Time

If I had more time…

I’d write more, dance more, love more… I’d have more friends… I’d make more and take more adventures… I’d sleep more, self-soothe more, pause more. With more time for me, there’d be more of me to share with others.

If only there were just a few more hours in each day… I’d be better, do better… life would be better… with more time.

But in the quiet, I remember… life is nothing but time… it’s how we choose to spend that time that shapes and defines our lives. And I remember the lives that I’m molding, shaping, saving. Despite my feelings of inadequacy, I suppose there’s no greater thing to do with that time…

That time that I’ve been given… the ticker that started 40 years ago and has a battery life that is unknown to all but the highest power. In a blend of quiet reflection and panic, I wonder, I plead, for a lot more time.

Here I am, gifted with this vessel of- time to invest in the present moment, time to make every difference, time to build and create. Sitting on a pile of forty albeit hard, still blessed years, like coins of gold, I determine how they are spent… and yet here I am, unsatisfied and selfishly asking, pleading, for more.

Perhaps it’s not “more” that I need. After all, there is no bank to withdraw more of this precious currency of life. But instead, perhaps I need an advisor… an analysis of how it is that I am choosing to spend my minutes, hours. How does each investment serve me? Serve others? What is the overall yield? In this culture of endless “more”s , how much time is frivolously spent on mindless screens and scrolling? What if I could deduct time spent in traffic? On pointless worry? On stewing? On regret?

“Time is the apparent progression of events from past to future… the evolution of time appears to be continuous and irreversible.” *

There is no going back and no speeding forward. There is only ever, right now.

From my quiet place, that place that feeds my soul and allows for slow and beautiful growth… I pause and stand. Putting my best foot forward, I reset my goals to speak only truth and kindness- and to correct my missteps without dwelling on them. To notice life and beauty, everywhere. To make a difference, in ways both big and small- a smile at a stranger, time to talk to the lonely, efforts to grow and watch grow, pause to soak in the sunshine, the songs of the birds, the laughter of my children and the playful eye of my lover. To wipe my tears and tend to my fragility, to courageously feed my strength.

My hourglass hides in the clouds and I know not how many grains remain in the glass enclosure, but I reset… not to ask for more… but to treasure each one that hangs in the balance and then falls. For in that grain, holds a million opportunities for greatness. And they each belong to me.

*Quote by Paul Sutter, an astrophysicist article on Livescience.com

February

February is frozen.

A winter walk in a black and white world. The trees are naked, but the ground sparkles.

I step off the snowy white, one foot onto black. In an instant, my feet are swept from underneath, and I slam into the cold, hard ice, disoriented and disillusioned.

Too cold, too hard, too fast to feel the pain. Yet breathless. Struggling, I pull for air. I am outside of myself, looking down. Who is that girl that cries?

Frantic movements, I scramble back to my feet, dust the powder and the frozen tears off my body and my face… There’s a job to be done, people to call, arrangements to be made. No time to mourn, no time to feel. The cold numbs my bones like my heart.

A wintery blast swirls around me and I fall from the sky in the middle of a frozen landscape, tombstones all around me. With each step, the earth crunches underfoot. I am sure that it’s all a nightmare. Soon I will awaken.

Awake and my thoughts are consumed. No longer the girl I once was. Sleep will offer me an escape… or more nightmares…

I am lost and yet they say, “It’s time to move on.” To where? How? I go through the motions like an imposter. The world has four seasons; but I, I am trapped in winter.

A seemingly endless journey, the numbness yields to pain, rage, sorrow. Alone on the frozen tundra, head bowed, one more heavy step… and then another. I scream. But it only echoes.

Regret, longing and questions without answers, wear like a heavy coat, pushing my shoulders down. I sink into the waist-deep snow, wishing it would swallow me whole.

Where is the antidote? Where is the potion I must drink to restore me? Where is the girl that I once knew? The girl before the burgundy casket? That her father wrapped his arms around before it descended into the frozen earth. Before the bronze marker with a rose?

February is for love.

No longer one set of tracks in the snow but two. It’s you!!

An ecstatic embrace… swept into the air, we spin, up, up, up. I wish my feet never again touch earth. Holding you tight, never to let go.

Your warmth like a crackling fire, orange and alive. Hot tears melt my frozen face. And we commune around the flames- our eyes speak the words of a hundred years and for just a moment, every winter star in the sky is aligned.

But as quickly as you came, you go… breaking into a million tiny bits, stars falling from the sky.

I open my eyes. All is dark and you are gone again.

A thousand heavy steps and a-last you are back! New revelations, new truths… endless love…. In my arms I hold you firm…

Then, you’re gone again.

Fire and then frozen darkness. Again and again.

In the distance, a tiny light. A star that clings to the sky? No, a lantern. A cabin in the woods.

February is for respite.

Afraid at first to stop. To think. To feel. Afraid to forget. Comfortable in the cold and yet desperate for relief. The warm glow beckons me… and slowly, I step inside.

I am no longer in black and white. The color adds complexity, and nothing is as it was.

All around me there are pieces of you. A dino on the floor and a stack of books. Black lace. A small penguin on the mantle. A red rose in a vase. And I don’t know whether to smile or run.

I reach for the doorknob, not today. The cold wind blows outside.

But if not today, then when. Fresh tears pour over the edges of my lids and spill down my cheeks- and I wonder when they will stop coming. I close the door and slide to the floor.

I am tired. It is here I shall stay for a while.

A place to pause. To unthaw my frozen laces, to build my own fire, to rest and remember. To hang up the heavy coat of regret, and wrap in a blanket of memories for a bit.

