Anything Could Happen

When Y2K was coming, preparing for it was like reliving the tension of my childhood but on steroids. I knew all about needing a plan to stay safe in the face of impending doom. So I canned 600 jars of jams, pickles, fruit and vegetables until my cold room looked like a jewellery case with its row upon row of pretty coloured glass. I also had six months worth of flour, sugar, salt plus canned goods, matches and portable stove fuel. Finally there was an out of control happening where I couldn't be caught off guard.

When January 1, 2000 arrived with business as usual, part of me was disappointed. I saw it as a missed opportunity to gloat about how I had outsmarted people who were stupidly living as if they were in no imminent danger. All I had to show for my fanatical planning was a much smaller grocery bill for the next six months.

I watched the countdown to December 31st this year with detachment combined with occasional bouts of patting myself on the back that I wasn't like those doom sayers  My self- righteousness deflated like a popped balloon when I bumped up, for what felt like the zillionth time, against my fear of not being prepared for whatever might happen next, just a few days before the supposed end of the world.

As part of an ecumenical class gearing up for the coming of light we were asked to sit in complete darkness for ten minutes before lighting a candle. Once I shut off the lamp in my office and stuffed the chinks of light coming through the crevices I was left in a blackness that took me right back to childhood. I strained to make out shapes of things in the room just as I did as a child. Back then I would work myself up into such a state until I became convinced that not only had the chair across the room moved but so had the creepy person I imagined my clothes had morphed into as well. I couldn't even run for help because I believed the Beagle Boys lived under my bed and only came out of their trapdoor at night. No way was I going to risk one of them reaching out to grab my ankle as they broke free from their prison.

So when eerie images began to form as I sat in the dark a few nights ago, I asked myself why was I scared of the dark. "Because in the dark anything could happen and I won't see it coming." Not exactly what I thought the darkness would reveal to me.

The tension between who I was as a child, who I am now, and who I have yet to become feels taut in these moments as I`m catapulted back to being a 9 year old girl with a vivid imagination in the dark.

When my Zen timer (oh, the irony) made its Buddha bowl sound I lit my candle and it`s glow grew to illuminate a photo on my desk of my parents and Dearest One. I felt comforted to be among people whose faces shine with love for me. I didn't always feel that way.

My mother was the proverbial boogie man of my childhood. I never knew when she would morph into something as scary as the clothes on my chair in the dark, verbally, emotionally or physically lashing out with such randomness and without predictability. I could never figure out as a child if she loved me and I stood before her closed bedroom door on many a Sunday morning trying to get up the nerve to knock and ask timidly, "Do you love me?" I never got up the courage to go past raising my fist a hairbreadth`s away from my parents` unfinished wooden door. It was a question that hung in the air for decades.

So I find there is a tension as well between the mother I grew up with and the one I have now and the unknown one I will have as she continues to age. The woman who I today, without a doubt, know loves me. The woman who was the source of my greatest fear as a child was the one who comforted me the most in the illuminated darkness this week. 

If that isn't a sign of hope I don't know what is. 

 

Walking Miracles

At an AA birthday celebration this morning we got to listen to a man play Amazing Grace on the bagpipes. Right there in the meeting room. Cool, eh?
We are all such walking miracles.
Every last one of us.
Amazing Grace, indeed.






Photo Credit

Seeking

"Most of us don't seek God during happy times. We seek God when we're in distress."

As the priest said this tears sprang to my eyes. Had I not been an alcoholic who's life was becoming more and more unmanageable every day would I have sought God? I'll never know the answer to that one.

Photo Credit

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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All That I Was Meant To Be

"You couldn't pay me to tell you what I think."

That's what I thought when I was in grade 12 English class and we were dissecting poetry. The teacher had a way of snorting his disgust when we gave the wrong answer and I was not about be his target for the day. Inevitably the answer he was looking for and what the poem said to me were at opposite ends of the spectrum. I was always glad I kept my mouth shut.

It's been nearly 30 years since then and I still don't like dissecting poetry.

I've never been too good at reading between lines or getting the nuances of something. I admire people to whom that comes easily. Black and white has always felt safer to me. That probably has something to do with being raised in a home with ridiculous rules that if I kept, I stayed safe. Well, except when the rules changed depending on my mom's mood. At any rate, following rules has always felt safer than using my noggin' to figure things out. Too many variables in thinking for myself.

