Roadie

I'm off on a bit of a road trip tomorrow so I might be scarce around these parts for a few days. I've been sick all weekend so I'm not looking forward to a 500 mile drive but all things considered I'll be glad at the other end of it. And the fact that I have the money to put the gas in the tank and food in my belly is not being taken for granted. I hope.


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Live and Learn

"People do it differently." She says it without judgement, without her normal exasperated know it all attitude. Then she tells me that one shouldn't cut into the carrot to cut the tops off and shouldn't leave them to dry out either. If I'd left a little of the green top attached and put them in the fridge right away they'd stay crisp until the New Year. She tells me this in a tone that sounds as if she has bad news to tell me and wants to let me down gently. I tell her "oh, well, I'll know for next year" thinking of the bald headed carrots wilting in the fridge, hours of unnecessary work that will most likely end up in the compost bin. Live and learn.

Last night as I lay in bed reviewing my day I thought about the kindness of my mom in our conversation about my freshly stored carrots. I never felt welcome in her kitchen growing up. The rule was I could experiment all I wanted if I got up early Saturday while everyone else slept and if I cleaned up after myself. So I did. Dark winter mornings found me (and everything around me) covered with flour, managing to dirty more dishes than necessary. I don't have memories of my mom teaching me to cook. We were rarely in the kitchen at the same time and never cooked together. Once she slapped me across the face at the kitchen sink.

Still, she was patient from a distance. She made cooking look so easy but without her side by side instruction all I could go on was what I observed from afar. That led to one episode where I tried to make pie crust and gave the recipe a try five times in a row. First I covered the little counter with flour and dough and frustration. Then I went to the dining room table. Eventually my mom came home from town to see flour on every flat surface and I still hadn't managed to duplicate her ease at what seemed like zip, zip, zip and there was a beautiful crust in the pie plate in one piece! Without her guidance how could I know about using ice cold water and handling the pastry as gently as possible? About rolling it out from middle to edge with feather light fingers? I couldn't.

Anyway I lay in bed last night and cherished a simple conversation on a Saturday afternoon reminded that sometimes a kind heart gets buried underneath a lot of pain, but still it remains.

Learning

It's just after midnight.
I was in bed shortly after 8 pm , sound asleep in no time and now I'm not.
I hope sleep comes back soon.
Tomorrow will be my busiest day of work for the year.
I look forward to it and will be glad when it's over.


When I went home a few weeks ago
to celebrate my dad's milestone birthday
I visited with two of his cousins.
My dad's cousins can be counted on one hand
and I don't remember meeting but one of them
in all my growing up years.

These two cousins and I sat and visited for nearly 2 hours straight.
The first time I'd had a more than surface level conversation
with anyone from my dad's side of the family. Ever.
It was wonderful. A real gift.

It's been a painstaking journey for me learning how to make small talk.
I have to work at it. Social courtesies still seeem like a mystery to me much of the time. Below the surface level conversation comes much easier.

I also have to work at remembering to ask about the other person. It's literally a mental note I think in nearly every conversation I have. "Ask them how they are. Ask them the question they just asked you."

One of the gems in the conversation with the cousins was that one of them told me she thought it was a common family trait to struggle with being socially adept. Which strikes me as funny right now, seeing as we share the same last name and had to get to a certain level of social adeptness to even have that conversation.

But have it we did and were both blessed because of it.
I love it when an unexpected blessing is plopped in my lap.
I love it when I have eyes to see it and an open heart to receive it.


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She Is A Keeper

"We should be home early."

That's part of a text message my mother-in-law sent dearest one a few days ago. I laugh every time she sends one. Not laugh at her but laugh out of pure joy. My mother-in-law. She is a keeper. She tried to talk dearest one out of marrying me the night before we got married. The day after the wedding (we eloped, sort of. no family present) she welcomed me as a daughter even though her heart was breaking at the choice her son made. She showed me what grace looked like and I will be forever grateful to her for that.

I was an atheist. I hated Christians. I mocked them mercilessly. To their face. Especially these ones. No radio. No TV. Women wore dresses. No makeup. It was almost like living on a different planet. Archaic. We lived down the road in a little bunk shack with no running water. People still did that then and considered it normal.