It is comfortable here and yet I am uncomfortable. A place to settle and yet I am unsettled.

Many months go by and I think I recognize the girl I see in the mirror. A new girl, of whom I make my acquaintance. A fresh pot of tea and I sit with her.

Chamomile and white noise… to quiet and soothe, my mind, my heart that still aches …

Though the throb is a bit slower now, a bit quieter. I hear the thumping in my ears and feel the tight squeeze in my chest less often than before.

No longer a fight. Here I rebuild. Here I balance the storm with the shelter. Here I remember.

February is for my brother.

Thanksgiving

I actually wrote this post in August and amongst the busyness of life, am just sitting down now to complete editing it. Upon re-reading it, I was struck by its timeliness.

In the midst of a global pandemic, working the front lines and home-schooling my children, we also moved from our home of 13 years… not to mention a plethora of life’s “other” challenges that we continue to work through.

The content of this post was inspired by my bi- monthly grocery shopping trips,  a stark change to life before the pandemic. “Sacrifice” takes on yet another new meaning now (and I’m not just referring to groceries). After such trips, the teeming fruit bowl reminded me of a stuffed cornucopia. Upon further reflection, the meaning and historical references associated with the word “Thanksgiving” yielded similarities and meanings far further reaching than a full fridge. Beyond gratitude, it is an acknowledgement of our hardships and a cautious and calculated hope for the future.

I remember being a young pupil, sitting cross-legged on the floor of our classroom, while my teacher with thick, beige panty hose, held up a large picture book and taught us about the “First Thanksgiving”- with “Squanto and friends”, an indebted invitation for their fishing and planting skills, extended by the newly settling Europeans who dreamed of religious freedom but struggled to survive in this new land- a peaceful meal was shared between them-the pilgrims and the natives.

Later that day, we made headbands out of construction paper to resemble feathers and pilgrim hats. And we wore them home proudly… telling our parents about the smart and resourceful natives that saved the sick and dying settlers and the pilgrims’ kind gesture of thanks. It was such a simple and sugar-coated version. “They taught them how to grow corn and how to fish and then they had dinner together and became friends.” It was a sweet lesson in gratitude, working together, accepting outsiders and trying new things.

So much of what we learn as a child is a lie… or at least so turned around, smoothed-over and overly-simplified that it hardly represents the often complicated and ugly truth.

Last summer, our 50 states escapades took us on a New England Road Trip. There, we spent some time in Plymouth, Mass. As per our norm, the trip consisted of part leisure, part local food and part history. So in addition to munching on fresh seafood and eccles cake, we did a bit of studying while we were there- and Thanksgiving was of course one of the subjects. What we learned was, while we don’t really know exactly what that first Thanksgiving looked like, there are two written accounts of the event-one from a participant who mentioned it in a letter and another account thought to have been written about 20 years after the event. And neither of these accounts really got noticed until about 200 years after the fact.

Whilst still a great story of our country’s early beginnings, we learned that the story we were told as children wasn’t quite accurate. We learned that many of these early New England settlers called themselves “separatists” at the time, not pilgrims. And that they wanted to make money as well as create religious theocracy (government by divine guidance/a legal system based on religious law), not just gain religious freedom from the Church of England. How very different this country would be if that had been achieved!

Most historians agree that the “invitation” to the famous meal was probably less of a formal one by the settlers, and more of an acceptance of the natives (who far out-numbered them) being in the area- for their own harvest, as well as keeping an eye on the Europeans who were reportedly, loudly celebrating and firing their guns (some things never change lol) during this 2-3 day harvest celebration.

The relationship between the natives and the settlers was often tense, as the Europeans fought to conquer and own land and the natives to defend both their way of life and the sacred earth they believed no person could own. By virtually all accounts, Squanto was deemed to be a helpful mediator between the two groups, and did reportedly teach them about farming and fishing, but was also later captured. The fall-out for the natives, many agree, was tragic. We know that many natives died as a result of exposure to European illnesses and virtually all of them were eventually pushed off their land.

While as a nation, we have continued the tradition of celebrating this harvest meal, many natives mourn the loss of their land and people as the expansion of the new world grew more from selfish means than mutual respect. Thanksgiving for them, is and always has been, a daily practice of gratitude- not a holiday. Nonetheless, there were elements of cooperation and adaptation and the holiday became official when Abraham Lincoln signed it as a means to bring together a nation divided in civil war.

The massive killings, plagues and pillaging are a part of history that we must acknowledge. And I implore the textbooks to be changed, so as to reflect as honest of a representation as we can provide. But those are not ones I’m going to dwell on here. Instead I will choose to focus on the slivers of goodness- cooperation, coexisting, adaptation, togetherness and searching for reasons to celebrate, even if those reasons aren’t perfect; because there’s enough hate and sadness right now.

As both a frontline worker in this war and a human being with my own struggles and challenges (many of which never make it to this page), I relate to the first settlers who came with a goal and suffered tremendously- whether from their own ignorance, arrogance or simple misfortune. Suffering, no matter the causation, deserves compassion. Life can be fortuitous, but it can also be terribly cruel. While they likely came with what they believed were good intentions, they paid a hefty price in the beginning, with a mortality rate of over 50%.

And the natives, strangers to the setters, who were better off at the time, offered them help. For a time, they negotiated and shared the land and resources peacefully. They bartered and traded… a practice we are seeing again, as resources are again limited and people try to minimize their trips out of the house. The natives saw people who looked and acted very differently than themselves, but they helped them all the same, because they saw that they were suffering. And we are here today because they did! While they taught the settlers how to help themselves, by teaching them how to grow new crops and hunt in this new land, it is documented that the natives also brought whole deer for the colonists to eat. (A real life example of “You can give a man a fish AND teach him to fish-it’s easier to learn how to fish when your not starving“). And the colonists (whether from desperation or not) were willing to listen and learn! Then, with those goods and skills, by working together and negotiating, they began to flourish as a colony.

