A Christmas Gift

Christmas... What a beautiful word. It brings to mind mistletoe and tinsel, sparkling lights and nativity scenes... like the one my mom gave me on Ken and my first Christmas together. I'd seen the nativity set in a Home Interiors catalog, and oh, how I coveted those beautiful figures!

I didn't think I would ever own them, however. Like for many newly married couples, money was tight... but Mom somehow knew how much I loved the Greatest Stories Ever Told figures I'd been collecting, and this set was the crown jewel of the collection. When I opened the gift at our family's Christmas celebration... I cried.

Sixteen years later, as I set the figures into our china closet (they're far to precious to me to risk displaying them out in the open with a new kitten in the house and three rambunctious dogs), I cried again.

Christmas is about so many things. First and foremost, it's about Family. The first Family was broken when Eve reached up, plucking a fruit that would lead to destruction. (And how many families have been destroyed since then, when Satan whispered a lie and a hand reached out to take a "forbidden fruit"?)
Then a new Family told the next part of the story, when a humble babe was born in Bethlehem, some 2000 plus years ago, and hope once again shone in the world.

Friends are part of the story as well. Wise men and shepherds came to celebrate the birth, bringing gifts to the new family and sharing in their joy. Connections happened. I wonder what those wise men and those shepherds talked about, as they stood around that manger. Can't you imagine the conversation?
Shepherd: "Well. He's a wrinkly little thing, isn't he?"
Wise man: "I sure hope you read your star charts right! We better not have traveled all this way and taken a wrong turn at Nazareth!"

It is friends I want to write about just now. Friends who have come along side in my most difficult times, friends who know me better than anyone else. Friends who have laughed together, and cried together. Friends who've shared their troubles, their joys, and their hearts.

Over this past week leading up to Christmas, several packages and letters have arrived in the mail, gifts from friends who live far away. I sent out some packages of my own, praying they'd find their way to their destinations on time, smiling as I thought of the recipients. I still have letters to write, because that is how I do Christmas... with a lick and a promise, and rarely on time.

One of the things I enjoy most about Christmas is choosing those gifts. They are never expensive or elaborate, but the time I spend choosing them, and in some cases designing or creating them, is like time spent with the friends who will receive them. And when I receive a package, as I did today, I know the friend who put it together has done the same thing... and for a moment, we have shared time together, even if we have never met in person.

The time leading up to Christmas has been difficult for me this year, for several reasons, but when I come online and see my instant-messenger flashing, or the phone rings and a familiar number shows up on the display, my heart is soothed and I smile. When a package or letter arrives, when I open a card, I am blessed. In a world filled with the rush of Christmas, with children begging for Iphones and spouses exchanging diamonds and cars... I open a box with a few simple gifts tucked inside, and the tears come, because I am so blessed.

This entry is for my friends, for my family, for the ones who are loving me through every step of the way. I couldn't do it without you. May God bless and keep you during this most blessed, beautiful and peaceful Christmas Season, and all through the year.

Christmas is tomorrow. What are you hoping to find under your tree?

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary
~*~*~

"For unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given: and the government shall be upon his shoulder: and his name shall be called Wonderful, Counsellor, The mighty God, The everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace."

Isaiah 9:6

"¹ In those days Caesar Augustus issued a decree that a census should be taken of the entire Roman world. ² (This was the first census that took place while^[a] Quirinius was governor of Syria.) ³ And everyone went to their own town to register.

⁴ So Joseph also went up from the town of Nazareth in Galilee to Judea, to Bethlehem the town of David, because he belonged to the house and line of David. ⁵ He went there to register with Mary, who was pledged to be married to him and was expecting a child. ⁶ While they were there, the time came for the baby to be born, ⁷ and she gave birth to her firstborn, a son. She wrapped him in cloths and placed him in a manger, because there was no guest room available for them.

⁸ And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. ⁹ An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. ¹⁰ But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. ¹¹ Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. ¹² This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.”

¹³ Suddenly a great company of the heavenly host appeared with the angel, praising God and saying,

¹⁴ “Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.”

¹⁵ When the angels had left them and gone into heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go to Bethlehem and see this thing that has happened, which the Lord has told us about.”