Fast forward to 2010. We have a great relationship (thanks be to God. seriously.) A few years ago I was giving her a hug goodbye before she left on a trip. When I whispered in her ear that I hoped she got to at least one book store she whispered back that I knew her better than some of her own children did. We gave each other a squeeze like it was our little secret.

My mother-in-law still has no radio or TV. She'd get kicked out of her church if she did. But she got a cell phone so that she could send text messages to her children and especially her grandchildren. She loves keeping in touch with them this way.

I laugh every time at the idea of my mother-in-law typing out a text message. This is the way her grandchildren communicate and be darned if she is going to miss out. How can you tell relationship is first and foremost in her heart? How can you not love her? She is a keeper. Her birthday is this week. She'll be eighty-one.


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Making A Difference

When you read this I'll be on a plane, going to visit my family. My dad is having a milestone birthday and my sisters and I decided we needed to celebrate it. My poor mother is not in control of the gathering but we promised we'd do all the work so that all she has to do is show up.

Not too much has happened in my home of origin that was not my mom's idea. Excluding the stuff we snuck around behind her back to do. I was so convinced that she knew my every move that when I moved clear across the country once I turned 18, I sometimes thought she knew the shenanigans I was up to and semi consciously braced myself for the shit storm that never came. Turns out she really did not have eyes in the back of her head nor telepathy nor could she see all the way across the country. It took me many years to realize that.

My older sister and I had a comedy of communication errors and so my dad's celebration is two afternoons in a row, depending on which paper you read the announcement in.

I volunteered to be the one to tell my mom we had planned a party at their house, weather permitting, and were inviting the whole community. It was easiest to volunteer because I'm the daughter who lives far away.

The land my dad lives on has been in the family for nearly 100 years. Chances are there are not too many people in the surrounding communities who do not know of him, if they don't know him personally. We want to honour our dad because well, you only live once. And we don't want to wait to gather the community in his honour until after he's dead.

We want him to know he made a difference.

That probably pisses my mom off. I told her we wouldn't throw her a milestone party unless she wants one. She won't. That's okay. People are different. I just wish she could be happy for my dad. I need to let go of that expectation. People can only do what they are capable of doing/being. Myself, included.

One of my sisters came up with the idea that all the grand kids could write a note to their grandpa about what he means to them. My older brother wanted to be in on it, too. That lead to all of us being invited to contribute.

My dad was the nice parent. We used to talk as kids that if they got divorced (and could they please do it so we wouldn't have to wake up at 2 AM listening to their fights anymore?) we'd all want to live with him. They are still together. Had they divorced and had we gone to live with him he would have let us do whatever we wanted while he buried his head behind the newspaper. I doubt that any kid really wants that kind of nice. It's great in daydreams but not in real life.

And so when I got the email inviting me to contribute a note I came face to face with a whole whack of resentment towards him that I didn't even know was there. It just about convinced me not to write a note at all. As if the resentments cancelled out all the good memories.

They don't.

My earliest memories are of my dad. I was two years old and was coming home from the hospital after a serious surgery and my mom took me to his shop. I remember being happy to see my dad. All the men were really kind to me because I'd just about died.

When I was five I was in the hospital and my dad came to see me on his lunch hour. My room was several stories up and we pulled two chairs over to the window and my dad read me a book. I wanted to be on his lap but was too shy to ask. My dad was not cuddly and all that. But he showed up. That counts.

When I was six I broke my arm. It's really hard to change your shirt, (have to have a clean shirt on to go to the hospital you know), when you've broken your arm right near the shoulder. But change it I did because I was told to. I changed into a red shirt. At the hospital a nurse put me in a change room to get into a gown. I got locked in. To this day I still get a little panicky in change rooms that lock. My dad took me for ice cream after I was all fixed up. He bought a green ice cream cone and a pink one and I got to pick which one I wanted. I didn't have many choices as a kid so maybe that's why that one sticks out in my mind.

When I was learning to drive I once took a corner way too fast, so fast that my dad slammed up against the door on the passenger's side. He was brave enough to continue to let me drive after that even though he turned very pale as I careened around that corner. It's hard to keep a vehicle on the road once you turn a corner at 40 mph. We fishtailed for quite a ways and he never even raised his voice. Did you know my dad was prematurely grey?