Well, let me clarify that. When it came to having opinions of others, whether that be what they thought or what they did,hands down, I was an expert and I wasn't quiet about it. When it came to letting you into that place within me where I came to conclusions about my own thoughts, I wasn't about to let you have a chance to become an expert on my those, so I kept them to myself. Over time I've learned that I am no expert on anyone else's life. I still have my opinions but most of the time they've shrunk down to being my opinions, not God's. Big difference.

Because of my tendency to be a rule follower I have long admired dearest one's ability to see the spirit of something. He can hone in on what's really important while I am often still hung up on the technicalities. I'm learning, but it doesn't come naturally, nor is it where my head goes first. I honestly think there's still a part of me that is expecting to get in trouble for having the wrong answer.

About ten years ago this guy came to the church I was attending back then. I had never heard of the show Intervention nor him. He was just some author that friends of ours admired greatly. I remember sitting in the congregation as he taught; him asking us questions. We were a silent bunch, too scared of one another to speak our mind. At least that's the conclusion I came to. I had answers on the tip of my tongue but I was pretty sure my answers wouldn't match up to anyone else's so I kept my mouth shut. I remember Jeff chiding us a bit for our hesitancy. The answer that was on the tip of my tongue matched up to what he was going to say just about 100% of the time. In those kind of situations I still feel like I am a school kid though, and if I had opened my mouth, I would have expected some kind of gold star recognition for being so smart.

Lord have mercy.

All that to say that I know that this song is not about our relationship with God.It sounds more like a love song about a relationship that is about to end. However, every time I hear the following bit in the song, I feel more like it's the Psalmist talking to God, than a jilted lover talking to their beloved.

What about now?
What about today?
What if you're making me all that I was meant to be?

Blue Grace

This picture is for Pam. She usually posts a picture of something blue daily but spent last night caring for her mom so wasn't going to be able to post this morning. That link in the previous sentence really is a must read.

Yesterday Pam ended her post by saying look for God's grace...IT'S EVERYWHERE!! and I took that thought and held it close all day. I prayed that God would give me the eyes to see His grace everywhere.

And God did. Especially in the noon hour AA meeting I attended. Miracles abound if we just open our eyes. Or rather, have our eyes opened.

Late in the day I was able to address a situation at work that had irritated the hell out of me, with grace and humour. Got my point across without having to be a bitch about it. Who would have thunk that was possible? Yesterday the topic at the AA meeting was change. I heard incredible stories of change that are only possible by the grace of God. So often I feel like I am standing on Holy Ground at an AA meeting.

And speaking of change, they say up here to wait five minutes and the weather will change. Ha. Yesterday's snow melted and fresh snow covers the ground this morning. I think I'll have to wait longer than 5 minutes for the weather to change, don't you?

Have a grace filled day my friends.

Unmasked

"Do you want me to cover your nose or your mouth?
We leave only one open so you can breathe."

Crap. I hadn't thought that far ahead. Momentarily, I panic. Please don't take away my voice. If she covers my mouth I will feel like I have no voice. If she covers my nose I might hyperventilate. Uncertain, I ask what other people have done. She tells me they usually choose to have their mouth covered. I breathe deep and tell her okay, cover my mouth then. God, this takes trust. I am truly at her mercy. I hadn't thought that far ahead, either.

And so my therapist begins. Gently she wipes my whole face down with Vaseline, making sure my eyebrows, eyelashes, and the hither and yon wiry hairs that grow above my upper lip, are covered. Neither of us wishes to turn this into an impromptu waxing session although I've always thought it might be nice to have my eyebrows done. Satisfied that every bit of skin is covered she then cuts strips of plaster. I watch as the powdery mesh piles up on her lap.

Next she dips a strip of mesh into water and starts placing it on my Vaseline caressed skin. First a strip across my forehead, then one along my jawline. One down the center of my nose. One by one she lifts the wet strips and places them on my face. Before too long I sense my expression becoming fixed. Just before she places a strip over my mouth she warns me. We grin at each other, for we both know how I love to talk. I feel my cheeks move up against the plaster as I smile and I tell her she will have to push the wet strips back in place. She works deftly, fingers smoothing out the roughness, as she places layer upoon layer of wet plaster on my face, working quickly before it sets.

