we get by with a little help...

The day spent, we lay in bed, catching up on lost snuggle time—a high priority in our household. Buddy's curls find their way around my nose, tickling me even in their post-shower dampness. I breathe in the smell of shampoo, repositioning my head, and hug him tighter.

"You know what, Buddy?" I say. "I think you're the best boy ever."

He squeezes my arm, wrapped securely around his waist. "And you're the best Momma ever," he replies.

"I mean it, Buddy. I think you are a really neat kid," I tell him, wanting him to get that I'm not just saying this because this is something Momma's say. Wanting him to get that I see him for who he is, and that who he is has value. Wanting him to get that I don't just love him, but I like him, too.

He squeezes again. "I mean it too, Momma," he says. And in a whisper he adds, "You help me when I need help."

You help me when I need help. I am caught off guard by his comment—I smile a "that's an interesting thing to say" smile in the dark. "I'm happy to help you, Buddy. I will always help you when you need help."

It is interesting the things that speak love to a child. So often, they are not the things we think we should be doing. They are the things are children ask for. Snuggling. Praying. Doing something together. Time spent in proximity at the end of a day of separateness. Helping when one needs help. Putting the work aside and playing four square (with two people) when you'd really rather get your work done. I don't do it all perfectly. Some of it I don't even do with mediocrity. But in his world, at the moment, there is a little bit I am doing right.

After my week, I will take it, and rest in that tonight.

on the couch with buddy

Sigh. What is it they say about the best-laid plans?

Today was spent nursing my 8-year-old back to health, rather than taking care of myself. Some days, we just have to do this. God takes our tidy little agenda and tips it upside down like a snow globe, and all the little "appointments" float around like flecks of glitter and fall in entirely different places. My women's group. My quiet time. Blogging. Working on the manuscript. My healing prayer appointment. All up in the air, and then all just gone—buried under a day full of Mike Rowe getting dirty to my son's gleeful delight.

It would be one thing if I did it well—this caretaking thing. I sat on the couch for as long as I could stand it, reading my book in snippets between Mike's bleeps and blunders, and then I was gone. The itch to be productive would not leave me be and I spent the rest of the afternoon at the computer working on blogging issues and research while Buddy sat on the couch watching Mike alone with his fever and his chicken soup.

I wrestle with this parenting thing. With this working full time/writing part time/parenting full time/exercising part time/dieting full time/socializing part time/taxi-driving full time/repeating sixth grade part time schedule I keep. There is not enough time to do it all, let alone do it well. There is fatigue. There is frustration. There is worry. And there is guilt. There is a LOT of guilt. I worry I've not done this mothering thing well. Not really well. And it grieves me. Because I wanted to do it well.

But there is, occasionally, a light that glimmers like a crystal catching the light of the sun at just the right angle. It reflects back to me something of glory. I sit back, my breath caught, and I just look. That glimmer is hope. And the sun is reflecting more and more of it lately. The hope that God will equip. Will restore. Will sustain. Will guide. If only I will listen and follow. If only…

My devotional for today reads:
Trust me one day at a time. This keeps you close to me, responsive to my will. Trust is not a natural response, especially for those who have been deeply wounded. My Spirit within you is your resident tutor, helping you in this supernatural endeavor. Yield to his gentle touch; be sensitive to his prompting. (Jesus Calling, March 18)

Yield to his gentle touch, sensitive to his prompting. I wonder how different today might have looked had I done that. I can't undo it now, so I will not dwell there in regret, but move forward in resolve.

Tomorrow, the snow globe gets re-shaken, and the glitter falls where it may. I can only take it one day at a time. Tomorrow is a new opportunity. To listen. To yield. To follow.

To trust.

To take care.

catching my breath

Finally a moment to sit down at my keyboard, and I am without my manuscript and cannot think of a darn thing to write about. Panera is hoppin’ and my meal is finished and my lunchtime-rush limited 30 minutes of free wifi are quickly ticking away, but nothing comes to mind as my body slowly digests the renegade carbohydrates I just scarfed down in order to have time to write. All that blood in my stomach, I suppose. Isn’t that what they say?