Some of these things I will write down for him.

Fifteen years ago when he was having a different milestone birthday I wrote him a letter to tell him I wanted a relationship with him. That if he died tomorrow I've have to tell my friends I didn't know him; didn't know who he was as a person. I enclosed a little book with questions for him to answer that would help me get to know what goes around in that head of his. I was crushed when he didn't answer my letter and put the book on the shelf where it still gathers dust.

It took me many years to realize that I was asking something of him that he didn't have the tools to do. He had no tools to navigate the intimacies of below the surface relationships although my sister said once, when they were having an in depth conversation about how things were for us as kids, that she could tell by his face that he wanted to, he just didn't know how.

I thought realizing all that took care of the resentment but I can see now that it didn't. I am grateful to have the tools to know what to do about that.

I wrote this post over a week ago. I debated not posting it because of my obvious issues surrounding my parents. I alternated between wanting to pretty up the post and leaving it as is. Today I decided it is what it is. I am where I am on the journey. They are where they are, too. Lord have mercy on us all.


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Dealin'

When my kids were little I worked hard not show fear of any spiders, bugs and all things creepy crawly, including hamsters. That came about because of a memory of a neighbour when I was a kid, who had to come to our house until her husband got home, because Barn Swallows had built a nest above her front door and she was terrified of them when they came swooping down at her. She had three kids who took in her every fear.

So when I had my own kids, I took a deep breath and pretended that that Daddy Long Legs crawling on my hand was my new best friend. Lord knows I was screaming my head off inside myself. Did you ever hear that urban legend as a kid about the woman who never brushed her hair and a spider laid eggs in it and all those baby spiders came crawling out of her head? That story didn't help me get any less fearful. Are you scratching your hair right now? I am. But honestly? The little pitter patter of hamsters feet across my skin made me want to crawl out of my skin. I'm getting freaked out just thinking about it.

One day, when my kids were all teenagers and had proven fearless when it came to every living thing (well, except maybe for their mother) I told my daughter that no, actually I had no desire to hold her hamster and that I actually didn't like them. This after having cages of hamsters that I took great interest in. I think she still feels like I was a traitor, lier, what have you. (Do you daughter?)

Between last night and this morning we have caught 5 mice in traps on the counter. Sometimes they are still alive. Makes me shiver just thinking about it. Dearest one went on a road trip this morning to a family member's funeral so either I wait until he gets back to deal with the traps/mice or I will have to deal with them myself. I bet any one of my kids could do it without getting freaked out at all. Is this one of those things they'll thank me for later?


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Flippin'

"Is having a drink going to change anything or will it all still be the same tomorrow when I wake up?"
That was the question I asked myself in a dream last night.

I can't remember the last time I had a drinking dream but in this one I had 20 containers that looked like miniature oil lamp vials you see in restaurant center pieces. They were filled with vodka which I have no idea how it tastes. Once my sister and I found my mom's vodka stash under her bathroom sink and poured most of it down the drain and filled the bottle back up with water. I bet that pissed her off the next time she took a drink. It may be why vodka held no interest for me.

There was no one in my dream who cared I was going to blow my sobriety except me.
And once that question at the top of this post went through my head I put the vodka down without taking a sip, and shoved the tray away that held all the rest, too.

Dreams are so weird.

*********

It is beautiful and sunny here today.
I am looking forward to mowing grass and doing some writing.
My instructor says my novel has great potential to be saleable.
I am loving and hating writing it
as it has taken on a life of its own
that I feel I have no control over.
It's totally pointless to tell a character
"Hey, get back over here right now and do as I say!"
My main character may be living in 1912
but she still knows how to flip me the bird.

***********

By the end of the summer all my adult children will most likely
be living in towns far away. I feel sad about that although I
am happy they are making their own lives and are functioning
as fully independent adults. I never realized that was the goal
while I was raising them. Not kidding. It didn't occur to me.

I am grateful that I have learned that life after kids means
living my own life to the fullest.
I didn't manage to learn that until after they were grown.
Bafore that I was too busy telling them
to get back over here right now and do as I say.