She tells me she is going to do my eyes now. Oh, so that's why my eyelashes needed to be Vaselined. I had imagined a mask with eyes open and mouth free. How else can I see the world around me? How else can I know what's going to happen next? Down go my eyelids and as the wet mesh covers first one eye, and then the other, my world becomes dark.

I decide that the only thing to do is go inward, so I sit quietly. I feel the weight of the mask on my face. It does not escape me, the irony of how heavy a mask truly is. I notice how unmovable my face is becoming, my expression set. A swirl of thoughts runs through my mind as soothing Celtic music plays in the background. I sense my therapist's fingers smoothing and touching my mask. Some bits of the mask are thin and soft, her fingers could easily penetrate the shell. Others places are thick and hard already and it would take a lot for either of us to break the protective covering.

I think on these things.

My mind wanders back to my first session with Fr. Charlie. "Do you wear masks?" he asks me. "Oh, no, not me," I proudly tell him, "wearing masks is what other people do". He sat quietly then, leaving my words to hang in the air. Before too many sessions had passed we both knew I wore layers upon layers of masks. I told him that if I had my way, I'd wear sunglasses year round, because then I could let down my guard. Wearing masks took energy.

The Celtic music rises above my meandering thoughts and it reminds me of my favourite movie. I think about William Wallace and his fight for freedom. I love his passion. His determination. His fierceness. I love his freedom. My body relaxes as I let the music wash over me.

I think about what I might feel when my mask is removed.
My face will be smooth because of the vaseline.
Fresh.
Will I feel reborn?
Breaking through my thoughts comes the phrase,
"You have been set free."
Over and over, like a record stuck on a warp,
the phrase repeats itself,
drowning out everything else.

Slowly, it fades.

Next comes a phrase Fr. Charlie has told me countless times:
"You shall know the truth
and the truth shall set you free."

I picture William Wallace
looking at me as he cries, "Freeeedommmmm."

Goosebumps rise on my arms.

Fr. Charlie and my therapist have never met.
It feels like a hop, skip and jump kind of journey,
one leading me to the other though.
And now, in this session,
the one where I am masked and then unmasked,
the two have merged, both so pivotal
in my quest
for inner freedom.

The mask dries.
I move my face,
first my lips
and then my cheeks
and lastly my eyes.
As I do so, the mask separates from my skin.
Gently my therapist pries the mask
off the last strongholds.

I blink in the daylight
and smile at the mask.
The mask that is
and isn't
me.

Confessionville

"God must have wanted me to get to confession before I hit the ditch."

Fr. Charlie laughs in response to my observation.
My heart rate's been going beserk ever since I nearly landed in the ditch on the way to my appointment. I hit a patch of slushy ice and my tires caught. I headed towards the ditch where another vehicle was already sitting, having hit the same patch of ice. I screamed for Jesus to help me and remembered my manners at the last minute because I added "please" before I stopped screaming. Sometimes I wonder if God isn't up there scratching his head at someone remembering their manners when their life is flashing before their eyes while he knows they forget to say 'excuse me' on a regular basis when they brush too close past someone in a store. Go figure.

Inches from the shoulder of the highway my car went back towards its lane and through the rest of the slushy ice before we hit a dry patch of road. Not sure what the people in the vehicles in the oncoming lane thought as I swerved hither and yon. Within a short distance there were 3 vehicles in the ditch. I slowed down and made my way north towards Confessionville. I thanked God that I was safe. I asked the angels to protect me. I thought about our friend's daughter and wondered why one person is spared and another isn't. I quickly realized there will never be a plausible explanation to that one even though in my head rolled platitudes and well meaning explanations from people I know. Truth is, we simply don't know cause we aren't God. Accepting life on life's terms is a bitch some days. Feels that way anyway.

So I got to Confessionville where Fr. Charlie and I caught up on each other's lives. We laughed, we sat in lengthy silence, we talked nonstop for a bit. And slowly we came around to meaty stuff. The stuff that comes from the gut. My gut. I had a revelation during confession that left me speechless for a moment, wondering if I was going to get brave enough to speak it aloud. After several starts and stops, I did. The tears ran freely. Grace, grace, God's grace, is a beautiful state of being.