A timer goes ignored in the kitchen and a baby screams somewhere across the way and the 20-somethings at the table next to me complain about their boss in hushed but animated tones. Patrons around me come and go, and I put my feet up and settle down into my seat and plan to be here for a while. A chill from the door begins to settle in, and I wish I were closer to the fire. Of course, were I closer to the fire, I would be wishing I were elsewhere. That seems to be the way it goes.

Perhaps it is not so much that I cannot think of anything to write about as it is that I cannot narrow it down. My plate, as usual, is full here as of late. We are back in the physical therapy routine—figuring out school schedules and transportation and what to do for an hour 2-3 times/week while they work at healing the newest debilitating injury. Doctors visits and x-rays and MRIs and massage therapy—there is no shortage of things to write about. Then there was the throwing up second-grader the night before the Valentine party, the weekend spent snorting Lysol and praying none of the rest of us would fall victim to the same vile plague, the upper respiratory crud that has grabbed several of us by the chest and won’t let us breathe. But it’s winter. Everyone is sick. And we, in particular, are always sick. What on earth is interesting about that?

Then again, perhaps it is not so much that I cannot think of anything to write about as it is that there are things on my mind I cannot write about, things I can’t put into words, things that aren’t fit for public consumption. I consider what I could possibly consider as I sit here nursing my luke-warm tea, and I come up with nothing I would possibly feel comfortable exploring in the comfort of my cozy but very public mini-booth at Panera. The tables around the fire are all open now, and I consider moving. An attempt to distract myself, I suppose, from thinking about that which I don’t want to think about, much less write about. I stay put, pulling my sweater around my legs and shrinking and inch or two further away from the radius of the door. Wrapped up and secluded, both inside and out.

The 20-somethings have gone back to work and the baby has fallen asleep and the timer has long since been silenced. But my thoughts are still just as scattered as they were when I first put my fingers to the keys. I consider reaching in my bag for a book, but feel compelled to write since it is the first chance I’ve had in over a week to do so. The urge won’t leave me alone—not now, not ever. It is always there, nagging at me, trying to pull me from whatever it is I am doing at the time. I need to listen to it. I need to give in to it. I need to shut it up, even if just for a few short minutes here at Panera.

My tea is almost drained and my eyelids are getting heavy. Another hour until I pick the injured one up early from school and take her to a new doctor, hoping to find out why the back won’t stop hurting, and what to do in order to fix that. I watch people come and go, and I consider getting up and joining them. I am undecided as of yet, but of this I am certain—I’ve written just about all I can write for today.

one word

I'm not really a copy cat. Really. And, truly, I can't in good conscience be called a copy cat because it's too late to really do the thing right, anyway. So I'm not copying my friend Cindy, who did this really cool Reverb10 thing in December, because it's not December any longer, and I'm not really doing it. Really.

But here's the thing.

I've been looking for this very thing. I just didn't find it in time. I've been in my "it's the end of the year and I need to reflect and regroup" place (though, admittedly, I get in that place several times a year—"It's my birthday, so I need to reflect and regroup... It's the end of the school year, so I need to reflect and regroup…It's Wednesday, so I need…") so when I was looking at Cindy's kick-butt photography (click on her name above to be amazed) and came across her entries for Reverb10, I just about hyperventilated. This was just the springboard I needed. Short, concise prompts, no big book to read, lots to think about. I can do this. Though I won't do one a day, I won't probably even complete them all, and I won't, obviously, get them done in time for them to serve the purpose the creators intended. But I'm good with that. Because they will serve my meager little purpose just fine. And that way, I can't be called a copy cat. (Especially because worrying that y'all would THINK I'm a copy cat would be a form of resistance, and I'm making a new practice of resisting resistance. For today, at any rate…)

SO. Prompt number one: One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you're choosing that word. Now imagine it's one year from today. What would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you?