The early settlers’ survival laid in the hands of accepting help from others, learning new skills and ways of doing things, accepting their new reality and embracing change. Are those not lessons that apply to us in this pandemic and current state of politics?

Many years later, Abraham Lincoln saw this story as an opportunity to bring together a divided nation… a new holiday to celebrate, when the north and the south were divided by more than just land and the issue of money and slavery pitted brothers against one another.

And here we are again… divided. Our blue and red have never seemed so far away from one another.

I don’t have all the answers on how to fix it and I hate politics. I come from such a mixed group of friends and family and embrace such a moderate viewpoint, you might as well call me purple! But I do know this:

Selfishness and hate have never helped. While selfishness may provide a short-term gain, it likely brings on a greater long-term loss. But working together for the greater good, mutual respect and love for humanity always puts us on top in the end. Many times in history, we used the way we treated natives and minorities to justify helping the economy and leading to progression. As a result, we left a huge shameful stain on our country and the repercussions continue to shake our culture. When we focused on rapid progress, we usually made big mistakes. When we focused solely on ourselves, we destroyed others. But when we considered the possibility that we could change directions and actually improve rather than combust, when we stopped talking numbers and started seeing faces, when we listened to other’s points of view, we made great strides as a nation.

While division has created much pain and damage, unity has always been our saving grace as a country- from the colonial period, to the revolution, in war times, civil rights and post 911. We survived and thrived when we came together for the greater good. Our forefathers literally advertised unity in the newspapers, because they knew how essential it was to our success as a country. And in our most trying of times in history, it was unity that allowed us to rebuild.

Fighting for the rights of minorities shouldn’t be a blue thing… nor should wearing a mask or quarantining (if science supports it for the public’s protection)… and being concerned for the economy and the over-stepping of the government shouldn’t be a red thing. Instead, considering both sides of the argument, honoring both science and freedom of religion, understanding that your liberties only go so far as to not infringe on another’s, having respectful and intelligent conversation and working towards the good of all humanity, celebrating whatever we can, that should be the American thing.

If you’re not afraid of the virus, wear a mask to respect the people around you, it literally causes you no harm. If you don’t believe you’ll get it, take pre-cautions out of respect for the healthcare system that is treading water, the same system that will fight to save your life if you do need it. Don’t think the virus is a real threat? Talk to a nurse on the frontlines in an affected area. If you don’t think the economy is a concern, why not talk to some small business owners, get their perspective and find ways to help. Instead of riots, why not build charity to assist the people you are working to defend? If you think your life is more important than another’s, try looking their mother in the eyes. Pause to read, listen and think, instead of spouting blind hatred on social media. And for every story, perspective, person you struggle to understand, I encourage you to invite them to your table-a Thanksgiving (perhaps virtually, at least for now). See them, listen to them, imagine their struggle as your own. You may not end in agreement, but the more we strive to understand one another, the more we cooperate, share ideas and work towards solutions, the stronger we become as a nation.

And be kind. While technology, healthcare, access to food and our individual freedoms have come a long way since the days of the Mayflower, life is still hard for us right now. We all need a Squanto in our lives- to teach us and lend us a helping hand. And each of us, in return have skills and ideas to share with others- hatred shouldn’t be one of those.

I am incredibly blessed to have a healthy family, a viable means of employment and a very happy and lovely new home. But I’ve also got two teenagers who have had virtually no contact with their friends in 8 months and their mental health is an every day concern of mine. I’ve got one virtual learner and one brand-new home schooler and I am overwhelmed, teaching an 8th grader by day, working night shift at the hospital, cooking healthy meals to keep us well… just living for god’s sake. I’m tired of caring for patients looking like an astronaut and I’m tired of explaining to people that this virus isn’t a farce… I see it every day people- It’s f***ing real! And yet I’m sick of my own paranoia as every ache and tickle is a covid symptom- and I’m mandated to report and get tested. And that’s just my one little story… people are out of work, businesses have folded, families have lost their loved ones, everyone is spread incredibly thin.

We need to be kinder to one another. 

And we need to be kind to ourselves. Many of us are plagued with fear, anxiety and uncertainty right now. It is effecting both our psychological and physical health. “Give yourself grace,” I often remind myself. Every day I fight my demons by practicing self-care. I reframe by struggles as “challenges” and I remind myself that most things are temporary. And like so many others, there are days that I fight to keep my head above the water. But when I’m able, I do try to keep helping others, because I know charity in-turn helps my spirit to be soothed and it helps humanity as a whole. Quiet, reflective, alone time is necessary for my ability to process and de-compress. Utilizing my therapeutic outlets and creating boundaries is essential in creating a work-life balance. Pampering always helps… whether it’s a soak in a hot bath, a yummy treat or zoning out to some meditative music for a few minutes. And in the spirit of the holiday, daily gratitude and celebrating small victories is proven to improve mental health. We must remember to take care of us, while tending to others.

 coping strategy; but togetherness is required for family function and survival. And I look Fleeing from where they came, with no modern medicine or amenities, the early settlers helplessly watched person after person die from illness, elements and starvation. And the natives had no defense against small pox or massive artillery. We have research labs, experts in virology and economy, vaccines and medicine, hospitals and government assistance. We are going to be okay… but we must learn from our mistakes and mustn’t let our fears cause us to turn on one another. We must always respect one another and remember our shared loved of humanity.