On my way back home there was a semi truck freshly pulled from the ditch on the opposite side of the road where I nearly went in. I wondered if there was a priest somewhere waiting for that driver to fess up, too. Not that I was ready to trade places. It does shed a light on keeping to my side of the street, though. Truly. I need all the help I can get to stay out of the ditch.

Hands To Catch Me

The grace of God is beautiful.
I love that one can never predict it's timing.
One day you wake up to find something has shifted inside.
You know you can't take any credit for it.
You wanted it, you hoped and prayed for it
and it was beyond you to make it happen.
But here it is; it's real and deep
and there's no going back.
That's when I know it's real.
No matter how familiar the old way was,
to go back would kill a little piece of my soul.
and something within me says, "No."
And I'm given the grace to keep facing the light.

I've been in therapy the past 18 months
for things pertaining to childhood sexual abuse.
At one point we were ready to
wrap things up and
call it a day.
Then I had a slip when it came to sexual addiction
and that opened a whole new can of worms.
And once that can had been opened
there was no going back, either.
I thought "Oh, shit, shouldn't have been so honest there."
While knowing dishonesty could kill me.
I didn't want to open a new can of worms because
I sometimes feel scared of the process.
Times like that I feel like I'm jumping blindly
of the edge of a cliff,
trusting there are hands to catch me.

A bunch of gunk needed to be scraped off
the edges of a 35 year old wound.
Long held beliefs that were shit really.
The last few weeks I let go
of thought distortions I've held my whole life long.
I'd given them lip service acknowledgement.
Knew they were distortions in my head
but now my heart knows they are bona fide lies.
Do you ever look at yourself and go
"Holy shit, how'd that happen?"
because you're changed and
you didn't do it.
Most humbling.
Fills me with gratitude.
Those shifts give me hope.
Great hope.

The Ultimate Power Trip

"..the surrender of our lives to a Higher Power is the greatest victory of which a human being is capable.....Surrender is the ultimate power trip."
~ Earnie Larsen in Destination Joy

Today I am grateful:

That I can stay home.
It's going to be close to -40C with windchill tonight.

That there is curling on TV this week.
I heart curling.

That surrender is my prefered state of being.
That a whisper to God is all it takes.
I don't know if I'll ever get over
the beauty of a surrendered life.

That even though my spoon supply
is lower than normal today
it is not the only thing on my radar screen.

That Lent starts tomorrow.
It is my favourite season of the year.

That I've learned that giving up attitudes
does more for my spiritual growth
than giving up things.

That I can do both
and live to tell about it.

That even though I feel like I'm getting a cold/flu
I don't have to make a real life drama of it.

That people care about me.
There were years when that carried me
cause I didn't care about myself.
I do today.
I thank God for that.

That I can care about others.
That I can even look outward.
There were years, too
when that was impossible.
And when navel gazing becomes my
modus operandi these days
I know it's only temporary.
I thank God for that, too.

Of Padlocks And Porn

I've written before about how I don't like to be alone at night.
Being alone at night is when I am most tempted
to throw my abstinence
from sexual addiction away.
I was alone this past weekend
and did exactly that.

I read this post this morning and identified immediately with the thoughts within it except last weekend I went from feeling pin pricked beyond bearable right into chucking my abstinence out the window.
I tried my damndest to numb the pin pricks away.
It. didn't. work.
Of course not.
The committee in my head can never deliver what it tells me it can.

Yesterday as I sat hashing this out with my therapist I said
I felt disappointed
that the high I was looking for didn't materialize.
The addiction doesn't have the same power it used to.
After the second night it lost its charm.
And although this time around
the bungee jump ride to the bottom
was much higher than it's been in the past,
what is making red flags scream at me
is that I felt relieved that I relapsed.
It was as if it jolted me awake.
There's something so sick to that thinking
that it still's freaking me out.
Why did it take relapse to make me go back to doing those things on a daily basis that I need to do so that relapse isn't even on my radar screen?
Why didn't I do them when I first realized
(weeks and weeks ago) that I was playing with fire?

Last night dearest one and I went out
for a belated anniversary dinner.
I knew I needed to fess up about my slip.
I didn't want to.
Earlier in the day my therapist and I had talked
about how hard taking emotional risks is for me.
We talked about my reasons for
telling dearest one of my slip.
That it felt like keeping secrets if I didn't.
And how secrets are the slipperiest of slopes.