One Word

Bittersweet.

My word for 2010 is bittersweet. Bitter. Sharp and disagreeable, causing or showing sorrow or discomfort, characterized by strong feelings of resentment or cynicism—there are things from this past year that have left an unpleasant taste in my mouth. Like Naomi changing her name to Mara, I have cried out to God about losses it feels I cannot bear, burdens placed on me I don't wish to carry any further, dreams and plans that didn't turned out the way I dreamt and planned them. I don't wish to live in this land any longer.

Sweet. Agreeable and pleasant, friendly and pleasing, characterized by kindliness and gentleness—there have also been moments that have been gratifying, sentimental, even delightful at times, though that last one might be pushing it a bit. Celebratory moments. Adventurous moments. Hilarious moments. Intimate moments. Bright spots like stars against the backdrop of night. I want to live in this place more often.

Bittersweet captures, for me, the juxtaposition within which I often find myself, despite my best efforts toward contentment and peace. Pleasure mixed with overtones of sadness. You take the bitter with the sweet. Certain things come at the cost of others. This has been the theme of this last year.

I'm pretty over it.

Audacity.

My word for 2011 is audacity. Intrepidly daring and adventurous, recklessly bold, marked by originality and verve—contemptuous of law, religiosity, or decorum. In 2011, I want to have the audacity to finish my manuscript, to love well, to say no when I need to. I want to have the audacity to live authentically, to create courageously, to follow obediently. I want to have the audacity to pursue dreams and passions and not just talk about it, to experience life and not just read about it, to connect intimately and not just dream about it. I don't just want to be courageous. I want to be audacious.

This is what I want to project into 2011.

Audacity. Intrepid boldness. Bold or arrogant disregard of normal restraints.

Behold, I am doing a new thing. See how it rises up.

all’s fair in love and war

Having received duplicates of a book I asked for this Christmas, I returned one and grabbed another book that has been on my list since my writing retreat last May, The War of Art, by Steven Pressfield. An easy (though convicting) read, I am already half-way through it and I began it yesterday. As I've not really had any time to read, I'm not sure how that happened.

It is one of those books that one should read several times, digesting bits and pieces in bite-size morsels, letting them swish around in your mouth a bit as you linger over the sensation. It is that good. As I am a compulsive eater, however, I tend to read in the same compulsive manner. I am gulping this book down in one fail swoop, and will consider it further much later as it digests.

A question arose, however, as I was reading, that I could just not leave alone, especially given my post from New Year's Morning. As Mr. Pressfield discussed the perils of resistance, with which I have been very familiar this past year, he lighted on a topic that jabbed a stick right into the very place I've been trying to reach. Unfortunately, he does not adequately scratch my itch.Mr. Pressfield is discussing the role of rationalization in resistance, and does, I might add, a very convincing job of it. Because resistance can't show itself in its true form (because we would recognize fear as resistance and thereby feel shamed into action), it must be crafty. Rationalization is one of its tools of the trade. "Resistance presents us with a series of plausible, rational justifications for why we shouldn't do our work." I buy this. Completely. I have even been caught by it, hook, line, and sinker. BUT.

Here is where I get a little conflicty.

What's particularly insidious about the rationalizations that Resistance presents to us is that a lot of them are true. They're legitimate… What resistance leaves out, of course, is that all this means diddly. Tolstoy had thirteen kids and wrote War and Peace. Lance Armstrong had cancer and won the Tour de France three years and counting.

Great. Swell. Despite having children, they accomplished great feats. That's all well and good. BUT WHAT KIND OF FATHERS WERE THEY? (And, for that matter, didn't their children have MOTHERS to look after them? Not to mention probably nursemaids?!?!?)

THAT is the question penned below that last line on page 56 of The War of Art. THAT begs the question I cannot seem to answer for myself. THAT is what causes my spirit to churn and gurgle like an upset stomach when I'm faced with another afternoon of doing everything that must be done for everyone else. I can do what it takes to be a writer of the variety I would like to become. Certainly I know without a doubt I am capable. But at what cost? And to whom?

