It's calm...

... and quiet...

 

 

 

...and there are no towels on the floor...

 

...or dog hair floating through the air...

 

...the level of the milk gallon is not going down alarmingly...

 

...the Christmas cookies are all gone...

 

...the tree is down...

 

...and did I mention, it's calm...

 

and quiet?

 

And Mr. Jenny and I are left alone in our lives while our children and Grandchildren go back to theirs.

 

We are left alone with our memories and melting snow and an odd sock found now and again.

 

Gibran wisely writes:

 

“Your children are not your children.
They are sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you.
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For thir souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them, but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.
You are the bows from which your children as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the make upon the path of the infinite, and He bends you with His might that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness.
For even as He loves the arrow that flies, so He also loves the bow that is stable.”  

 

Gibran?

 

Yeah.   He was a rock, man. 

 

A total rock.   I wonder if Mrs. Gibran felt this same way.

 

Or if she just pretended that...

 

...she was a stable bow?

 

 

or that she didn't want to chase after the arrows crying and saying, 'Come back!   Come back!"

 

We are left here alone in the silence...

 

and all I can really dare to hope is that somehow...

 

...someway..

...through some miracle...

 

...someone forgot one Christmas cookie in the freezer.

 

 

That might give me a little comfort right now.

 

Or not.

 

Sigh.

...

I can imagine her now in her bathroom mirror...

Extra blush.

 

Check.

 

No lipstick on teeth.

 

Check.

 

Orange scarf tied jauntily around bristly hair.

 

Check.

 

I saw her in a garden.

 

I could tell she was sick.

 

Her face had that sallow color that can’t quite be disguised with foundation.

 

You could tell that it hurt her to move.

 

Her eyes were ringed with pain.

 

But there she stood.

 

Smiling.

 

The bright orange flag of her scarf screamed her defiance.

 

“I’m sick but I’m gonna live my life anyway!”

 

Damn.

 

I was impressed.

 

And humbled.

 

Mr. Jenny and I had planned to go to a garden show this weekend.

 

Saturday morning was not a good day.

 

Saturday morning I had cried against going anywhere.

 

My hair is short and bristly. I have that sallow color that can’t quite be disguised by foundation. It hurts to move.

 

I didn’t want to go like that.

 

I didn’t want to go with my cane and my hunched over walk and feeling like a 95 year old woman who is not having a good day.

 

But mopey and quiet I got in the truck and went anyway.

 

What a blessing that I did.

 

The gardens were riotous in color…

 

Arizona in spring is astonishing.

 

Hot pinks, lime green, buttery yellows and cobalt blues.

 

Amazing colors and textures everywhere.

 

But the color that is strongest in my mind is bright orange.

I can still see that scarf fluttering so very clearly in my memory.

 

The woman and I connected for a few minutes in the fluttering shade of an Arizona Ash tree.

 

We touched hands briefly.

 

Invisible illness isn’t really invisible to other people who have it.

 

I guess invisibility times two equals awareness.

 

Bless you unknown lady in the bright orange scarf.

 

You have thrown down the gauntlet and I am picking it up.

 

Courage.

 

Ah.

 

Courage.

 

It isn’t always carrying the sword into the battle, is it?

 

Sometimes it’s just being able to recognize that someone else is carrying it.

 

...

 

...

 

Be especially kind today to people around you,  friends.

 

You don’t know what another heart is bearing.

 

You don’t know the pain that lurks under another person’s invisible bright orange scarf.

 

...

 

...

 

Deep thoughts about the dark place...

So.

 

Yeah.

 

Thank you for the kind comments and e-mails.

 

I've been thinking about this whole dark place thing all day.

 

And in the thinking, I realized something.

 

I've been here before.

 

A lot.

 

Some recently with family and health issues...

 

Some over the past few years when we lost our business and our much loved house...

 

Death, betrayal, loss, grief...

 

You know...

 

The usual.

 

But really...

 

Years and years ago the dark place almost consumed me...

 

Fueled by low self-esteem, a horrible and abusive marriage, health issues, no money, and encounters with ugly people creating ugly uncontrollable things in my life...

 

I can remember feeling totally and completely in a place so immensely dark that I prayed to die.

 

I can't really say I was suicidal because, to be honest, suicide would have taken too much effort.

 

Sigh.

 

But it was in those horrible years that I came up with a plan.

 

I made little coupons for myself very similar to this one.

They weren't nearly as cute...