After I'd fessed up, dearest one
said it had nothing to do with him.
I'd just made myself vulnerable to the core
and he had no feelings about it.
None.
I replied that if he had himself
a little porn addiction
then I think I'd have some feelings about it.
Phrasing it that way helped him see that maybe
there are some feelings buried deep inside him.
He looked at me and said, "Do we really want to go there?"
I thought he was saying it as in "ever?"
It took me a few moments to clue in that
he meant "right now, right here in Denny's?"

Sometimes this journey feels like a strip tease.
A dance of 'this is part of who I am'
'this is how much of me I'll let you see'
'the rest I'm keeping close to my chest for safekeeping'.
We've both played it well.
And while it feels like a long, winding road
to expose ourselves to one another,
both of us are committed to going forward.
For that I am extremely grateful.
He assures me that the conversation
will happen, just not yet.
I said that I will be both scared and relieved
when that day comes.
Scared because his pain is not mine to fix.
What's done is done.
And saying sorry seems so lame.
Relieved because when he bears this part of his soul
he will be relating to me out of his core being,
the place we store our pain for safekeeping.
Our core beings are beautiful.
Weird how that works.
This man is never more beautiful to me than when he
takes the padlock off his heart
and lets me in.

I've let this post sit here for several hours
torn between delete and publish.
I rarely talk about my recovery journey
when it comes to sexual addiction
on here anymore.
It's humbling to let you in.

Grace Filled Courage

I am grateful that most nights I sleep right through the night.
That makes this night of insomnia easier to accept.

I am grateful that the weather is spring like.
The road is too icy to walk on but
the temperature is so full of hope.
My mood is lifting with the weather.
I tend to beat myself up for the weather affecting me.
Try as I might I simply am not grateful
when it's between 30 and 45 below zero.
Well, grateful to be alive and in a warm house, yes,
and for many other things,
but not grateful that it's cold.

Next week dearest one and I will celebrate
27 years together.
We eloped, sort of.
Phoned our folks and told them:
"We're getting married next Friday and we're not inviting anyone."
We stumbled through our vows.
Forgot that we needed rings.
I promised to take dearest one as my awful wedded husband.
We dared not glance at each other at that point.
We would have had uncontrollable fits of laughter.
That's what happens when you get married as a teenager.

This past year has had us dig deeper than ever
into our issues.
At times they seem to be a bottomless pit.
The good news is that both of us have taken ownership
of stuff we have long pointed fingers at each other about.
You know, that old lie - "if only you would (change, grow up, do it my way, lighten up and on and on).....then I would (be happy, be nice, be responsible, be much easier to live with and other such nonsense)....."

Courage is the word I would use to describe this past year.
We've both had more courage than we ever thought possible.

Boy, I never planned on writing about my marriage
when I sat down to type.
But I'd glanced at the calendar and saw my anniversary date
highlighted in red and some days
that's all it takes for my thoughts to go sideways.
I am no expert on marriage, that's for sure.
But I am grateful for the almost 27 years that is my reality.

Liberation

"What was your dad's reaction to your mom's addictions?"

"Nothing. Zero. None."

She was writing my family map up on the board, helping me make connections, asking me questions as we went. We not only mapped my family of origin but my mother's family of origin as well. We wrote about what patterns were carried from one generation to another. What patterns there were in our own lives, legacies that needed to be looked at and then decided if they served any useful, healthy purpose or if they could be let go.

As I told her my dad's reaction was nothing something within me went 'ding, ding, ding'. It was more like a jolt that made me sit up straighter and pay attention. Dearest one has had no reaction to mine, either. I know the day is coming. He's doing such deep, honest work in counseling that it is inevitable.
One day the shit will hit the fan.

Liberating shit.

As I told the facilitator how my dad had had no reaction to my mom's behaviour and simulataneously realized dearest one has had no reaction to mine either, something shifted within me. I went from being scared of the day that the shit hits the fan to being able to welcome it. Doesn't mean it will be fun or that it will be devoid of emotion. But in doing so, a cycle will come to an end. A new pattern established. Which is something I can embrace.

I was able to come home and share all this with dearest one.
Truth is liberating.
Lord have mercy.