Unlike my childhood version of the first Thanksgiving, I don’t mean to overly simplify solutions or sugar-coat any of the challenges we are currently facing. In fact, I acknowledge just how ugly and complicated the truth likely is. And like everyone, I am very cautiously calculating my hope for the future. Still, truth, goodness and growth as a country are worth pursuing, always.

It has been a harsh, harsh season, and there are more hard days ahead. But like the famous meal, let us come together, count our blessings… and celebrate our victories. Because in this great country… there are so very many!

Happy Thanksgiving USA!

https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.history.com/.amp/news/first-thanksgiving-colonists-native-americans-men

Each time she is alone…

tear-drop pic black and white

She’s wipes a tear

and she makes her bed.

 

She wipes a tear

and she brushes her teeth.

 

She wipes a tear

and calls her children awake.

 

She wipes a tear

and makes her coffee, their breakfast and gives them a second, gentle shake.

 

She organizes and reminds again, of homework, projects and the schedule to come, she prepares and chauffeurs, loves and nurtures, cooks and cleans.

 

On her only break, she finds herself on her knees…

on the kitchen floor, to clean.

 

She wipes a tear

and it turns to a wail

 when no one is around.

Fists clenched, her tears cover the floor and her screams fill the empty house.

 

She wipes her tears

and climbs to her feet.

 

Stumbling to bed, 

she wipes a tear,

sets the alarm, pillow damp, succumbs to sleep.

 

She wipes a tear and grabs the groceries, pulls into the pick up line, helps with homework, sets dinner on the table, heads off to work…and checks the rear view mirror for signs of her self-duress.

 

She wipes a tear

and parks the car.

 

She wipes a tear,

takes a deep breath, clears her mind, sets her intention and prays for relief.

 

And as the sun hits her face, as it does at the store

and in the pick up line,

she slaps on her confidence and joy, her facade that all is fine.

 

They see a smile at first glance,

but no one ever takes the chance,

to look deeper…

or longer…

when she sets that mask aside.

 

Each time she is alone…

she wipes a tear.

 

Angels and Porcelain Dolls

Life is a series of ups and downs, hard days and easier ones, and not a one of us are spared pain and tragedy. Some tragedies however, are life altering. When they hit, they take away not only our breath, but our sense of self. It is with those moments that we are given the opportunity to rebuild and redefine or to withdraw and lay victim. Neither way is an easy way out, as the human mind and heart are fragile. But in rebuilding, we create a journey of giving back that is simply magnificent.

Here’s to those who at one time, found themselves broken.

 

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You were whole…

Despite the scars, despite the hard days’ work, despite an imperfectly perfect life…you felt safe. You felt whole. A hardened shell, cushioned by a life going right, at the day’s end, your body sank into the bed and the quiet calm of the night soothed you. Comfortable and relaxed, you pulled the covers under your chin and breathing out, you sank further into the softness that surrounded you. Life was predictably unpredictable… and you, an imperfect porcelain doll, scuffed and tattered, but intact and beautiful in your well-loved way.

All was well. All was still.

And then, from out the darkness, with no sound, no preemptive warning, an unspeakable, crushing blow leapt from out the shadows, striking you… and you felt yourself break into a million pieces.

Disoriented at first…and confused. One plastic eye hanging loose from its socket, staring at the floor in disbelief. There is shit everywhere and you’re standing in the middle of it.

Braving a glance in the mirror, you look just in time to see another piece fall out of place. What you once were, is now a pile of debris scattered on the floor. And you no longer know your name.

A faceless, nameless tragedy….time and space stand still. You are numb.

Simultaneously, pain and reality soak in. Like a laboring woman, reflexively, you rock. The pain in your soul is too much to bear and you feel yourself crumbling further, from the inside out. Surely, it is your heart disintegrating under the pressure.

And then finally, in the whirlwind that is your life, the racing circles of rational thought, feeling and physics unite and your tears are accompanied by heaving sobs. Your chest aches and you starve for air as much as you starve for reprieve. You beg the universe for a different truth. Bargaining, you’d give anything to have been spared this blow. The pillow that once brought you peaceful slumber, now stifles your wails.

Bouncing between horror and emptiness, in one moment your heart races with panic and dread…and in the next, there is an absence of thought and emotion. You awaken to find yourself staring into space… gone from reality… gone from your body. Unable to speak, unable to move, your only task is to fill and then empty your lungs.

Everything that was before, it seems, has been destroyed. Trust, faith, safety and security, like life-long comrades, lie lifeless amongst the list of causalities. Robbed of your former happiness and ease, you are broken. And the life you once knew, is gone.

Two bare legs, thin and pale, dangle off the bed where you sit- speechless and motionless. As the sobs slow and your breathing again regains some sort of rhythm, you gather your energy and your courage. Easing yourself off the edge of the bed, you crouch to the floor. Slowly and intentionally, you begin to pick up the pieces. Gathering them in your bleeding hands, you are sure you will never be whole again.

Alone in your space, depleted simply by standing and holding what your life once was close to your heart… hands trembling, in a weak and cracking voice, you use the slightest wisp of energy to call out for “Help.”

Expecting your voice to merely echo into the darkness, you are surprised when the doorway fills with light.

Silently and floatingly from the other side, angels move in. One by one, carefully selecting piece-by-piece out of your hands, tenderly, they fill each broken space. With their words and their hearts, gluing each piece back. “Tell me I will be whole again” you cry, as silently, they work. As they mend and you surrender, you begin to see your form take shape again. Knowing that you could not rebuild alone, you revel in their aid. Still you resolve, you will never again be the same.

