood and sang I Surrender All. The nice thing about the church of Christ is that we sing a cappella. Sitting up front, like we do, we have the advantage of hearing all those behind us and it is quite beautiful and uplifting. As I was in the middle of singing, something behind me caught my attention. The man that was in the pew behind us had suddenly passed out. I turned around to find him lying limply in the pew at rather an odd angle. His face was unnaturally red and his hands were quite blue. His breathing was shallow. I didn't know this man. We have an attendance of about four hundred, but it is rare for me to not know at least a person's face. Someone yelled out for Dr. Brady and within seconds there was Dr. Brady with Gina. Gina is a nurse and works at Dr. Brady's office now, but she used to work as a paramedic. I suddenly realized that this man had a little girl standing over him in tears and that she was getting in Dr. Brady's way. I took her hand and had her come sit with me where she could still see her father, but not be in the way. I talked to her and told her that everything was going to be all right. I hated the feeling that I might be lying to her, but I didn't think I was important enough in her life for her to lose complete faith in human beings, if things went awry. This is harder to do with one's own children. Or, at least, it should be.
I found out, through talking with this girl, that her name was Alex and that she was eight. I also found that she had a brother named Beau standing with rather large eyes on the other end of their pew. I brought him around with his sister. Apparently, they had only just started visiting our congregation. They told me that sometimes this happens to their father and that their mother wasn't there because they were divorced. She lived nearby, though, and Alex had her cell phone number memorized. When the paramedics got there, the congregation was in the middle of singing the closing hymn and it struck me as both odd and beautiful. I took both of the children by the hand and led them to the office to call their mother. They didn't want to go, but they limply followed me when I took them each by the hand. I didn't think they needed to be there for all of the paramedic action. I called their mother and told her what was happening and she seemed oddly detached saying something about this wasn't the first time this had happened. I told her that I would wait for her at the church and she could decide what to do when she got there. I had assumed that she would want to find someone to watch the children while she went to the hospital. Am I so naive? I let the children talk to their mother for a minute and then we went back in to check on their father. He was standing up white-knuckling the back of a pew. The lead paramedic told me that they were encouraging him to let them take him to the hospital. They even had the gurney popped open and ready to go, but the man was refusing. The paramedic talked pleasantly with the children for a minute and then looked back to me and said that they couldn't force him to go because the man was lucid. The paramedics packed up and left the man to Dr. Brady. When the mother arrived, most of the congregation had departed. She took the children by the hand and told them to hug their father goodbye. She was going to take them with her to a friend's baby shower. There was some discussion about getting the children's things out of their father's car and, then, they were gone.
By this time, we were out in the foyer and I was sitting on the floor in front of the man that I finally had a name for, Tom. Tom was sitting on a bench looking quite beaten. We talked for a while and it seemed that Tom has been quite depressed and under a lot of stress during this divorce. He had actually spent three days at a nearby hospital that is considered as having one of our country's best cardiothoracic units. They didn't know what was wrong with him. He couldn't sleep anymore and he wasn't eating anymore. All this he was telling me and I could sense that the only reason he was sharing this with me was because he was still very shaken. You could see that he was at a point in his life where he felt completely beaten down. I found a couple who were willing to drive him home while one of them followed in their own car.
As he left, I gave him a phone directory and pointed to the page with our picture and phone number and told him to call us if he needed anything. I could no longer resist the urge to hug him and so I did. Then he was gone.
On the way home, I sat in the car feeling horrible. Divorce is a terrible thing. It is too foreign to me. I can't imagine not caring about William. I can't imagine seeing him in so much despair and just walking away from him.