This is my issue. Competing desires. I want to be a good mother. I want to invest significantly and meaningfully into my children's lives. I want to be fully present and accounted for. AND.

I want to write. I want to go on another retreat and do nothing but write for six days on end. I want to write daily. I want to create and, in turn, be recreated. I want to live in this passion and be true to that which is within me. When I get up in the morning, when I go about my day, when I retire in the evening, THIS is what is on my mind: I want to write-sing-paint-draw-sew-bead-sculpt-meld-CREATE.

And I am having a bit of trouble trying to figure out a way to do BOTH without feeling I am failing woefully at it ALL.

snuggling and sacrifice

It is nearly 11:00 AM on this temperate but grayish and wet New Year's Day, and, oddly enough, I am the only one up. The hubby who stayed up reading after we returned home from our holiday revelry is cozied up in bed next to the seven-year-old, who desperately but unsuccessfully tried to keep up with the almost-twelve-year-olds who intended to stay up ALL night but were found, true to my prediction, sacked out on the couch this morning, unknowingly succumbing to sleep somewhere after movie three. It was a valiant effort, nonetheless.

To say it is unusual that I am the only one up would be a gross understatement. When left to my own devices and not bound by the constrictions of four different calendars, it is quite the norm to find me still in bed while all the rest of my household starves for lack of an ability to get their own bowl out of the cabinet and pour their own milk and cereal. Occasionally the almost-twelve-year-old gives me a run for my money as her body shifts to its adolescent time table, but I can still easily beat her in a sleep-in-off hand's down just about any morning I am given the opportunity.

That is, until Buddy comes and crawls in bed.

Both of my children, I should clarify, are avid snugglers. They love to come into our bedroom after they've awakened and basically make sure that I am awake, too, which is very kind of them, if not entirely misguided. They pull back the covers and burrow through them until they've found my warm body, and then adhere themselves to me in whatever fashion they are able as warranted by my position in the bed. This has been our morning ritual since they were old enough to get out of bed--indeed, Bub even has gone as far as to set her alarm to be sure she gets snuggle time before she has to get ready for school. It is as much of our family's genetic code as ice cream and game nights and hiking adventures and leaving the new toilet paper roll on top of the toilet paper roll holder.

Sometimes, when they've shuffled in with a groggy step and fallen into the bed half-aware, I am blessed with another bit of sleep as their breathing falls mercifully into a deep, deliberate pattern and their bodies are gloriously still. I may not be able to breath or move myself, wedged as I am into the double bed I grew up sleeping in alone and now am forced to share with not one but two to three people and as many cats, but at least they are not moving and if I breathe deeply myself and try to visualize pleasant, spacious places, I can get very close to falling back asleep, myself. Almost.

But I am not always so fortunate. Buddy, who is the true cling-on of the pair, is also a bit, um, shall we say, squirrely, and I know as soon as I hear distinct, rapid footsteps scampering from the bathroom that my evening's repose has expired. No longer drowsy, all hope is gone of his body again becoming static, and I am up for a morning of elbows and knees and whispers and wiggles and sighs and desperate, futile pleas for him to please be still.

They tell me I will miss this.

Truth be told, I tell myself this, as well. It is the only reason I do not lock and bar my bedroom door on a nightly basis. I know I will miss this. Desperately. And so I endure it. And I only groan inwardly as soon as I hear Buster Brown descend from his top bunk across the hall, so that he will not ever know I am not as thrilled as he that he is awake and ready to snuggle. But it is a bittersweet snuggle, as I once again, for the first time of many that day, sacrifice that which I desire for the ever more important desires of my children.