Time passes and still you gasp for words. Exhausted and aching from every joint, you glance once again into the mirror. Relieved to see the pieces of your life put back into place, you can’t ignore your blessings… but neither can you ignore the fracture lines that remain. Whole again, and yet, still so shattered… your voice quivers when you try to speak, so broken you hardly believe where it’s coming from.

Night falls and anxiety erupts, sabotaging the safety you once felt. Your bed is no longer a safety nest and your room, no longer a sanctuary. You breathe and you imagine and you pray, begging to feel the wholeness the rest of the world sees in you, the wholeness you once felt.

Angel voices whisper in your ears and silently, you respond to the figure in your reflection. “You are strong.” “You are brave.” “You are resilient.” And from the light of the angels, a sliver of hope pierces your heart, “goodness can come from tragedy.” Believing those words, you long for the day that you will regain your voice and your strength. You know you are a survivor and your story will one day be told.

Today you will rest, tomorrow you will crawl… and one day, with grit and knowledge and the pain-staking work of healing, you will fly.

For the broken doll, will one day become the angel- called upon in another’s darkest hour, to minister and mend another broken soul. Your light will fill her doorway when she gains the courage to call for help. And when you reach to pick up her broken pieces, she will see on your hands, the fracture lines…and in your eyes and soul, your strength and undying love.

 

Saviors often wear the deepest scars. Scars are always tougher than uninjured tissue. It takes grace and hard work, not to yield to bitterness and anger. Compassion, wisdom and empathy can be the byproducts of trauma, if instead of shutting the world out, you call for help and accept it… if you work to heal, instead of pushing the pain away.

To every doll standing in the mirror, seeing their missing pieces… broken as you may feel today… if you take the time and do the work, you will one day heal and grow wings.

And to all of the angels, who have at one time or another, answered one’s frail call for help, may you forever know that your pain created a strength that carried them. And the glue that is your love, is ever-lasting.

Perhaps, life is just a series of breaks and mends… some days we are the doll… and if we do it right… some days, we get to be the angel.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Not now

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Clinking the last dish into the drainer, she dries her hands and the single tear running down her cheek. “Self care” she hears her therapist say, in the echoes of her ever chattering mind.

Walking past the unvacuumed floors and today’s untended mail, she makes her way to the washroom and draws herself a bath. Bending over to place the stopper, steam drifts towards her face…and another tear falls, joining the tiny ocean she is building.

The same clothes she’s been wearing for two days now, falls to the floor. Stepping into the hot liquid, she remembers the mound of laundry waiting for her…“Not now”, she thinks.

Saturated and soaking in the steamy bath, islands of bubbles float around her body like lonely continents and collect at her breasts. The warm water soothes her aching muscles, releasing the pain from her soft tissue and pushing it into the bony prominences of her spine that lies flat against the hard bottom of the bathtub. Plump, pink feet propped on the stone wall in front of her, she judges their pudgy appearance, yet, welcomes the cool air that envelops her lower extremities, a reprieve from the heat that her body is soaked in.

She is tired.

She wishes the walls of this tub would melt away and that the water were an ocean that she could float away in.

She wishes that lying down would relieve the weight she’s been carrying on her shoulders, as if it were a backpack…weight that feels extra heavy today.

Closing her eyes, she imagines that weight falling backwards into the white walls of the tub, giving her small frame and her soul a break for just a moment. And she floats, suspended in the warm, soapy basin.

The un-quiet of her mind quickly opens her eyes again and staring at the ceiling, she notices a spot of mildew. Her mind wanders to another task that needs tending; but she takes that thought and puts it on a leaf in her mind and watches it float down the river…“Not now…” she whispers.

“Not now” when the office calls for yet another “favor”, “Not now” when her mother starts to criticize, “Not now” when a girlfriend comes just to gossip, “Not now” when life asks for more than she can give.

Now, she tends to her “self”. Now, she takes a break. Now, she lets her body rest…and begs her mind to do the same. Now, she starts to heal.

She is not a laggard. She is a castaway who has given every ounce of energy her body could produce. And she is exhausted. Swimming without a life raft, tossed like debris in the angry seas of life, storms raging around her, head bobbing, she has surfaced from the crashing waves, but she is choking. In a moment of desperation, she reaches for a passing piece of driftwood and clutching it, she collapses. She is in survival mode.

She wishes it hadn’t come to this. She wishes it weren’t such a heavy blow which brought her to realize her self-worth…and self-preservation. She wishes she had reached for help sooner. She wishes she had saved more reserves for the swim. She wishes she felt more sure of the land she was floating towards.

Nonetheless, she is floating. After she rests, she will swim.

And then, one day, one day when her feet once again feel earth, she will run.

But not now

Now, under the moon’s gentle light…in the quiet of an empty house, despite every lie the universe tries to whisper…she tells her self… “You are enough…right now.”

 

 

 

Reading Cards and Reaching for Rainbows: If I could talk to my child self

 

A tarot-card reader once made me a proposition…

To do a silent reading, for this skeptic on a mission.

The results would be sealed for years, to prove its accuracy,

protecting fate from interruption and yet satisfying my curiosity.

 

I never took her up on it… for fear that I would cheat

and open the envelope for an illegal peek.

I was afraid I might change it, if I knew what my fate held…

Like the tampering with history or a misguided spell.

 

Still I wonder… Was this always the plan?

The choices and happenings, that built this lifespan…

Did they build the person? Or did the person built it?

Was the mold pre-determined? Or the pieces built to fit?

Did my life circumstances come to inspire?

Or was my discontent the fuel to my fire?