There was a point when it would have served us both well
if they would have flipped me the bird.
It took me until I was 38 years old
to individuate from my mother.
I am grateful they have started that journey
far sooner than I did.

Home

It's ridiculously late but I need to unwind before I go to sleep.
Somehow it escaped my rational mind that we would drive 600 miles to spend 6 hours with family and then turn around and drive home.

Tonight as I hugged my parents and sisters and various children goodbye
it all seemed surreal.
"I'll be there in 5 minutes." I call to dearest one.
Five more minutes with my sister.

There is something about the prairies that calls to me and fills me with longing.
I really believe the landscape itself sears itself into ones' very being.
At one point today we stopped on a little side road that had wild roses and prairie sage. I took a deep breath and for some reason decided right then and there that when I go on a private retreat it needs to be on the prairies, surrounded by stubby trees and sparse grass. The wind needs to blow through my hair, too. A random thought out of the blue but one that settled within instantly.

Anyway it is way past bedtime and as luck will have it I will wake up in a few hours to begin the long trek home.

A Litany of Cooks

"We're going to be 9 people and Auntie is going to have 20."

It sounds like a litany every time a holiday comes around. My mom lists the number of people she will be cooking for and how many her sisters will cook for as well. I assume this is interesting for her although sometimes I've wondered if it's a competition, too. I find it a bit irritating although I couldn't tell you why.

Yesterday we spent part of the day with dearest one's family. We are over 50 people if everyone shows up. I always think of my mom at these gatherings. How she would be cooking up twice as much food as my in laws do. I have often admired how there aren't many left overs when my husband's family gets together. Food seems to be secondary to visiting. As long as there is enough to go around then all is good.

When I talk to my mom later today she will want to know what was served and all the details. I guess the difference between us is that I am not a cook and she is. I threw out my old and forgotten spice rack a few months ago and have only replaced a few since then. My mom has a cupboard that houses only spices. All 100 of them. Darn. The more I type the clearer it's becoming that I have many unresolved issues when it comes to my mom and food. Typed myself right into a corner again.

The Ranting Heckler

Sometimes, when I write a post, like the one I did yesterday, I get the urge to delete it after a day or two. I try not to rant on this blog. I don't rant much in real life, either. Not even in my head where there is only me, myself, and I. I used to rant all the time. I had a fix for everyone and everything if they would only let me be in charge! Friends call dearest one and I the diplomat and the heckler. Diplomat I am not. It took getting sick to lessen my desire to rant. Ranting takes precious energy and when you only have a few spoons it's a shame to use them that way.

Only daughter and lover boy are here for a visit. I am having a hard time enjoying it because I already feel sad at her leaving tomorrow morning. Just typing that makes me teary. So I'm going to sign off for now and go give her a hug and spend the day in her company. She's only heard me rant once since she got here and it was so mild compared to days of old, she might not have even noticed. That's progress.

A Praying We Will Go

"The one thing we can take with us to heaven is our children."

So said my preacher brother-in-law this morning during family devotions.

I was so tempted to disagree out loud with dearest one's brother but decided that restraint of tongue would not kill me and I really didn't need to throw a wrench into family devotions by giving my unsolicited opinion. After all, that's what a blog is for, right?

The prayer I do pray more than any other prayer for me, dearest one, my adult children and their partners, is that we would put God first in our lives. But it's each person who has to put God there, we can't do that for one another. And I don't even know if I can say when someone else has. It's simply not my job.

There are 50+ of us gathered for the weekend to celebrate my mother-in-law's 80th birthday. We're camping at the home of one of the siblings and it's going much better than I expected, morning devotions included. So well that we decided to stay for both nights instead of one like we had planned on.

Dearest one and I got home yesterday morning from visiting only daughter and lover boy (sorry only daughter but that's the pseudonym for him that sticks in my head) and arrived at this family gathering by supper time. And while there's nothing quite like my own bed, I am content to spend time tonight again with extended family.

It has been wonderful to have a holiday trailer to escape to whenever I need a little solitude and it's total luxury to have Internet access while I'm in it. Right now it's a way to pass some time while nearly everyone else is otherwise occupied. I've already helped cook and clean up from lunch then spent several hours visiting with family. Some are snoozing until suppertime, some are off fishing and swimming and riding motorbikes and the like. There will be a campfire tonight and more discussion, I'm sure.