We are nearing 11:30 and there is still no sound from upstairs. Apparently starting a movie at 2:00 AM was enough to keep Buddy quiet for his father this morning, and they are still warm and cozy in MY bed that I could no longer lay still in for lack of space and breathing room. (Literally.) Rather than fight for cramped, sweaty, broken sleep this morning, I have done a new thing in this new year. I have arisen before my entire family and come down to the kitchen and sat my butt in front of the computer and I've done something I WANTED TO DO. For once. Perhaps this bodes well for the new year. Perhaps this is an omen. Or perhaps this is just a fluke. After all, it is much easier to rise before everyone else when I am rising at 10:00 in the morning. Which is just about right for me...

Parenting and writing do not flow easily for me out of the same space. Somewhere between all the work of taking care of people, which is done both professionally and personally, I fear I have lost my creative self. The writer. The musician. The artist. I know intellectually they are truly not lost--just hibernating, perhaps, not enjoying the cold, gray winters of Ohio any more than I do. But I miss them. Desperately. And I feel incomplete without them. And I've still, after almost twelve years, not yet determined how to balance that which I need with the needs of my children. And I've yet to comprehend, in my own life and beyond, where the mystery of death to self and the reality of taking care of one's self intersect.

For a fleeting moment I hear a bird singing outside my window, and just as quickly as it came, it is gone. Thank God for temperate, unseasonable days that bring us out of hibernation and restore to us that which we were created to do. Even if only for one, quiet, up-before-everyone-else morning.

what happened to my day OFF???

I'm supposed to be working on my manuscript today.

You can obviously see how well that is going.

So far, on my one full day per week to write, I have had to: finish hemming my daughter's skirt for her concert tomorrow (after a 10 minute search for where the kitten had batted the spool of thread I was using), narrow down speech meet choices for my son from 50 poems to three, pick up after the morning tornado, finish my homework for group tonight, email my daughter's math teacher about her grade, and make my to-do list for the rest of the day. It includes: working out so I don't gain even MORE weight, ironing my daughter's outfit for the concert, helping Buddy pick one of the three poems, making stops at Kohl's, Walgreen's, and Kroger, talking to my daughter about breaking the garbage can lid in a fit of anger (without having a fit of anger myself), supervising my darling children as they empty and re-load the dishwasher, getting a shower, and reviewing my materials for group tonight.

Ah, motherhood.

Who the heck signed me up for this?

unwritten

Hit the road this afternoon for a five day writing retreat to work on the manuscript I promised myself I'd write before I turned 40. The skies were clouded with rain and my thoughts were clouded with insecurity. What could I possibly have to say that hasn't been said before? This is what played on radio as I left home behind...

Unwritten

I am unwritten, can't read my mind, I'm undefined
I'm just beginning, the pen's in my hand, ending unplanned

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins
The rest is still unwritten

I break tradition, sometimes my tries, are outside the lines
We've been conditioned to not make mistakes, but I can't live that way

Staring at the blank page before you
Open up the dirty window
Let the sun illuminate the words that you could not find

Reaching for something in the distance
So close you can almost taste it
Release your inhibitions
Feel the rain on your skin
No one else can feel it for you
Only you can let it in
No one else, no one else
Can speak the words on your lips
Drench yourself in words unspoken
Live your life with arms wide open
Today is where your book begins

The rest is still unwritten
The rest is still unwritten
The rest is still unwritten

(lyrics by Natasha Benefield)

I've not written for almost six months--lost in a black cloud, unwilling to think, much less express. I am willing now. It is time to live my life with arms wide open.

Today is where my book begins.

stats

So, I posted ONCE in October. That could have something to do with having had two major sinus infections and a bout of bronchitis. It could also have something to do with having four weekends away within a five-weekend month. Furthermore, it could possibly have something to do with the general malaise that set in around here, likely as a result of both. At any rate, there was no writing taking place, here or anywhere.

I wonder sometimes what the heck I'm doing here. Blogs almost seem passe now, what with FaceBook and all. I know they are entirely different beasts, but who bothers to read a blog post when updates "thrown" up on the "wall" are so much quicker and easier to read? I try to remind myself that updates are not what I'm about here--that I'm trying to really write something of substance. But when most people just check in for updates, and they're all people I already know, how is that meeting my objective?