 

If I could go back and let that child know,

all that was to come, all she’d have to show…

Would she have slacked off and stopped working so hard?

Or was her life’s journey always in the cards?

 

Nevertheless, I wish I could’ve told her:

That the day would come, that someone would hold her,

someone would love her and treasure her gifts.

That she was the captain, not a piece of wood drift.

 

That intentional choices and decisions that were good,

would eventually bring the life that these things should.

But she’d have to be patient and be willing to roll

with a lot of life’s punches, many she can’t control.

 

That the nights as a child, spent lying awake,

wishing the world had sent some other fate…

Would grow into inspiration, to take a child in

and give them the world- a new chance to begin.

 

Life is not easy, but blessings must not be missed-

every chance, every encouragement, every time the soul’s kissed.

Like jewels in the rough, hidden in the darkest days,

are quiet, kind angels who will help you along the way.

 

They’ll give you small glimpses of how sweet it can be,

if you work hard, choose right and take the time to see

the beauty and blessings in all places- light and dark.

Seek to understand, judgements miss the mark.

 

And in your adolescence, the rebellion, emotions and rage,

the poor choices, screaming and feeling like being caged…

will give you the experience and the wisdom to guide

your own gorgeous kin, navigating life and their delicate, dark side.

 

College and four jobs, eighteen going on thirty-

will teach you how to work hard and not fear getting dirty.

You’ll be jealous of others and think it’s not fair.

But my darling, one day… you’ll reap more than your share.

 

Rich not in money, but in love and compassion,

your journey will be hard but driven by passion.

The world is in need of the talents you hold.

Love is the answer, not a heart that’s turned cold.

 

Many relationships, I’m afraid, will come and go.

And each one, holds a lesson that you will need to know.

And then you will choose to love a man twice your age,

scandal at the time, but a love that becomes a gauge.

 

For when your own children come into their self,

they will hold that marriage up like a treasure on a shelf.

And with their future partners, they will compare

the way they are treated, with the love that you share.

 

The bad break-ups and hard lessons, the mistakes and the losses-

merely sticky plaque, that building character soon flosses.

Boring you’d be, not experiencing these things,

You’d lack meaning and depth, a marionette hanging from strings.

 

And yet it is hard, living a life of hard knocks.

My god how it hurts, when yet another shoe drops;

But hard work pays off and rainbows follow storms.

You’ll make it into happiness and help redefine the “norms”.

 

And when you do, humble as it will be…

You’re job is to reach back and help others see:

That beauty and love forever exist

and the opportunity to help, should never be missed.

 

Pick your head up little girl, you’re stronger than you know,

Your fate lies not in cards but the way your heart grows.

Turn your pain into purpose and tears into dreams,

Now go make them happen, life’s sweeter than it now seems.

 

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This not so random day in October

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Her wrinkled hands hold back the curtains and she stands and stares as the colored leaves once again begin to fall…and she remembers his face, on this not so random day in October.

She takes her morning walk, like she does every morning. But today, in the crisp air, her gaze is distracted and her pace is a little slower. She still stops for coffee at Betty Lou’s, but today, she’s a little quieter. “You look tired, my dear,” her friend takes note. A nod and a small, forced smile is her only reply. She finishes her walk home and notices the middle-aged man helping his elderly parent out of the car. The old mother once again feels that dull ache, on this chilly, not so random day in October.

Clearing out her office, before the winter weather begins again, before she’s too old to enjoy living, before time robs her of what is left, she begins to fill her empty box. The pictures and the diplomas that once hung on busy walls, leave lonely nails in their place. In her perfectly manicured hands, she holds the frame of a photo that makes her pause. It wasn’t the employee of the year award or the doctorate degree, but a single photo with a silent sign that only she could see. She strokes her silver hair and is lost in thought as she stops to reflect. 30 years at the same office, and no one ever noticed that she always requested vacation, every year, on this not so random day in October.

What a beautiful wedding! Bright orange and yellow mums and sweet little acorns on the tables, the sign of new beginnings. The band plays and the people dance and young love fills the air. And as happy as she is for the perfect match…when the beaming groom takes his mother’s hand….the music seems to quiet and the twinkling lights stop. In her world, time stands still and a small tear sneaks past the tiny wrinkles around her eye. With a smile on her face, her heart still longs for him, on this festive, not so random day in October.

Raking the leaves, it’s best to keep busy.  There’s too much to do, to sit and wait. But her mind is full and she wonders when this day will stop being hard. A butterfly lands on the bush beside her, a rare sight this time of year. The orange and black wings beat ever so slowly and her efforts to be productive are paused. “You’d be a senior this year…” she says… and she stops to imagine how his dark hair would’ve come in. I wonder if he had my brown eyes or his Dad’s blues…Would he be a football star? Or a science geek? Homecoming, Prom and Graduation are daunting days ahead that she dreads. And once again, she feels robbed, on this chilly, not so random day in October.

Readying the decorations, she plops two new mums on the front porch and dusts off the old wreath. This is never her favorite time of year, but deception is easier than explaining. Despite her pain, she tries to make the house look welcoming. Halloween will be coming and the kids will be in costume. She wonders what he would’ve wanted to be… A super hero perhaps, or maybe a fire fighter? She can’t decide if the trick or treaters and the bowl of candy she reluctantly empties into their pillow cases is soothing reassurance or a stabbing betrayal. She turns off the phone and sits alone, hot cider in hand, wondering if it will ever get easier… this painful, not so random day in October.