My preacher brother-in-law asked for input from all of us gathered, what family values his parents had passed down to all present. Somehow the discussion got around to his mom and her disciplining the children - she had 11 of them - and how the boys would often make her run after them when she needed to discipline them and tried to make her laugh while they did so. I often think I have the best mother-in-law because she is so human and doesn't try to pretend otherwise. If you would ever see her hug someone she cares about, you would see her put her hand on their cheek and pull them close with her other hand and hug them tight. I love watching the way she does that.

I'm in the largest gathering of passive aggressive people I know. I had all kinds of conversations in my head before I got here about that. The kind where I am predicting who will say what and what my response was going to be. You know that fruitless inner conversation that wastes energy and can be so entertaining at the same time. Eventually I remembered an exercise that my therapist had walked me through the last time I saw her. First I had to list a judgement I had made of a person. Then I had to list what my presumption was. Then how I changed my behaviour as a result and what was I projecting. Finally she asked me to look at what the truth of it all was.

So I thought about one sister-in-law who has a sarcastic tongue. Barbed comments that in this setting are supposed to be taken in stride or else you're not being a good Christian.

So my judgement was that she was going to make many under her breath sarcastic comments. Then I looked at my presumption which was it was my job to put her in her place.

Next I looked at how I was going to change my behaviour as a result of these conclusions. I knew I would either avoid her or be tempted to give it right back to her. And when I looked at what I was projecting - well - I have had quite the sarcastic tongue of my own in my day. The only difference between us is that she often makes her comments under her breath to those closest by her and I just said mine right out loud for everyone to hear.

What might be the truth in all this? How could I reframe it? I was really surprised to reflect on her place in the family. She is the youngest of 11 children and most likely her sarcastic tongue developed as a coping mechanism. Probably needed it to survive the teasing and such that she would have been expected to take in stride, with no recourse to say stop it.

Reflecting on all this totally took the wind out of my sails when it came to thinking I needed to teach her a thing or two. There's nothing like believing my own sarcasm is going to help someone else lose theirs. Sigh. Let's just trade our passive aggressiveness back and forth shall we?

So after all that I prayed for humility and restraint of tongue. And also to speak my truth when need be.
Then I got in the car and drove here.
It's about supper time now, so there you go.
Not sure what the next discussion is going to be about
but restraint of tongue never goes out of style.

Starry Companions

My favourite childhood memory is when we'd get home late on a Saturday night and climb out of the vehicle only to be swept away by the beauty of the starry night sky. We'd all crane our necks heavenwards, suck in our breath and try to take it all in. It's a sight that never gets old.

Last night dearest one had barely gotten home from an intense work week when his mom phoned and said that his dad was having chest pain and was asking to go to the hospital. Dearest one has a handful of siblings who live closer to his parents than we do, (plus another handful who don't) but because dearest one is in the medical field he gets called first when there is a medical emergency. Makes sense. I'd rather call him than an electrician when I was sick, wouldn't you?

My father-in-law has had 3 open heart surgeries and a heart attack in the last 8 years. He wants no heroic measures if he has heart trouble again. He is 82 and knows his time could be up at any moment. He talks about that often, wondering what purpose God could have for him still. When we got there Dad said no to the ambulance, we could be at the hospital in the amount of time it would take to call and have one arrive. After everything was all said and done, the closest ambulance would have been twice as far away. It was one busy night at the local you-never-know-what's-going-to-walk-through-the door rural hospital. Their only ambulance was busy.

It was a quiet ride to the hospital, each of us lost in our own thoughts. Dad had given dearest one instructions before we left about some things he'd bought that day for several of our nephews. He was covering all his bases just in case he never made it home again. That upped the tension level. Mom told me on the way there that she had a heavy feeling in heart. My father-in-law is one of the chattiest people I know and he said narry a word. You know how when a house gets quiet, the children are usually in trouble; when a mom gets quiet you're usually in trouble. Well, when my father-in-law gets quiet, you know he's in trouble.