 

But I told myself that I could use two coupons each month and for that 24 hour time period I would allow myself to totally wallow in my misery.

 

I told myself that I would find positive and happy as much as possible every day...

 

...but when I really needed it, I could let myself use a coupon.

 

I put them in my underwear drawer.

 

After all, is there anything more miserable than five year old underwear when you can't afford to buy any new ones? 

 

I think not.

 

And please.   Don't get me started on the whole subject of duct-taped together bras.

 

Sigh.

 

Anyway.

 

I knew those coupons were there.

 

I looked at them every morning while rummaging for a pair of undies that were more whole than holes.

 

And thought about those coupons often during the day.

 

And you know what?

 

When I went to get one out to use it, it made me think.

 

"Okay.  I only have two of these to use for the whooooole month.   What if things get worse?"

 

And I would put the coupon back.

 

On really, really bad days I would cut the coupon in quarters.

 

"Okay, Jenny.   Today you can feel miserable for six hours."

 

I would shove that partial coupon down in my pocket and somehow it made me feel better.

 

Sometimes I would cut my coupons into eight or ten pieces for 2 or 3 hours of a personal pity party.

 

But I never, ever, ever let myself feel miserable for more than 48 hours each month.

 

Some months really tested that time period.

 

Some time when we are drinking margaritas I shall tell you tales.

 

But that's not right now.

 

Right now I am writing this stone, cold un-tequila'd up.

 

In all seriousness, though...

 

I used those coupons for a lot of years.

 

Things got better, eventually and I found a new life.

 

And I felt more in control of the fear and the gloom and doom.

 

Life's funny like that, isn't it?

 

Up and down...black and white...give and take.

 

But over time, I think I allowed myself to become complacent about focusing misery.

 

I've allowed the darkness to creep back so incrementally that I haven't really noticed.

 

But now.

 

Now, I think I need to remind myself where I've been so I can survive where I am now.

 

There's always going to be issues in life.

 

No-one has a golden ticket through the worries and woes.

 

No-one is exempt from the dark places.

 

These silly coupons helped me in even darker times.

 

So I'm printing up a new batch.

 

And focusing being miserable into 48 hours each month.

 

I think I'm going to stash my coupons in my underwear drawer.

 

And.

 

Good news.

 

At least now my underwear are entirely whole and almost brand new...

 

...and the only duct tape in my house is in my tool chest.

 

And...

 

Huh?

 

Oh.

 

Oh, sorry.

 

That was probably way TOO MUCH INFORMATION.

 

About the underwear, I mean.

 

But I really did want to tell you about the coupons.

 

Maybe that little idea will help you with your dark place, too.

 

 

I'm in that dark place...

...and I don't want to be here any more.

I'm full of excuses.

And they're making me feel ill.

I'm cranky, I'm depressed, I'm tired, I'm sick, I'm down in the dumps.

Gosh.

"It's hormonal," my doctor says.

"It's all the change in your life," my friend says.

"It's coming down from  months of stress," my husband says.

"It's enough!" I say.

Enough.

It's overwhelming to think of adding a ton of things to my life to fill up all the hollow spots.

And I don't feel like I have enough energy to even find a ton of things to add.

So I'm just going to be nice to myself.

And make some small changes.

Add a few vegetables and fruits to my diet each day.

Walk to the end of the driveway.

Find my Face-ercise book and start doing those odd little facial workouts again.

I'm going to set small goals that I can achieve...and I'm going to do them.

Because that dark place gets to feeling a little too comfortable after awhile...

You know?

The dark place lets me wallow in my excuses because there's no bright lights to show me I'm even standing in the shadows. And after awhile it all starts to feel like shadows. And after awhile it starts feeling like the shadows are the way things are supposed to be.

Because...

Sometimes when you're hiding out in the shadows, things from the past start to feel like they were the sunshine. Kids being small, Grandlittles being less busy, gardens to plant, friends and relationships still alive.

And sometimes when you're hiding out in the shadows, things from other peoples lives feel really, really perfect. And everyone else seems to have it all together.

It feels comfortable to put on the 'oh boo-hoo' shirt when I'm hiding out in the dark, even though it fits badly and is super itchy and uncomfortable. 

It feels comfortable to disregard my own advice to others and to embrace myself as the exception to all the rules.

It's only when I poke my head out of the shadows that I can still count my blessings...look to the future...find joy and hope in things that I am still able to dream for myself.

I read somewhere that 'life begins at the end of your comfort zone'.

If I were a braver woman I would have that tattooed somewhere on my body.