¹⁶ So they hurried off and found Mary and Joseph, and the baby, who was lying in the manger. ¹⁷ When they had seen him, they spread the word concerning what had been told them about this child, ¹⁸ and all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them. ¹⁹ But Mary treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart. ²⁰ The shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things they had heard and seen, which were just as they had been told."

Luke 2: 1-20

Giving thanks in the rain

Kame and I have a new friend. Her name is CreamsiclePumpkinPiePancakes. Pumpkin for short.

Kame isn't sure what to make of this orange-and-white tornado who has invaded his space. She climbs on his enclosure, watching as he eats, reaches through the panels to swat at him, and generally makes a nuisance of herself. The poor turtle can't even enjoy his bathing pool. She watches too cannily as he climbs up to the end, slides down his plastic ramp into the water, and climbs up to bask on the rocks. Although Pumpkin weighs little more than Kame himself, she makes him nervous and uncomfortable. He and I are a lot alike. Neither of us are fond of change.

Changes, however, are a part of life.

"Without change, there would be no butterflies."

It's the day before Thanksgiving as I write this. Ken got up this morning, fixed me breakfast, and went off to work... We spent a quiet morning together, talking about the plans for the holiday, like normal people do. We were civil and affectionate, carefully acting like everything wasn't falling apart. Like we're not quietly dismantling everything we've spent sixteen years building. Like we're not planning to divorce. Someone looking at our quiet little scene would've thought we were just another happily married couple... And once upon a time, we were.

I used to love holidays... These quiet mornings when I felt closest to my husband. When we spent time planning for spending time with the family, looking forward to relaxing and laughing together, good food and good times...
Those things are not going to go away when things change for us, but there is a sense of profound loss all the same. The holidays will still be a time of love and laughter and smiles. I believe that on my good days. But with the change looming large in front of us, moving quietly through the undercurrents of our family like a fault opening up under a neighborhood, preparing to collapse and swallow it whole... Change does not look to me like a positive thing.

I know it will be. I know, when little resentments rise up, and are quieted by knowing this state of flux is temporary, when I look toward a future in which we can be friends, and we can each live our lives without expectations, without suspicion and resentment and hurt, I know that the changes are necessary and good for our family. I know our kids will understand, one day. I know that this will get better, that it will be better.

It's raining out today. It's cold and wet and threatening to turn into sleet, sticking to the road and making everything treacherous. Soon there will be snow falling, thick and heavy and cold. I know these things must come, as they do in their season. I know also that Spring will come, in its time. With the rain falling cold and slick outside, the sun is only behind the clouds, and it will return to warm us again.

I know that the changes coming will be difficult. I know there will be tears raining, hurt feelings and cold... I know the kids won't understand, at least not at first. I know there will be pain, and I dread it. If I could live forever in this limbo, this disconnect between what is real and what they believe, and keep them happily cocooned forever, I would. I would sacrifice my own soul, bleed out a drop at a time, anything, to spare them the pain that change will bring...

But I know that butterflies left in a cocoon wither and die. I know that they must break free, they must spread their wings, they must fly. Even the struggle is a necessary part of the butterfly's emerging. If the cocoon is cut open, and they are freed too soon, the insect will perish. The fight to escape the cocoon forces the fluids in the creature's body into its wings, expanding and growing them, stretching them out to dry in the sun... until it is ready to relinquish the cocoon, and fly.

Knowing all this... I will do all I can to make this transition easier for them. I will forgive and heal and allow myself to maintain the love I had for the man who is their father. I will fight back against bitterness and anger. I will not justify wrongs, but neither will I carry the weight of grudges. For their sake, I will do what I can to be kind, to be strong, to be faithful to my God and my family, even when I feel like throwing myself down and having a colossal tantrum at the unfairness of it all. I will choose to give thanks, even now, in the rain, and I will remember the words of a very wise Sensei:

"Change is good."

~Hamato Splinter

~*~*~

Falling Away

Friends....

I wrote this post about six weeks ago. I chose, at that time, not to put it up, because my children are not aware of the decision their father and I had made.

Six weeks later, I find myself very confused. A series of events has led Ken to change his mind... And has left me standing, once again, at a crossroads.

Going back is not an option. Turning away from the path, shrugging and saying "Oh, ok, so we decided not to go this way..."