Today she wants to be alone. The little energy she has, she reserves for self care and reflection-there is none left for small talk or busy work. The house is too quiet, so she goes to the trees to be one with her thoughts. Somewhere along the paved path, the painstaking sound of pittering feet come running towards her. Two little red shoes chase a round blue ball and she wants so badly to look and smile; but the reality of her loss averts her eyes. Quickly she runs to the car and back to the house. She buries her head in her pillow and then reaches for his box. Tonight, she’ll lay with his blanket and her heart’s exhaustion will lull her to sleep, on this sorrowful, not so random day in October.

The empty crib was the worst…or was it the look on the doctor’s face when she did the ultrasound? No…no those weren’t the worst…It was the quiet of the room. Yes! That awful, awful quiet when he was born, that, was the worst…the deafening silence when all of her hopes and dreams came crashing into a lifeless little lump wrapped in a blue blanket…and her wails filled the space that his cries should have. Breathing is hard right now. Living is hard right now. Mothering is hard right now. As night falls, her exhausted body collapses into a restless slumber and she is sure that she will never, ever recover, from this horrible, nightmare of a day in October.

It’s the lifetime achievements, the milestones and the memories that she’ll never get. It’s the love that she gave, the laughter that she missed and the heartache that is never ending. It’s the name that no one will say for fear of upsetting her and the name that she whispers every night in her dreams. It’s the face only she stroked and the feet only she kissed. The tears that she cries alone and the story that she hates that she knows.

And it’s the lessons that she’s learned and the hands that she’s held…the tears that she has wiped and the ways that she has understood…it’s the tiny gowns that she has sewn and the meals that she has made…it’s the presence that she is and the changes she has made, for every parent who shares her pain…All done in her son’s name.

Opening the box once more, her wrinkled hands carry the tattered blue blanket back to her chair. And she rubs the soft threads between her smooth finger tips as she nods off into a peaceful slumber. And another leaf falls.

“Momma,” she hears…

Dark brown hair and his father’s crystal blue eyes meet hers…and right away, she knows. She whispers his name and he smiles a smile that she has waited a lifetime to see. “I have so much to tell you….,” he says. And tears of joy stream down her face. Hand in hand they walk into the light, mother and son, together again, on this beautiful, not at all random, day in October.

Another Lesson in Adaptability

Those who know me and/or follow this blog closely know that my family and I are avid road-trippers. Wanna know more about road tripping…check out this post!https://lifelibertyandlibations.com/2017/09/07/looking-for-adventure-10-reasons-to-take-a-road-trip/

Some years ago, my husband and I established the goal of taking our children to all 50 US states. With only about 6 years of working towards this goal and over half of the states checked-off, we are well on our way to reaching our goal before our oldest refuses to travel with us anymore. This year was a bucket list destination of Niagara Falls combined with 7 new states in the upper-Midwest. Taking on the open road and traveling to new places is always full of lessons and new experiences and every trip changes us in some way.

This year’s trip, which covered the US and Canadian regions around Niagara, and our new states- MI (both peninsulas), WI, MN, IA, IL, IN, and OH before returning home, was wonderful and full of great adventure and amazing sights! I wouldn’t take any part of it back. The areas surrounding the Great Lakes were breathtaking and the National Parks there (Pictured Rocks, Sleeping Bear Dunes and Apostle Islands) are true spectacles of mother nature’s power and beauty. That being said, temps were unseasonably cold for much of the area we covered, we tent-camped half of it and the mere feat of covering a total of 9 states in 15 days was exhausting.

I should note that my husband and I both come from coastal areas (different countries, different oceans … but coastal nonetheless). So for us, no summer is complete without a suntan and some quality, lazy beach time. While we loved our adventure in the cooler, northern regions, we missed the warm, sandy beaches that we associate with “our summer”. (Sorry Michigan, that icy water, whilst gorgeous, just didn’t quite quench our thirst for the “beach”).

So, when our timeshare company informed us of a “bonus week” that was close to expiring AND there was availability in our favorite Florida gulf coast town … it seemed serendipitously perfect! Despite the fact that it was an 18 hr drive from home and we only had 5 of the 7 days available, we knew we needed it! We have been working so hard and knew that this would be the perfect summer wrap-up.

And then the news came of the Red Tide, an absolutely tragic (and apparently recurrent) ecological disaster, that left our favorite beaches littered with dead marine life and toxic fumes in the air. We were so bummed! We had worn ourselves out with work (and adventures) and were so looking forward to just parking ourselves on the beach and doing nothing but swimming, sleeping and some lazy fishing. The daily reports of beaches that reeked of rotting fish, waters that caused skin irritations, air that led to respiratory irritations and increased hospitalizations, not to mention marine life that was not only unsafe to eat, but devastatingly being wiped-out by a human-induced algal bloom, hurt our hearts. We weren’t even sure we’d be able to step out of our beach-side resort without getting sick.

We stalked every website and laboratory report for two weeks. What my husband and I have dubbed our “most favorite place”, looked apocalyptic along its shores! The normally lively beaches were devoid of humans, except those who were part of the clean-up effort. And with so many cancelled reservations, local businesses were struggling to stay afloat.

But our last-minute reservation was un-exchangeable and non-refundable. Cancelling the trip meant taking a loss. And staying home, meant I’d just be working again. My soul needed a break … and I knew my family did too.

Watching the daily reports, conditions seemed to be mildly improving. So, we went-a decision that we made just the day before we left. And when people asked me “Why?” Why we were still driving 18 hours for a beach that we might not be able to sit on and a resort we might have to turn around and walk away from? … My response was: ” I have to try.” I knew our souls needed the break … so I had to try.