Perhaps where it would conceal a stretch mark or two.

I'm going to try it.

 

No, not the tattoo. Do you think I'm totally crazy?

 

Ouch!

BUT...

I'm going to step outside my comfort zone and see what happens.

I'm going to find that woman who woke up in my bed each morning (no, this isn't getting kinky! blush!) who believed and embraced the philosophy that happiness was a daily choice.

I'm going to find her and drag her out into the light...

Because things are only going to change if I change them.

And things are only going to change if I quit hiding in the dark.

Nobody else can do this for me.

And while kind words and quotations and 'it could be worses' can help me on my way...

It's still me that has to do the work.

I'm going to try walking out of the shadows.

Please disregard my disheveled appearance.

I've been letting myself have a really, really bad hair life.

But I'm determined to make it better.

 

Today I will choose eating a peach and swimming for 10 minutes.

Today I will annoy my husband by saying:

"Knock, Knock."

He will roll his eyes and reply in a resigned voice, "Who's there?"

I will tell him, "Old Lady".

He will roll his eyes again and say, "Old lady, who?"

And I will say, "Gee, you are talented. I didn't know you knew how to yodel."

And things will start feeling way better in the world.

Anyway.

 

How can you hide in the darkness when there's so many wonderful knock-knock jokes in the world?

Seriously.

I don't know you...

I haven't walked a mile in your shoes.

 

Or even a block.

 

I don't know what pain you are suffering...

in mind or in body.

 

I don't know your worries.

 

I don't know your sad stories.

 

I don't know about the phone calls you got before you came out today...

 

...or the news your best friend just told you on the phone.

 

I don't know you.

I'm sorry that sometimes I feel quick to judge you.

 

That sometimes I get snappy with you when you reach in front of me to grab the frozen peas at the grocery store.

 

I'm sorry that I don't offer you a smile.

 

Or a compliment.

 

Or a kind word.

 

Or a non-glare.

 

I don't know you.

 

And I am going to work on that.

 

I am going to work on my tolerance.

 

And I am going to smile at you today and tell what a pretty shade of purple your t-shirt is.

 

I don't know you.

 

But I'm really sorry that things feel so awful right now.

 

 

There’s something in this later winter light…

…that has the ability to shatter my soul.

I don’t know if it’s the slant of the rays, or the flicker of gold and amber, or the way it bends and refracts at the exact angle of my memories...

…but somehow, in some peculiar way, the light illuminates the deepest parts of my heart…

 

It twists and turns down the paths of my mind I had thought camouflaged  by smiles and a cheerful demeanor.

Like a pain seeking missile, it navigates the hidden recesses that I’ve carefully insulated with theory and philosophy so that tenderest, most vulnerable broken shards and shatters  of my being, are alight and raw.

That cursed late winter light creeps past the brick and mortar walls I’ve constructed so carefully and liberates fragments and slivers of raw pain and remembrance. 

 

Exposed and vulnerable, the emotion releases into the cooling evening like a cloud of sadness.

I feel surrounded by a miasma of dissappointment, rejection, and failed expectations. 

Ahhh.   The protection of self is a good thing.  It cushions the corners of ugly, sharp self-awareness. 

I pull off the road and park my truck, tears clouding my vision so I am unable to see beyond the immediacy of old wounds, ripped and bleeding.

I cry for a long time. 

And, finally,  rescued by a crumpled fast food napkin crammed into the center console, I am able to dry my tears and blow my nose.

I shake my head at the power and intensity of sadness.

I drive on.

Praying for the darkness.

So I can begin the ordered repair of professional denial management.

Or I wonder if  I am really praying for the light so  I can simply pretend that everything is happy/happy/joy/joy.

Both light and dark will help my quest for peace I suspect.

In the interim, however, I am hoping for anything but this particular slant of late winter night that has the ability to shatter my soul.

 

PS.  I know I  haven't been writing in a long time.   Sorry to be all deep and broody when I finally get back to it.  I've often given people advice that sometimes writing begins the healing.   I'm taking my own advice here by sharing these deep thoughts with you.

 

PPS.  I'll be back tomorrow with Alphabe-Thursday AND I may even attempt to paint something this week.   Go.   Me!

"We're all just people...

...watching the same rainbow then?"

 The innocence in her big, blue eyes hurt my heart.

She sighed and cuddled in closer to me, content with my answer.  

I was not content.  I wished that I had more eloquent answers to the difficult question she asked me. 