What IS my objective? And could it better be met elsewhere?

And while we're at it, what the heck am I doing with my life? Ugh.

Two more days left on the antibiotic. Perhaps the malaise will lift when the steriod finally wears off and I stop wanting to crawl out of my skin. In the meantime, I'll try not to take myself too seriously.

I'd be much obliged if you'd do the same.

a snapshot of my summer

This pretty much sums things up. And since this picture was taken, about six sunflowers have sprung up and bloomed, as well. None of which were planted. All the wrong things are bearing fruit here, lately.

The question, of course, is what to weed out. Or is it? It's pretty obvious all that has grown up between the cracks here does not belong. That which was not intentionally planted does not belong, either. I can identify these things easily. Applying this metaphor to my life, however, is not as simple.

The sunflowers can stay. The cornstalk, despite my kids' protests, has to go. As for what is next, who can say?

a new year

Yesterday was my birthday. I begin my fortieth year with these wishes from my mother:

How to Make A BEAUTIFUL LIFE--
Reflections For a Daughter On Her Birthday

Love yourself.
MAKE PEACE with who you are
and where you are
at this moment in time.

Listen to your heart.
If you can't hear what it's saying
in this noisy world,
MAKE TIME for yourself.
Enjoy your own company.
Let your mind wander among the stars.

Try.
Take chances.
MAKE MISTAKES.
Life can be messy
and confusing at times,
but it's also full of surprises.
The next rock in your path
might be a stepping-stone.

Be happy.
When you don't have what you want,
want what you have.
MAKE DO.
That's a well-kept secret of contentment.

There aren't any shortcuts to tomorrow.
You have to MAKE YOUR OWN WAY.
To know where you're going
is only part of it.
You need to know where you've been, too.
And if you ever get lost, don't worry.
The people who love you will find you.
Count on it.

Life isn't days and years.
It's what you do with time
and with all the goodness and grace
that's inside you.
MAKE A BEAUTIFUL LIFE...
the kind you deserve.


The people who love me found me this weekend. For that I am immensely grateful.
Thank you, thank you, thank you...

Here's to a new year.

natural and logical...

My daughter is in bed, crying. I don't know whether to beat her, or cry, too.

I'm done. I'm done with PT and the freezing waiting room with its gale force air conditioning that gusts on my head no matter which freakin' place I sit, giving me an even bigger headache than my son crawling all over me, fighting inter-galactic battles in his full-voiced soprano. I'm done with the drive, with the interruption to every single day I'm off work, with the need to entertain my son at the constant cost of entertaining myself.

I'm done with talking about full range of motion and letters of medical necessity and random, made-up insurance limits that have nothing to do with our actual needs. I'm done with the whining--about the splint, about the exercises, about the appointments. I'm done with fighting with her--about the splint, about the exercises, about the appointments. I'm done caring about her stupid arm. And I'm done paying for it, in more ways than one.

Whose consequence was this, anyway?!?!

And so, tonight, there are tears, this time because she didn't do all her exercises today at her Grandmother's (despite our discussion about it this morning... and last night... and yesterday at PT...) which meant Poppa had to pull on her arm for 20 minutes instead of five. Again, whose consequence should this be? Why is it constantly mine?

And so I sit here, torn between feeling like the worst mother in the world because I allowed her to feel the consequence of my anger and frustration, which translates into "I allowed myself to get angry in front of her about this flippin' ordeal for ONCE," and feeling completely justified in my anger, if not in my lengthy format for expressing it. She is not alone in this. She took us all with her down that damn tube, and me more so than the rest. I am trying to let that go, but it is a daily battle. A raging, bloody, ugly battle. Some days I overcome. Today...

"I love you more than you'll ever know," Lifehouse sings over my new Switchfoot station on pandora.com, "and a part of me died when I let you go." I die a millions deaths with this child. Each one harder than the last. I am weary of this process.