The sky was inky black last night. Mom and I sat in the back seat and I found comfort in seeing the Big Dipper out my window. I gazed up at it, wondering what a person thought while knowing this may be their last trip anywhere. I knew when Dad gripped the seat belt and pulled it away from his chest that he was in pain. We were all lost in our thoughts for the 25 minute ride. I was comforted by the sight of the Big Dipper. It made me grateful that no matter what happens in life, there are some things that stay the same. Watching the Big Dipper as we drove was like God reminding me that we are never alone, even in our lonliest moments.

Many hours later, armed with an extra supply of nitroglycerin, we were on our way back home. An angina attack behind him, Dad had some colour in his face again. We knew when we could hear him talking from the trauma room, talking so loud (he's deaf) we could make out every word, that he was feeling better. He came into the hospital in a wheelchair and walked out with his cane. At one point in the trauma room I looked down at his sock feet and couldn't resist the urge to see if he was ticklish. As I ran my finger over his socked foot he jumped a little and laughed. Then he told everyone within hearing distance (that would be the whole hospital) that I'd been checking to see if he was still alive. I won't live that down anytime soon.

We weren't in the car more than a minute when Dad was back to his usual, commenting- on-this-that-and-the-other, chatty self.
Along the way dearest one opened the moon roof on the car so Dad could see the starry sky.
I had been quietly gazing at Orion's Belt out my window since we'd left town.
Soon we were dropping his folks off at their house and making our way home.
One way or the other, ticklish feet or not, we're always making our way home.

Better Late Than Never

We arrived over an hour late.
We used to be right on time
only to be the only ones there.
Sometimes for an hour.
I'm normally early for everything.
It goes against my grain to be late.
I make an exception for family get togethers.

This way the whole thing was going
by the time we arrived.
We weren't the last to show up either.
C'est la vie.

The time spent was good.
There was thought provoking conversation.
Which is an unusual happening.
I managed to keep my mouth appropriately shut
for the most part.
And ask some hard questions, too.
When I took inventory last night
I could see where I had slid into triumphalism
a time or two.
As in "ha. got you there."
Not a pretty trait.
Lord have mercy.

The Reality Of A Thing

"No nine year old daughter of mine would be wearing makeup and dressing like that."

"All that means is that you have different values than the mother you saw let her daughter dress like that."

"Oh."

A conversation something like the one above took place in group counseling one day when I was in rehab. It was not only an eye opener to the woman who was adamant her daughter would never be allowed to look like an adult before her time, it was an eye opener for me to hear how a difference in values was simply that and nothing more. It was a brand new perspective for me. I've often judged others (and still do) for having values differing from mine. I remember thinking something along the lines of "You mean I don't have to feel threatened by someone else choosing a different set of values than me?" Which is another spin on not making everything about me.

A few days ago I was thinking about what I'd bought dearest one for Christmas. I must've been attaching value to what I surmised because I realized I could only be having that train of thought by elevating myself to somewhere beyond reality. Then yesterday I was thinking about a post I'd read where someone described a certain individual, a sort of stereotypical description that wasn't favourable. I thought to myself, "What if that person simply was and there was no value attached, good or bad, to how he looked, that he simply was who he was?".

What I heard in rehab seems to be sinking to a deeper level. I am grateful. Ha. Attaching a value to even that, you see.

I think more than anything I've been influenced for several years by a little book. It has 31 short chapters and I read one every day. The author, Anthony DeMello, was a Jesuit priest from India. There are some great videos of his teaching on youtube that sum up much of what this little book has to say.

A few days ago I read this little snippet for the umpteenth time:

"If you wish to get in touch with the reality of a thing, the first thing you must understand is that every idea distorts reality and is a barrier to seeing reality. The idea is not the reality, the idea "wine" is not wine, the idea "woman" is not this woman. If I really want to get in touch with the reality of this woman I must put aside my idea of womanness or Indianness and experience her in her thisness, her concreteness, her uniqueness. Unfortunately most people most of the time do not take the trouble to see things like this in their uniqueness; they just see the words or the ideas, they never look with the eyes of a child at this concrete, unique, fluffy, alive thing that is moving out there in front of them. They only see a sparrow, (or)they never see the wondrous marvel of this unique human being here in front of them. They only see an Indian peasant woman. The idea therefore is a barrier to the perception of reality.