Our conversation had started when we were laying on the daybed in my office together after school.   We were practicing first grade reading.   It was a fascinating story of a unicorn and a dragon becoming friends.

Halfway through the book she paused with a troubled look on her face.

"Grandma?" she said in her squeaky little voice, "Can I ask you something?  You won't get mad at me?"

"Mo, you can ask me anything and, no, I won't get mad at you."

She paused for a moment.  I could see the confusion clouding the clarity of her eyes.

"Okayyyy...ummm...Grandma.   Kid's were saying that we need to put the White back in the White House today.  And I ...ummm...wonder if that's true."

Wow.   Deep subject.  I am quite private in my political beliefs.  I recognize my views will not influence anyone elses and I choose not to publicize my feelings on these subjects.  I was really astonished to hear this question, though.

This child is in first grade.

"Well, Mo.   Do you know what that means?"

She hesitated and then said, "Well, Grandma.   It's because our President has brownish-black skin, right?"

Gulp.

I hoped for a distraction of epic proportions but nothing happened.

Gulp.

"Okay," I said.  "What color is your skin?"

"Pink," she replied.

"And what color is my skin?"

"Ummm...kind of yellowish with light brown spots."  

Hmmm... okay.   Close enough.

"And what color is Diego's skin?"

"Kind of light brown."

I continued, "So, Miss Mo.   None of us have the same color skin, right?  And there are kids in your school with reddish skin and brownish skin and blackish skin, right?"

She agreed.

I hoped again for a distraction.

No such luck.

She watched me intently.

 My mind raced.

"You told me at recess today there was a rainbow, right?"

 

 

"Right, Grandma!   All the kids were shouting 'rainbow! rainbow!'  It was cool!"

"So, Mo.  Did only the kids with the pink skin shout 'rainbow! rainbow!'?" I continued.

She thought for a moment.  

"Nope.   ALL the kids were shouting!"

"Are you sure?" I asked her.  "Maybe only the kids with the pink skin and the light brown skin were shouting.  Maybe none of the kids with the yellow skin and the black skin were shouting.   Maybe..."

She interrupted me, "No!   No, Grandma.   All the kids were shouting 'rainbow! rainbow!'.

"Okay, Mo.   So do you think people with different colored skin see things differently than you?"

She thought for a second.   "No.   We all have the same eyes, right Grandma?"

I agreed.  "We do all have the same eyes, Mo.   But maybe we don't all have the same hearts.   Maybe some people decide if people are good or bad based on the color of their skin."

She snuggled in closer.  

I continued, "The thing is, Mo, it's not really as simple as that, but that's part of why people say we need to put the 'White' back in the White House.   The rest is really, really hard to understand."

"Okay, Grandma.    So what you're saying is that we're all just people watching the same rainbow?"

 

 

"Yeah," I said softly.  "Kind of like that Mo.   We're all just people watching the same rainbow."

 

 

Waving Goodbye

We sat in the car.

We waited for a moment for the air conditioner to dissipate the humidity clinging to us like cotton candy blankets.

We looked at each other and at the dark house we had just left.

It had been a long, long drive from Phoenix to San Antonio, but seeing our son had made the butt numbing miles well worth the effort.

We'd had a fun day, laughing and visiting, and now we were getting ready to drive back to our hotel.  

We sat in the dark for a moment, and I told Mr. Jenny that it felt sad when there was no-one waving  goodbye.

Of course we had all hugged inside after we had made our plans for the next day...

...but...

My husband and I have  a custom of standing outside and  waving goodbye to our kids when they leave  from any family gathering.   I've been known to run down the street waving goodbye and shouting, "I love you," as their vehicles grew smaller in the distance. 

I'm sure our neighbors think we're crazy, but I don't care.  

You never know what might happen.

You never know if you will see someone you love again.

In the quiet, dark interior of the car, Mr. Jenny took my hand.   I held onto his tightly...or perhaps I should say our hands stuck together.   The humidity in Texas is pretty foreign to us desert dwellers.

We looked sadly at each other for a moment, and then he started to back out of the driveway.

Just as he did, a glorious spill of light came from the now open doorway of our son's house.   

There he was silhouetted in the glow from inside!

He ran quickly out to the middle of the yard and jumped up on a large, landscaping rock.

"Goodbye!   Goodbye!"  he yelled.  "See you tomorrow!   I love you!"

A memory, a giveaway, and part two of the story.

Part one of a memory, a giveaway and the story.