Apparently crying is the option I choose tonight as well, though I don't recall the point at which I chose it. But the tears are there, nonetheless, and I do not think I can bear them much longer. Hers are enough.

I am done.

more lemon bars, please

All I know is that Helen's lemon bars made me happy. And so I ate several. In addition to my German Chocolate Chip Cookie Bars, which also made me happy. In addition to the "Texas Caviar," which also made me happy. In addition to...

(read more at more)

a bit of a stretch

It was an unusual sight. Eight or ten bodies in motion, bouncing, bouncing, bouncing, and my daughter's body static. It is not a sight I'm used to. It is not a situation she is used to. But, alas, this is what happens when you break your arm.

You don't get to play on the trampoline with the other kids. Or do the sack race on field day. Or go to the water park with a friend. You have to sit on the sidelines and watch. And when you are not a sideline kind of kid, this is a bit of a stretch.

Three times a week for the last several weeks, we have driven, all three of us, across town to sit in a freezing waiting from for an hour while my daughter has physical therapy to straighten out her broken arm. This, too, is a stretch, given I had just cleared my calendar to make life more laid back.

But the real stretching comes at the hands of Todd, her therapist, who sits for thirty minutes at a time simply pulling on her arm. For a child who is not comfortable with discomfort, this is indeed a stretch. She sits, quietly (unlike at home, where I must do it for a measly five minutes, three times a day, while she whines and moans and complains) as he patiently yet firmly works to undo the damage done by four weeks of immobility.

Immobility. I know a thing or two about not moving. About things locking up, tissue wrapping around tissue, weaving tightly to the point of preventing freedom of movement. Stretching, apparently, is the key to freedom.

Like my daughter, I grouse and gripe at the simplest amount of pressure applied to a tender tendon. Like my daughter, I do not like to let someone else pull on my arm. But the type of stretching necessary to take my daughter's arm from a 90° angle to -5° is apparently something she can't do on her own.

And, apparently, I'm supposed to learn something from that.

oh yes, i remember this...

It is 11:20 PM. After working for roughly twelve hours today, I am finally parked in front of my computer with my scribbles from the past several days. The kids weren't in bed until after 9:30. (After spouting some selfish notion about wanting to actually spend time with me after I've been gone all day.) Then the hubby called. (Ditto.) After that, I was going to do yoga to undo the knots from yesterday's aerobics class and try to work some of this fanny off. That was the plan, at least.

But I have 60 messages in my inbox to respond to. Dishes in the dishwasher to put away. Bills that need paid tonight. Laundry screaming both to be done and to be put away. My bedroom is dismantled, still. And what do I really want to do?

I want to write. I want to write.

Ah, yes. Summer vacation. This is what I couldn't wait for.

a few of this weekend's scribbles

I've been meditating on a passage out of my devotional entitled A Song at Midnight. I wrote this in response a few nights ago...

night vision

you speak of blessing,
insist you are near at hand
waiting for my call

but i am hoarse from
calling, all to no avail--
you do not come near

promises kept or
not kept--i know not the truth--
blind eyes do not see

fresh revelation
though the midnight hour is dark...
i welcome your sight

summer "break"

I've finally coaxed myself off the porch before the mosquitoes could carry me away. Next stop is bed--early, for two reasons. One is the killer head ache I've had since, oh, say Friday. The second is due to having to work early tomorrow morning. Both children are conveniently in one bed, which means my daughter's is open. Having spent the one spare hour I had of our first day of summer vacation dismantling my bedroom, I will spend tonight in the neon room, because I've had neither the time nor the wherewithall to put it all back together.

Putting it all back together. Indeed, not something I've had the time or energy to do.

Hopefully this week will bring a few pix from the end of the school year, and a post or two that have been bopping around in my head. In the meantime, I'm going to grab a couple more ibuprofen for the road...

yearning: in response

Some good friends have had some insightful thoughts about my previous post, but my thoughts are too extensive to post within the comments, so I will reflect upon them here.