From East To West

It's the middle of the night and insomnia is my companion. Dearest one is having the bed and covers all to himself. I rarely have insomnia anymore and for that I am grateful. With all the hoopla from the furnace being out yesterday, I was late in taking some medication, which usually throws my sleep schedule right out the window. A little blip on the radar screen of life. Every time there's a full or nearly full moon, and the sky is clear, once during night it shines right through the bedroom window onto my face. It feels like being kissed by God.

A few days ago I didn't get outside for my walk until the sun was just about to disappear over the horizon. At one point I thought there was a car coming up behind me. As I turned to see, I realized I had mistaken headlights for the moon breaking through the clouds. It was shining brightly on the road. It felt a little surreal. For on one side of me was the clear, dusky sky and sunset. On the other was a dark sky filled with the moon and a few stars. Between the two were dark, black clouds. I kept stopping and looking from one side to the other, in awe of the view. There are times when Creation evokes a deep gratitude within me. I stood there and whispered 'thank you' over and over again.

Last month, when I found myself in a deep funk, I took stock and asked myself what was I doing when life was at its best. What works? Two things that I had let slide from my daily routine were yoga and a 20 minutes session of meditation. That period of meditation puts me squarely in the present. Being in the present scares me. Whenever I practice this period of meditation for any stretch of time, I eventually end up abandoning it, because it shakes me up at the core. On the flip side there is also a sense that it is working within me at levels my consciousness can't touch. I've heard it referred to as 'Divine Therapy.' Over the past few weeks I have slowly returned to the discipline of meditation.

Yesterday after the 20 minutes were up I felt different. When I stopped to assess the feeling I thought to myself, "oh, I'm in my body." After years of having vacated my body due to childhood sexual abuse, it feels like an incredible gift to trust my body enough to be in it. Anytime I stop living life from the neck up is cause for celebration. I'm trusting that as I continue to heal and grow, inhabiting my body will become the norm.

Yesterday, during my time of meditation, I got this sense that who I am is enough. Right now. This moment. As is. I felt myself open up and receive that who I am is enough as Truth. What other response can one have to that except 'thank you'? It's a little like seeing the sun set on one side of the road and the moon shining brightly on the other. The whole of who I am can be embraced. Thanks be to God.

Forming Hope

Dearest one and I wandered together from place to place in town yesterday. At one point we found ourselves in a furniture store visiting with our bishop. Deep in conversation, we were brought back to reality by the salesperson inquiring if she could help us. Oh, right, we're not in a living room in our house, we're in a living room in a store. With that there were hugs all around and the bishop went his way while we continued ours.

We were passing the time in town, waiting to go to a wedding reception for one of our nieces in the evening. Wow. Get several hundred people together sharing food and fellowship and the noise level is overwhelming. In the midst of the cacophony we were able to connect with people we haven't seen for a few years. Sometimes I'm very aware of the twists and turns my spiritual life has taken as I sit among women whose hair is covered and whose dress is modest and feminine. At one point in my journey I sat among them in similar attire. Occasionally one of them asks me if my spiritual journey is the poorer for the lack of it. A wordy explanation is pointless. With my styled hair, dangling ear rings and blue jeans I can only smile and tell them no. I will always, however, have a special spot in my heart for that period of my life. It taught me much about myself and others. It's helped form me to be who I am today. When worn in simplicity and pureness of heart, I continue to see a head covering as beautiful. That period of my life was one of gross manipulation though, so simplicity and purity of heart were not part of my story. I desperately wanted them to be, but intention and reality are two different things.

Eventually dearest one and I made our way through the crowd and back to comfort of our car. As we drove home we talked about the highlight of our day. The best part for me was sitting in the food court with dearest one. He gave me the angel in the photo above, an angel of hope, and a card that brought tears to my eyes. Then he looked at me and said, "You've been doing a lot of hard inner work lately." We reached for each other's hand across the table, our eyes communicating the words that were stuck in our throats.

Dearest one must have run into a dozen people during the course of the day who he knew from somewhere (not counting the gazillion relatives at the wedding reception). In the mall there was the man he drove truck with, at the library -someone he worked with at a hospital. At the restaurant someone else was a patient's wife from long ago. At the reception last night I met a woman who was at oldest son's wedding this past summer. She talked about getting to know oldest son and how her and her elderly husband observed how he treated his love with respect. I imagined them watching out their living room window seeing him open her car door, or just the sensitive way he has of showing he cares. I looked at her and said, "He learned it from his dad." We then talked about our menfolk and how one of the dominant traits in the men of dearest one's family is their tenderheartedness. She nodded in agreement and then told me her husband was like that, too.