....This thing or person is good or bad, ugly or beautiful. It is barrier enough to have the idea of Indian or peasant when I look at this concrete individual. But now I add a judgement and I say, "She is good," or "She is bad," or "She is attractive and beautiful," or "She is unattractive and ugly." That further prevents me from seeing her because she is neither good nor bad. She is "she" in all her uniqueness.....Good and bad are in relation to something outside them. Inasmuch as they suit my purpose or please my eyes, or help me, or threaten me, I call them good or bad."

That nine year old girl dressed like a young woman is not good or bad, neither is her mom. She is "she" in all her uniqueness. Free to have a different value system than mine. I often pray for eyes to see. Really see. (Then there are the moments when I want to be momentarily struck blind. Truth can sometimes be painful.)

This afternoon I'll be with dearest one's family, who live a very different lifestyle than we do. I've gotten better at accepting our differences. I've gotten better at being okay with me. Occasionally I let what I perceive as their judgement, affect me and am tempted to give it back in spades. I spent years doing just that. Nowadays I struggle with when to speak up and when to be quiet. I often want to be the voice of everyone-who-is-not-them and force them to see the world through eyes not their own. I want to play God. I want to attach value to their groupthink. I want to tell them their values are wrong. And mine are so obviously right. Sigh.

And while it's true that no nine year old daughter of any of them would wear makeup (maybe I could tell them that I know this crack addict who would agree with them? They have no idea I was in rehab last year) I don't have to take our differences personally. Anthony DeMello more than once reminds one that we see others as we are not as they are. Food for thought as I go through my day today.

It Wasn't Always That Way

Forty eight years ago today my brother Rodney died. He was born premature and lived for 2 days. I've told his story before on these pages. I think of him every year on this day.

It wasn't always that way.

My mom was in a drunken, teary state when she told me she had no idea when he was born or when he died. She knew the month and the year but that's all. At that time he would have been 28 years old. What a long time for her to carry that alone. She didn't know where he was buried either. I had to go to my dad to find that out and then later I called the cemetery to find out his date of birth and death. And where exactly his grave was.

I promised my Mom a long time ago that I would buy a tombstone for his grave. This coming Spring I will be doing just that. I mentioned this to my mom when I saw her last month. A lone tear coursed down her cheek at the mention of his name.

The doctors told my mom the best thing she could do to cope with his death was to get pregnant. She did and then miscarried. Then she got pregnant with me. I was born at the same gestation as Rodney. We were 3 ounces different in birth weight. My mom said the nurses used to massage my chest with their thumbs to get my heart going again.

Especially because of Rodney's death I try not to take life for granted. On my birthday I thank God for another year, another breath, another step forward on the journey. Sometimes I feel guilty that I lived and he died. I know that's irrational thought but it still crops up from time to time. Other times I wonder if he would have been a protective older brother or another perpetrator.

There were many little silver numbered discs surrounding the area in the graveyard where Rodney is buried. Other little babies who only have a number to mark their life and death. Sometimes I wonder what their collective stories are and who remembers them still.

Building A Child

"It is infinitely easier to build a child than repair an adult."
via

If you click on the above link and then choose the very short video Baseball Season: Johnny and his Dad you'll hear more of what Earnie Larsen has to say surrounding the above quote. Every video under that section is worth a listen.

I don't have much else to say except that
I was one of those 'finding 5 things wrong parent'.
I'm grateful that life's given me enough time to learn a different perspective.
I'm also grateful for the people in my life who constantly cheer me on.
We all need a bit of that.

Too Much Testosterone

I have a little snowman music box that's been sitting smack dab in the middle of the diningroom table for nearly a week already. It's been waiting for me to turn it around and around so it can dance the music out of its system. It plays "Let It Snow." And today is its lucky day. It's snowing as I type.