Over the next days I would arrive at various times to wait for the end. My sister was never responsive regardless of whether the sky outside her window was the promise pink of morning, the deep afternoon blue of a desert sky or the velvet purple of night.


No matter what time of day it was, I continued to read with my hand on her forearm.

Sometimes I would put the book down to rest my eyes and then I would fill the quiet with songs that I thought she would like...’Where have all the Flowers Gone?’, ‘Blowin’ in the Wind’, and ‘Forever Young’. I never attempted singing the rock songs we both liked, but I did bring my guitar in from the car one afternoon to sing the Christmas songs to her that she had always loved. I closed the door to her room and sang my heart out. She never responded.

Hours went by. It was one of those suspended times when the days blur together...was it Tuesday? What was the date? Some days it felt like I had been sitting in that chair reading that book forever...other times it felt like I had just arrived and the waiting was only beginning.

Hospice continued to check her.

“Oh, no...no signs yet,” they would say.

And so it was that on the day before she died we arrived at the last chapter of the book. On that evening I drove home with the windows down and the sunroof open. I remember crying and laughing in the car. I remember playing Aerosmith and the Police and Foreigner really, really loudly. I sat in the garage when I arrived home so the music could finish.

I spent the night dreaming of ringing telephones and cathedrals and girls twirling around in white dresses.

When I arrived the next morning, my Dad was there. He looked weary. Hospice came in while we were there together and checked my sister. “No signs, yet,” they said confidently, “Probably at least 24 hours longer.”

I walked my Dad a short way down the hall. “Now don’t leave her alone,” he admonished me. I assured him I wouldn’t and hurried back to be with her.

I talked to her briefly and opened the window just a bit to let fresh air into the sterile room.

Resting my hand on her forearm, I started reading bits and pieces of the last chapter.

Reluctantly I turned the last page.

I didn’t want the book to end. It had felt like a journey to a place far removed from the reality of what was actually happening.

Words to an old folk song came to mind, and I started singing the old Peter, Paul and Mary song, ‘500 Miles’, to my sister.

Just then my husband called my cell.

I stopped singing to answer his call.

I told him we had finished the book and I was wondering what we could read next. As I was talking to him my sister took a deep, deep breath.

I said, “Let me call you back, Liz is breathing strangely.”

I hung up.

There were no more breaths.

I was shocked.

I jumped up and went into the hall to find a nurse. It was breakfast time and the hall was crammed with residents in wheelchairs and walkers. I tried running down the hall to the nurse’s station and it was like an obstacle course. I was freaking out! Pushing wheelchairs out of the way! Trying to get some help!


The nurse’s station was empty. I realized I had left my sister alone.

I had promised my parents I wouldn’t.

“Holy crap!” I thought, “She is probably not even dead!”

I ran the gauntlet of wheelchairs and walkers to get back to her room.

“Holy crap!” I thought. “She is still dead!”

I called my parents.

I called my husband.

A nurse came in and asked if she could get us anything. I said, “I need help. I think my sister is dead!”

The nurse said, “Oh no, honey, I read her notes...she is still stable and...”

She stopped.

She looked at me in surprise.

I think she gulped.

She checked her pulse and said, “Oh my, you’re right. She is dead.”

It was really, really strange.

I was so worried my parents would be angry for me leaving her alone while I ran for help.

I was so worried that I should have done something.

And then...

...just like that...

...all the worry left me and I felt great relief for her.

She was finally free.

Free of pain. Free of being trapped in a body that no longer worked. Free of suffering.

But I’ve always wondered.

She was unresponsive. How did she know it was the last chapter?

Why did she wait?

Was it just a coincidence?

I think of the lyrics to the song I was singing to her right before she died...”If you miss the train I’m on, you will know that I am gone, you can hear the whistle blow 100 miles...”

And somehow, in the deepest part of my heart, I think she was waiting. Waiting to hear the end of the story...waiting to catch her train.


I'd like to do a little giveaway in honor of my sister.

I will be giving away two (2) $25.00 e-gift certificates to Barnes and Noble so that you can get your own copy of Pillars of the Earth...or whatever book your heart desires.

You can enter twice...once on yesterdays part one and once today by leaving a comment here telling me if you have a memory of a loved one associated with a specific book.

I will use Random ORG on Saturday morning to post both winners. Winners will have 48 hours to send me their e-mail addresses. If you don't respond, I'll select a new winner(s) on Monday, March 26.

A memory, a giveaway...and a two part story

I am still astonished that she knew.

How did she?