And when we arrived, it wasn’t the same beach we had come to love over the last 8 years. The pelicans weren’t diving. The conchs weren’t crawling. There were no dolphin fins dipping in the distance or manatees in the low grassy waters. There was enough dead fish on the beach that the flies were having a feast and a short stroll was about all that was enjoyable. And when the wind picked up in the right direction, you could smell the decay. No beach chairs this time. We didn’t bother bringing our fishing gear either-it didn’t seem fair to assault the marine population any further. We knew better than to get into the water too. Not to mention, the last hurricane had changed the landscape and the powdery white sand was full of shells that the storm had turned up.

But the air quality had improved and we could still enjoy the pool without any smell or effects. Despite the absence of ocean water, a bathing suit was still my uniform that week. The egrets still fished in the near-by lagoon. Sandals worked just fine to protect our feet when we took our morning beach walks.  And locals had built a shell-shrine of sorts where our favorite driftwood “Christmas tree” was reduced to a small stick in the sand. So instead of keeping our shells this year, we used our treasures to add to the shrine. The weather was still wonderfully warm and the humidity soothed our joints. The room, whilst modest, had an amazing view of the gulf with a big screened porch and it was a lovely escape from home. And the sunsets were the best on the planet, as always. And even though I traded my ocean-side beach chair for a pool-side lounge chair, there was still a cold drink in my hand and the absence of hard work or complicated thoughts.

I was glad we went.

We met new friends too; locals, who played games with us under the shelter of the bar when the afternoon storms rolled by and who will be a great asset when my husband and I start looking for retirement real-estate. And we decided to break up the drive home, by leaving the beach a day earlier and adding a stop to see my out-of-state sister. Kissing the faces of my nieces is therapy in and of itself. Oh, and the bald eagle that my husband was hell-bent on seeing in the Midwest, but disappointingly never spotted … soared, low and slow in the afternoons overhead, while we sat poolside.

I am a planner. Every day I have a check list. Every road trip has a daily typed itinerary and every restaurant and attraction has been researched and scoured for reviews. And I swear by my system because it never leaves us wondering what to do. We never leave an area disappointed that we missed-out and we rarely experience a bad eat. I love active and adventurous vacations. Until I need a break anyway. Until my body and my mind get so tired that it spills into my soul. And my family feels it too. Then, it’s time to go sit by the beach.

This time, with no itinerary and reviews, in the form of headline news, that I didn’t ask to read, the reports were horrible. But like I said in the beginning, every trip teaches a lesson and changes us in some way. This trip was a lesson in adaptability. As a mother and a nurse, I know how to adapt. But this was vacation … and a favorite spot to boot! In my mind’s eye, I had already written how it was going to be-and deviating from that plan was hard. It was kind of like going to your favorite restaurant and finding out they’re sold out of your favorite dish. Only this was a 5 day experience and a 36 hour round trip.

Nonetheless, I learned … again … that life is never stagnant. It requires that we always be willing to adapt, lest we miss-out for fear of change. And disappointment, whilst inevitable to some degree, is largely controlled by our own mindset and expectations. We can lessen our disappointments by searching for the goodness in something. I also learned to listen to my soul and to always, always try. A lack of trying due to fear of failure or disappointment becomes the death of the soul. Once again, I learned, once again, I was changed.

It was a surprise bonus week and a historically terrible algal bloom that wrote the lesson this time…wonder what life has waiting for me tomorrow.

Giving a voice to disappointment … “Would you do it again?”

You see a door ahead. You open it. As the light begins to push away the shadows and your vision clears, the door clicks behind you. There is nowhere to go but forward … and still you are consumed by your journey and the thoughts and feelings that saturate you. As the click echoes in the silence and you see what lies ahead, you wonder if you should’ve ever opened that door…

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Sometimes life is full of broken promises,

Sometimes our dreams are like a mirage,

Sometimes our visions become our view of someone else’s life,

longingly looking in, while we stand in the rain.

Not all doors lead to paradise and not all dreams come true.

 

 

If you knew your tears of joy would turn to tears of sorrow…

If you knew your hopes and dreams would turn to nightmares…

If you knew that everything thing the world seemed to promise,

Would be snatched away, leaving you empty-handed and empty hearted…

Would you do it again?

 

If you knew your hard work and best intentions would lead

to heartbreak and tribulations…

If you knew the sweet giggles and bedtime whispers would turn

to screams and defamation…

 

If, in the world of unicorns and rainbows,

of puppies and lovers and babies…

Where everything was simple and hopeful and bright,

A hand entered and you were handed a crystal ball…

Would you do it again?

 

If no one promised you goodness,

If no promised you forever,

If no one promised you a happy ending,

or an answer to your prayer…

 

If your visions were shattered,

and you were left holding a bloodied materpiece from years of picking up the pieces…

Would the broken reflection, soothe or ache inside?

Would you throw it down and run away?

Or would you do it all again? 

 

Would your efforts be of value or in vain?

When life isn’t fair, is it ever fortuitous?

Is love enough to save the world if it couldn’t save you?

Is hope just a blind and ignorant veil that hides your fears or is it courageous?

 

Were the lessons enough to make the journey worthy?

Were the giggles enough to make the screams tolerable?

Were the whispers enough to quiet your nightmares?

Are the memories enough to fill your empty hands?

Was the love enough, to make you do it again?

 

Behind every door is a possibility but not a promise. There is always potential but never any guarantees. And when you turn the knob and step inside, you can never go back to where you were before. If you never open it, you’ll never know.

To all the people, who opened a door and behind it found heartache… Now that you know what was lying on the other side…

with your balled up tissues and life lessons in your lap,

Tell me, would you do it again?