As dearest one made his way towards me in the furniture store yesterday one of the sales people turned to me and said, "Your husband is an incredible person." Turns out dearest one had nursed her father as he was dying. There is a sacredness to sharing this part of a family's journey that dearest one holds in his heart. I looked at the grief lingering in her eyes and said gently, "yes, he is."

Remember how cynical I was the other day when I heard this song playing on the radio? Wait a few minutes, hours, days and my attitude might change. After all, there is always hope. As I wrap up this post the song is playing on the radio again. It's been a few days of that kind of tenderness around here and it's a balm to my healing heart. Thanks be to God.

Intact

"I feel like I'm a boiled egg whose shell has been cracked and rolled back and forth across the counter. There's the thinnest of membranes holding the bits together."

That's what I wrote in my journal yesterday morning
and shared with my counselor later in the afternoon.
It's been a while since an image came to me
as a metaphor for where I'm at in the journey.
It gives me hope that the image was one of being crushed, yet intact.

This has been the most draining of weeks.
Emotionally, I'm spent.
The continual clicking of pieces falling into place,
in the puzzle that is my story ,
humbles me and gives me great hope.
There is no way through but through.
Yesterday I was given the grace to
put one foot in front of the other.
I'm trusting the process even though
I cannot see around the corner.

I feel like I'm walking with a new awareness.
Stripped of another layer of denial,
there's no going back.
That is good and scary news.
Surrendering what is and will be.
Held ever so gently,
intact.

The Most Hopeful Layer

"Vulnerability is disarming. It compels one to go to that level, too."

Heart felt words from a close friend last night.
Often I've told dearest one he is the most beautiful
when he is the most vulnerable,
when he let's me in to see who he is.
He can tell me the ugliest thing he sees within himself
and I have yet to be repulsed or disappointed.
It's easier to feel that about things
left unsaid or imagined
than about reality.

We're in a new place relationship wise.
Walking hand in hand to that deep place
where fears and insecurities,
which have been kept under wraps
our whole life long, are being revealed.
We're slowly uncovering who we really are,
like a shy bride on her wedding night.

It's the most hopeful layer of the never ending onion.

Honesty is easier to write about than to live.
To open, what feels like a pandora's box,
and reveal who I am?
That's scary shit.

My recent slip forced me to face some ugly truths.
Well, I guess no one is forced to do anything
they don't want to in recovery.
But if I wanted to move forward, then
facing those truths was my only option.
And, no matter how loudly I may whine about growth,
I will only shrink from it for a limited time.
I'll be damned if I'm going to let fear rule my life forever.
Life is too short to tuck tail and run.
The scary part is that facing those truths
means sharing them with dearest one, too.
My struggle with this addiction in particular,
affects our marriage at a deeper level than either
the alcohol or the eating disorder.

So facing forward means telling the truth
about how it is within me.
Recently, I realized I do most of my processing in my head,
where it stays safe and secure.

My head is the worst safety deposit box there is.

So I'm learning to say outloud thoughts I usually keep to myself.
Learning to share from the vulnerable, troubled spots of my heart.
Sometimes it's benign things like,
"He said this and I felt that."
or
"She shared this and I had instant tears and this is why."

Other times it's something that has the capacity to hurt,
yet it does more damage unspoken, so I take the risk.
Recently that meant telling dearest one that, at times,
I will go to any length to avoid being present.

I told him this in a restaurant where I was
fessing up about my latest slip.
I'd asked for a corner booth because I didn't want an audience
if I ended up in tears when I said this is what I did.

"And behind what I did these are my issues, these are the things that keep me in this loop of slips. This is where I need you help and your patience."

While I felt like I had reached the limit of what was forgiveable, dearest one's steady, loving gaze told me otherwise. He reached across the table, took my hand in his and made me look him in the eye. He wanted me to see that he meant it when he told me he was here for the long haul, no matter what that long haul looks like.

It's a steady, tough climb to a saner, safer, more intimate place.
We continue to be disarmed and compelled by each other's vulnerability.
Thanks be to God.