She had been unresponsive for almost a week. Her visions were all turned inward and although emotions would show on her face occasionally, for the most part she was unresponsive with only shallow breathing and an eyelid twitch now and again to show she was still alive.

I shared her eulogy with you before, on previous anniversaries...but today, on this fourth Anniversary of my sister’s death, I want to share the story of the event with you.

Because I still find much of odd...

Because I still find much of it humorous...

..and because I think I am finally ready to tell the story.

Understand that this is my story. I may not have all the medical parts of it correct...I’m not a nurse or a doctor. Just a sister.

The thing is, though, that I was with her when she died. Alone. And she died within minutes of my turning the last page of an epic book my husband had given me to read when my sister’s death vigil began.

My sister suffered from something similar to Lou Gehrig’s disease from her teenage years until her death at the age of forty. She was quite a bit younger than me and although we loved each other and shared a common love of rock ‘n’ roll and crafts we had never really been ‘sister friends’.

As her disease progressed, my parents finally made the difficult decision to place her in a full-time, residential care home.

While she still had coherent speech, she voiced her displeasure loudly and often, but as her disease progressed her vocalization became less and she expressed her displeasure by a disgusted roll of lips or eyes.

In the years prior to her death it seemed that our family was ruled by her health. My memories interweave every holiday and occasion as considered to be ‘her last’, and sadness was always entwined with the joy of celebration.

She fooled everyone, though, and continued for many years...slowly degenerating until it finally came to the ‘last’ last.

Her organs began shutting down.

Hospice and doctors and nurses agreed that she had just a short time to live. Possibly just hours.

Everyone gathered in the hall at the nursing home and wept and lamented and said goodbye and spent final moments with her.

The only problem with that scenario was that she wasn’t willing or ready to go yet. She made it through the night.

In the morning, hospice and doctors and nurses agreed, again, that it would just be hours, but it wasn’t. She made it through the day and the night again.

So our parents set up a schedule so that someone would be with her around the clock.

My husband had just finished reading Pillars of the Earth by Ken Follett. He handed it to me as ‘reading’ material as I headed out the door for my first scheduled vigil.
I dismissively tossed it onto the front seat and left it in the car.


Settling into the uncomfortable chair beside my sister’s bed, I found that time passes slowly when you are talking to someone who can’t respond. I brushed her hair, held some violets under her nose that I had picked from my garden, read her some poetry, opened the window, sang to her, put lotion on her hands and arms, and attempted to watch daytime TV.

After all that activity I was astonished to see that only an hour had gone by.

Remembering the book on the front seat, I told my sister I was going to be gone for a minute and then I sprinted to my car. Okay. Technically, I’m not much of a sprinter but I hurried as quickly as my old, fat body could go and returned to chair at her bedside.


I opened the first page of the book, certain that it would offer no distraction, but I was soon swept into the world of civil war, famine and religious strife. I wiggled unsuccessfully around in the chair hoping to find a comfortable spot and finally ending up leaning at an angle toward my sister’s bed so that I could keep a hand on her forearm while I held the massive book in my lap.

I shared passages with her. I talked to her about what I was reading. I talked impatiently to the nurses as they came in to check her...how dare they interrupt our reading. I was transported and I used all my powers of communication to take my sister along on the journey to the past with me.

When my Dad showed up at the room to take over, I was shocked to see that three hours had passed. I was dismayed to find I could barely stand up after pretzling beside her beside for so long.

I put the book into the bottom drawer of my sister’s dresser. I told her I would be back later and we would read some more.

I will finish this story tomorrow, Tuesday March 20.


I'd like to do a little giveaway in honor of my sister.

I will be giving away two (2) $25.00 e-gift certificates to Barnes and Noble so that you can get your own copy of Pillars of the Earth...or whatever book your heart desires.

You can enter twice...once today and once tomorrow by leaving a comment here telling me if you have a memory of a loved one associated with a specific book.

I will use Random ORG on Saturday morning to post both winners. Winners will have 48 hours to send me their e-mail addresses. If you don't respond, I'll select a new winner(s) on Monday, March 25th.

You can't change the past...

No matter how much your mind wants to.

Heaven knows, we try, but sometimes an event occurs that shakes you to your shoes anyway…

And it is so bad…so very bad that you must lay it to rest as a secret of your heart.

You bury it deep and cover it with shovelsful of denial and boulders of self-protection.

You pretend really, really hard that you have no memories of it.

But sometimes in the most vulnerable hours when you are suspended between sleep and wakefulness you find yourself giving voice to the secret.