Youngest son bought that little snow man music box for me at Christmas time quite a few years ago. These days he'd most likely buy me one that plays music that would make me scowl at him. He does like to get under my skin in a most devious "I love you" way. The other night he and dearest one ganged up on me and had me going real good when I told them to phone oldest son to get his perspective. I still don't know how they did it because I sat there and listened to youngest son talk to his older brother and then he handed me the phone so I could plead my case. And wouldn't you know it but oldest son played right along with his sibling and father and strung me along a little further. And I believed him!! I told them I was surrounded by way too much testosterone (only daughter where are you??)for my liking and not to expect me to make them supper the next night. Such a terrible threat isn't it? As if neither of them are capable of cooking. I nearly followed through on that too, except I decided at the last minute that would be taking their good natured teasing a bit too personal. Youngest son did ask me what I put in his supper last night - like was there any poison mixed in it? I told him that he was very fortunate that I restrained myself. I am so, so gullible and they delight in teasing me every time I'm gullible enough to buy it. Which is way too often. And truth be told, I may bellyache about it, but I would miss it if they stopped.
Which is what they tell me every chance they get.
Last night I did tell dearest one though, to please put away the rifle that was resting against the couch.

Arms Wide Open

Safe and sound at my parents' place.
Other than an hour or so of driving through thick fog, the roads were great.
My mom was totally surprised to see us, which is wonderful. In all her 70 years we have never been able to pull off a surprise so we're gloating for a good while as it may be the first and last time we achieve such a thing. She stood there with her mouth open for a long time and then came the tears. She hugged me once and then talked for a bit and then threw her arms open and hugged me again. If you only knew. We are not a huggy family. My mom is not prone to such outbursts of affection. It is wonderful.

We'll be here all day tomorrow and then drive 600 miles home on Monday.
The road trip has been great so far. Having each other's undivided attention is a good, good thing.

Hanging On For The Ride

"Why would God allow such suffering?" I was 15 years old when I made that statement and my grandpa had just been diagnosed with cancer. My mom dealt with her grief by upping her drinking and I decided God wasn't worth believing in. By the time I was in grade 12 I'd already had a few bitchy discussions with friends of faith and mocked anyone who believed in God.

My eventual turning towards God was a gradual process. I went from atheist to believing there was a God the summer I was a newlywed, and from there to surrending to God a few months after I sobered up 6 years later. It's been a sometimes wild ride since. I've joked with only daughter that it's a wonder she and her brothers don't have spiritual whiplash for all the fast curves we've been around as her dad and I explored different tangents in our faith journey.

Reading this post yesterday brought me back just over 4 years ago when dearest one's brother died. I have a picture of some artist's rendition of Jesus (I've heard it described as a Californian Jesus, no offense to Californians) At that time I spent many early mornings sitting in the darkness with only a candle lit to illuminate Jesus's face. I still don't have an answer to why God allows suffering. I do believe God doesn't cause it.

The morning dearest one's brother died I stood before that picture of Jesus, with tears streaming down my face, and found myself at a turning point. Either God was a good God or He wasn't. Either He was a God to be trusted in no matter what life threw my way or He wasn't. It felt like my heart was being ripped right out of me to surrender to a God who would allow such tragedy to happen. But,by His grace, I did. And ever since then I've had a deep knowing that no matter what life throws at me I do not go through it alone. I believe that Jesus hunkers down beside me. I know that I will be okay even in the worst of life's circumstances. Yes, I sometimes lose sight of this belief. I'm only human. But when I get really still there's still that deep knowing of how temporary this all this and that I will be okay. Even when Jesus masquerades as being from California.

Curling Up

All manner of my family is traveling today.
Making their way slowly northward.
I've moved houses 3 times since my parents or sisters
were here to visit last time.
It doesn't seem real that they'll be in my home.
But they will be.

My mom said my oldest brother is going to stop and see me
sometime in the next few weeks as well.
He's been in my home once.
His wife, never.

Every family has things that seem normal to them
but not to others.
Some of it is, in the end, very normal.
And some of it is bizarre.

I feel the edges of perfectionism gnawing at me today.
Wanting to feel control over something.
I am not my home.
I am not my yard.
I am not my body.
I am not my kids.
There's a lot of self talk going on within me today.
And nigglings of self doubt that
I've never really changed at all.

It's cold and rainy today.
Good weather to do some baking,
some self nurturing.
Weather that lends itself to relaxing
with a cup of tea.

I have a list on my fridge
that my counselor and I came up with
of positive self soothing behaviours.
With the rainy weather
and sorrow over losing my friend
I look at the list and choose curling up in a blanket and
rocking back and forth.

I can only change me.
Lord have mercy.