Uncharted Territory

Twenty-seven years ago today dearest one and I met on a quiet street in a province half way across the country. We'd been penpals as young teenagers. We married when I was still a teenager. By the grace of God we've stayed married for 26 and a half years already.

Of course there's a long story in between then and now. Which is what happens when you take an atheist and a farm boy, raised in a conservative religious home, and put them in a marriage together. Especially when farm boy hasn't told atheist how he was raised and atheist doesn't tell him she's an atheist. But then we'd only spent a few weeks together in person before we ran off and eloped.

By the grace of God we're still together.
Our marriage is in uncharted territory.
This past year has brought an honesty and vulnerability the likes of which we've never braved before. It's scary but good.

We always remember this day.
A day of new beginnings.
Like every day is.
But this one is extra special.

Hold The Applause

I try hard not to let the past define me.
There was a time when that was all I knew how to do.
Lord knows that in some Christian circles they applaud real loud for doing so.
If you'd asked me who I was I would have answered with one or more of the following:
Abused child.
Sexually abused child.
Sexually abused teenager.
Alcoholic.
Teen bride.
Abusive mother.
Homeschooler.
Chronically ill woman.
The list could go on.

The work I do in therapy and spiritual direction is helping me drop these labels.The more I heal, the more their impact on my day to day life shrinks.

We are all so much more than a label.
Even. my. brother.

As I sat down this morning to write about my visit with my brother yesterday a questioning thought came into my head.

"Are you going to make him into a them?"

Why yes, yes, I was going to.
Before You wrecked that plan by asking me such a question.

Before my brother arrived yesterday I felt a seething anger.
After he left I went immediately to my counter where there were fresh baked muffins, and stuffed one into my mouth. I wanted to stuff 6 more in in rapid succession but I didn't. That gaping hole inside felt like a screaming cavern.

I was going to write about everything that transpired between the anger and the muffins. Nothing more than ordinary and sometimes strained conversation. Telling body language. A sadness about what is. And about what may never be.

I often rant to my family about people who either want to make me an 'it' or people out of their comfort zone an 'it'. It's always other people I rant about doing that of course. Reading this book challenged me to change years ago. Change that is still in the works, obviously. This morning as I sat down to type I got a reminder that to embrace humanity, means embracing not only my own, but my brother's, too. Knowing that doesn't magically make my anger disappear. It doesn't mean I condone his actions. It doesn't make me want to eat less muffins. But it does mean that if I distance myself from his humanity then I reject something of myself in the process, too. It reinforces my identity as a victim.

I'm still feeling a bit stunned by that question popping into my head just as I was getting ready to write this post. I try to be open to guidance. Some days I swear at its arrival. Sometimes I get rendered darn near speechless. And some days I write a totally different blog post than I'd planned.

It's Really Him

Yesterday I drove half an hour to attend Mass in a bigger parish.
Slipping into a pew right behind two rows of older women,
I watched as they jostled and teased each other, obviously comfortable
in one another's presence.
Just before Mass began a young mother, carrying a tiny baby,
came in with her husband and toddler.
She sat in front of me a few rows up.
Her face was framed in between the shoulders of these elderly women
and I watched as she bent down to smile at her baby.
Such a look of tenderness and love radiated from her.

A few minutes later, I saw a young girl,
on the cusp of puberty, lean against her father's shoulder and
rest her head.

It's not often I go to Mass in a bigger parish. In our own tiny church we gather around the altar to receive the Eucharist. Every time I am in a bigger parish I look at the line of people waiting to receive the Eucharist and think to myself we are such a motley crew. Every one with a story. Every one with a need. Every one moving towards a moment of grace.

Yesterday as I stepped into the aisle, the young couple with their tiny baby were in view. Behind me a little boy must have been watching them, too. I heard him ask his grandma, "Is the priest going to bless the baby?"

Before I got to the front of the line I heard the tiny white haird woman who was assisting the priest with communion, hold up the Body of Christ and say with quite the emphasis, "The body of Christ!" She said it in such a way that she was simultaneously saying, "Do you believe it?" and "It's really Him." She said this over and over again as she held up Jesus for each one, each time with the same devotion and zeal.

There's that Christmas song that asks "Do you hear what I hear", "Do you see what I see? For several years now I've been praying for the ears to hear, the eyes to see and a heart to respond to God. For a brief moment in time yesterday that prayer was answered.