When the whispered words fill the safe silence of your bedroom, the emotions pour over you with such intensity that they bruise you to your very soul.

You gasp in astonishment that the pain of so many years ago can feel so new.

But you carefully tuck the emotions away again.

For these things are too ugly to speak of. Too ugly to be believed.

We struggle alone. And in silence.

And in our silence we own the ugliness.

Even if we didn’t cause it. Didn’t ask for it to happen.

And we say, “OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod…why?why?why?why did this happen to me?OhGodOhGod…”

But we say it in quietly.

We are, after all, survivors.

We know how to keep a stiff upper lip…

…because…

…so many have it so much worse than we do.

Who are we to cry for ourselves when the world today needs all our tears?
…

…

William Shakespeare said, “Give sorrow words; the grief that does not speak knits up the o-er wrought heart and bids it break.”

Keep your secrets at your peril.

Even if you don’t voice them to the world… voice them to yourself.

Stand in your shower and scream them out.

Blast the volume in your car and let the ugliness pour out.

Then roll down the windows so the poison can escape.

And forgive yourself.

And while we can never regain our innocence and trust of the world…

…we can regain a tiny bit of what was lost…

…a tiny bit of who we were before the secret began.

Keep your secrets at the peril of your heart, my friends.

Wishing you peace and self forgiveness on the dawn of the New Year.

Sometimes life seems defined by childhood games...

Have you ever noticed this?

You're kind of just sitting in a circle feeling kinda/sorta content and kinda/sorta safe and kinda/sorta minding your own business...

And all the sudden some big kid comes along and starts pounding you on the head...

You smile and don't act too chicken, but you're a little bit worried and then...

Duck!

You cringe but you escape.

DUCK!

Escape again.

DUCK!!!!!

You exhale half way and then suddenly the big kid hits you really hard in the head and screams...

GOOSE!


All the other kids yell and cheer.

You're paralyzed for a moment, but somehow you get to your feet and start racing around the circle with the big kid chasing after you!

You run and you run and you run!

And finally you get back to your place but you're exhausted and winded and really, really want a chocolate chip cookie for comfort.

But you can't have a chocolate chip cookie because you're stuck in the silly game of 'Duck, Duck Goose'!

You catch your breath.

Your heart is pounding.

You start to relax and suddenly...

DUCK!!!

It all starts again.

Seriously.

You've noticed this right?

And used this exact same analogy for your own life.

Right?

And wondered why it is that the big kid always has to come around and GOOSE! you, when all you're ever really trying to do is Duck!.

...

...

You're welcome.

I know how much you needed to be able to refer to your life as a 'Duck, Duck, Goose!' game right now.

And I know you're sad to be done reading this because it was so deep and meaningful and insightful and all.

But don't despair.

I have plans for future posts to include such troubling and obscure subjects as:

The Musical Chairs syndrome of being an Adult

Life Shadow Tag for Dummies

...and possibly the most rivetting of all:

How to Hide when troubles are Seeking.

...

Hmmm???? What's that?

How do you unfollow my blog? Hmmmm. I have no idea. Really.

Why do you ask?

...

...

Sigh...

PS. If you don't know the game 'Duck, Duck, Goose!' please feel free to translate this entire post into 'Have a Nice Day!'

In late spring the box would arrive.

Its small size would give no indication of what was inside. It held a potential rainbow of autumn colored blossoms and school clothes for my three small children.

Inside the thick, protective cardboard was my yearly order for mum slips. Tiny little sprigs of plants that held the promise of apricot bronze, crimson red, and harvest gold blossoms. In the dark days of late winter I would have pored over the catalogs for hours. I never knew how I managed to place an order for only 200 tiny plants from the romantic selection of offerings with names like Autumn Fire, Yellow Moon, Burnt Copper and Rosy Glow. The agony of these decisions resulted in page after page of crossed out or exclamation-pointed candidates. Finally, finally I would narrow the list down until the 20 ultimate choices were made. 10 slips of 20 varieties. 200 plants. Into the mail the order would go and while I waited I would harvest tiny, tender offerings of asparagus and peas and lettuce and watch the buds start to swell on the apple trees. The loamy black soil in the large gardens would be plowed and rototilled.

And I would wait.

Until finally the box would arrive. I would drag it up onto the warmth of the covered porch and cut it open carefully and anxiously. Tenderly I would touch the little shoots that would become school clothes and shoes and new winter coats and mittens.