I still stand in agreement with the quote, albeit taken out of its proper context, and with KP, who states, "some parts of our society are trying to vilify any mood state or behavior that is outside of 'normal' and 'happy'." We are taught, repetitively, that happiness is our ultimate goal in life, and anything short of that is both short-coming and short-sighted. I don't know a single person who would tell you his or her life is completely happy. Not a one. What is wrong with those people?

Nothing. Nothing is wrong with a one of us. Other than not measuring up to an unattainable goal. I do not believe, rightly or wrongly, that perpetual happiness is our intended state on this earth. Now, joy, perhaps. Peace, possibly. Contentment, I'm not so sure. But these are not qualities that are naturally occurring. They are fruit that is cultivated.

I'm not saying the opposite, either. I'm not saying that our sole purpose on this earth is merely to suffer. I don't buy that line of bull, either. I'm simply saying that I do believe, wholeheartedly, that we are living every moment in the tension between the now and the not yet. We were meant to live life one way, and we are living it another. That tension is uncomfortable at best, unbearable at its worst. But we don't want to be uncomfortable, not indefinitely, at any rate.

I know there is contextual and circumstantial depression. I know there is chemical depression. I know there is spiritual depression, strongholds and the like. I preach this message several times a week. I know full well that all of the above and more weave together in a delicate, intricate web that is not always easy to untangle. And I know that all strings leading to the center must be considered, not just one.

But I believe that, even as Christians, we are quick to ignore or even disdain this spiritual component. Why is that? I believe it is, in part, because we believe we can control the other parts, but the God part we know we cannot. And that frustrates us. Or, it frustrates me, at least. (And "frustrate" is a mild term, believe me.) I don't want to consider where God fits in to the picture, because there is no formula to follow or pill to take that guarantees an outcome. But, quite frankly, none of those things have provided an overwhelmingly beneficial, sustainable outcome, either, so where does that leave me, and others like me?

KP points to the year I've had, which I've moaned about repeatedly here, as just cause for feeling depressed. I agree. And I also agree wholeheartedly that better self-care and stewardship of my time and energy would certainly help the situation. But it doesn't explain the melancholia that has rested heavily upon my shoulders for as long as I can remember, not ever giving up its roost even in the face of medication, nutrition, exercise, strong relationships, and all the self-care I could possibly muster at various given points in my life.

The past year doesn't explain waking up nearly every morning, from the time I was a child through to the present, feeling as if I could cry for truly no good reason. It doesn't explain the ache in my heart when things end, when moments pass, when life slips through my fingers. It doesn't explain the persistent numbness in my spirit, the quickness to cry at certain things, the inability to cry at others. There is more to it than my overextended schedule. But you know this.

There is more to it than biochemistry. Than my blood sugar. Than not getting enough sleep. There is more to it than feeling occasionally distant from my husband, feeling inadequate as a parent, expecting too much of myself in nearly everything I do. There is more to it than what we want to naturally equate it to. Personally, I believe that this "more to it" has something to do with God. No Christianese bullshit about it.

So, I retract my ending statement from the last post, in which I question whether or not the depression I feel is just my heart longing for its true home. Is it just that? No. And that's not what I intended to imply. But is it part of the equation? Is it one of the strings entwined among the others? Is it something I must consider and move toward in order to move toward joy? I believe the answer is resoundingly yes.

a matter of trust

Therein lies the problem. I do not believe this for a moment. I do not believe that my body is a benevolent force intent upon my health and emotional well-being. I have chronic pain. I have IBS. I have a life-long weight issue. What, exactly, am I supposed to find trustworthy about these things and my inability to rectify them?

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shame on you

Whether I've managed to hide it from you or not, it is there, though I've yet to fully figure out why. Much has been written about glorifying thinness and vilifying fatness—I'm sure there are judgments I've made along the line, both of myself and others. I'm also sure our culture deserves a lion's share of the blame that is to be taken. After all, if I lived in the Elizabethan era, I'd likely be the subject of an oil painting. But I don't, and I'm not, and I digress.

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