The smell of dirt and promise and the fragrance of chrysanthemum would fill the small porch and I would anxiously sort the small bundles of slips according to a pencilled planting grid I’d made based on height and diameter.

And then I would be ready to begin. The beat-up old wheelbarrow would be rescued from the tall weeds behind the garage. It held the box perfectly and I would wheel it to the smoke house where I stored my garden tools. Opening the door of that small stone structure would always surprise me with the fragrance of decades of cured bacon and ham. The tantalizing smell was always a distraction to the task at hand, but I did my best to ignore it. Kids were at school and the day didn’t hold enough time for a second breakfast break. Into an old metal bucket I would throw my favorite garden trowel, a yardstick from some defunct hardware store, and a scratchy ball of twine. A beat-up hammer, paint covered scissors and rough wooden stakes went into the bucket next joined finally by an old chipped white enamelware saucepan. Reluctantly I would close the smokehouse door and not allow myself to imagine the stories contained in the hand-hewn beams of the old building. Today was planting day. Daydreaming was not allowed.


The bucket would join the box in the wheelbarrow and in the gentle, late spring sunshine I would trundle my treasures down the hill to the little field where I planted my mums each year. On a small slope, surrounded by ancient lilac bushes on one side and gnarled apple trees on the other was where the real work would begin.

At the bottom of the small slope was a fresh-water spring. In planting and in drought, I carried buckets from that bubbling water source to my thirsty plants. When I became tired from the carrying, I drank my fill from the blue and white speckled metal mug always left hanging on a stubby branch of one of the apple trees. The water was so clear and pure it took my breath away.

Dumping out my little pile of tools onto the tender emerald grass, I would grab the now empty bucket and fill it at the spring. The water was so cold that the splash of it on my jeans and tennis shoes always made me gasp. The heavy bucket would be placed at the edge of the carefully worked garden.

Next, I would hammer splintery wooden stakes into the end of each row…forty stakes...twenty rows…each measured out on the yardstick. The stakes would sink easily into the cultivated soil. The ball of twine would arc through the air as I threw it from stake to stake. Tie, tighten, cut, toss. Tie, tighten, cut, toss. Finally the little mum field would be finished...stripes of twine marking out little territories for each variety of plant.

I would scrounge the crumbled up planting diagram from my pocket and anchor it to the grass with a rock. My penciled marks would be a bit smudged and hard to decipher, but finally I would triumpantly translate them. Reading the small white tags on each bundle of tiny sprouts, I would finally have them sorted and placed at the end of each row. My hands would scoop a bit of soft soil over the roots to keep them from drying out, and then I would begin digging the holes. When the tenth hole was dug in each row, I would fill the little chipped up saucepan from the larger bucket of water and then pour water into each indentation.

When the water finally drained away, I would pour more water in and wait for it to dissipate a second time. My Grandmother taught me to plant like this, and to this day I always follow her careful instructions.

Finally, all the little mum slips would be planted in the damp holes with the dirt gently gathered and tamped around each small stem. Plant, gather, tamp…plant, gather, tamp. When the row was completely done, each plant would receive another drink poured gently over the soil.

The afternoon would slip away... hauling water, digging holes, planting and tamping. Back muscles would grow sore, jeans would become wet and muddy until finally, finally the 200th mum was planted.

I would staighten up wearily to admire my little newly planted field.


I knew that a summer of weeding and mulching, pinching buds and carrying water stretched ahead of me.

I recognized quite clearly that an autumn of digging and potting and hanging my little hand-lettered sign at the end of the driveway – Mums for Sale – was still to come. And beyond that, taking all the hard earned money to replace clothes worn out and outgrown and to fill the very long list of needed school supplies.


But for that day, looking at my handiwork, I was content.

Sometimes the world today does not feel nearly as content to me.

Things often seem very difficult for so many. My heart hurts to see families struggle to feed and clothe their children…people fight to keep a roof over their head and to hang onto hope as they lose their jobs and their sense of security.

How lucky I was to raise my children in a time and place when planting mums was the answer to some of my financial prayers.

How fortunate I was that the glowing gifts of autumn’s bounty helped me to provide for my children.

I don’t know if there is still a place in the world today for little hand lettered signs with ‘Mums for Sale’ written on them.

I hope there is.

Truly. Wish. Upon. An. Autumn. Star. Hope.

And if my wish comes true and I see one, I will stop and rejoice. And buy a trunkful of glowing chrysanthemums.

And I will send one to you so you can feel the hope, too.