It leaves too many questions unresolved, too many steps untaken. Yet... Does moving forward mean biting the bit and running headlong into an uncertain future? I don't think so. I believe we still have a choice... Paths are still laid out before us... and we must still decide. We have no choice but to move forward... but in what direction? I don't know yet.

I am posting this because... it feels dishonest not to, and holding it back this long has caused me nothing but anxiety, self doubt and pain.

*~*~*

In the fall, the warm days can seem as if the chill will never come.

The leaves know better, though. They start to turn colors long before the first icy frost touches their edges, leaving a misty white lace and changing the landscape from the rich, vibrant greens of summer to the quieter, more sedate browns and golds of fall.

Fall brings change.

Death, decay, sleep, hibernation... the changes Fall brings can seem like an ending. For much of nature, it is an ending, the end of a life cycle for many insects and even animals, the end of a season. The leaves will die and fall away, tumbling to the ground in one grand leap of faith, dancing on the autumn breeze, free of their tether for the first... and last, time. It is an explosion of beauty and color and defiance, because the leaves know. They know winter is coming with its heavy snow. They know they are soon to be buried under the weight of frozen beauty. They know the trees will groan in their sleep as the snow lays heavy on their branches. They know, and so they dance one last time.

Knowing winter is upon them, they choose to dance.

When this journey began, this season of my life, I believed it could last. We grew through the spring, held on through the early storms, and grew rich and green in summer. There was rain, there was wind, there was sun... and we held on through it all. We grew together, and I was certain our tether would never be broken. I was sure we would grow old and brown together, there on our tree.

I was wrong.

Yesterday, Ken told me that he loves me, he respects me, but he can't be married any more. What does that mean? Can't be married anymore? You're married one moment, and then you're just... not? Does it really mean that marriage has become so stifling that he just has to break free, has to run, has to find a new way of living before he suffocates under the weight of frozen beauty? Or does it mean that the season has been spent, that our time together is just... over? The metaphor can only carry so far. Lives are meant to be shared, through many seasons, not just one, or a few. And I am no innocent. Marriage is a "we". Not a "me" and a "you". Sometime, some where, things went wrong. There wasn't enough. There was too much. The sap that nourished us has run dry and the leaves have changed color... and, it seems, the time has come to let go.

I wish I understood. I'm trying.

There is still much to decide, discussions that must take place, a life that must be divided once again into two. Grief, fear, anger... it all threatens to overwhelm me. The thought of my kids, who don't even know yet (and are the reason I can not publish this entry until things are more settled), is breaking me. Their tree is still young and green and their leaves are not ready to fall. It is their parents who have made the mistakes, not them, and we will shield them as much as we can, but I know winter will come.

I wish things were different. I wish we could have worked this out. I wish he hadn't changed his mind. I wish he still loved me. I wish... but the colors have changed, and autumn has come... and so I will let go...

And I will dance.

~*~*~

Perspective

My pictures of Kame don't always come out in perfect focus. He moves, or the camera jiggles, or the lighting simply isn't right, and sometimes the picture is just a little... off.

Did you know that a turtle whose shell is severely damaged will probably not survive? Shell cracks are as serious an injury to a turtle as a broken neck or back are to us.

Kame sports several small puncture wounds on either side of his shell. The veterinarian was alarmed when he first discovered them, but upon further examination decided he'd probably been living with them for a long time. The wounds are old, and while disturbing, are not hindering Kame's life. The vet speculated that a dog or coyote may have tried to make a meal of my little friend, and rather than finding a soft creamy center, the animal discovered it had bitten off more than it could chew.

Life is like that sometimes. When we're young, we think there's nothing we can't handle. We think we can take on the world, we'll never make a mistake or a wrong turn. We think we understand how things work... and sometimes we try to make something ours that is out of our reach, even though it's right in front of us. A slow-moving turtle must have looked like an easy target for a young coyote... Until he got a mouthful of that shell.

Experience is a harsh teacher, but it is an honest one. As painful as learning can be, I am grateful for the lessons I'm learning each day. The coyote learned that turtles are not tasty treats. I may not know yet, where all this learning is leading me, but I do know one thing: Life has only one direction, and I can only choose to stand still... or to keep going on. The only way to reach the top of a mountain is to climb... and so I will.

*~*~*

You are responsible for your life.
You can't keep blaming somebody else for your dysfunction.
Life is really about moving on.
- Oprah Winfrey

Life is like riding a bicycle. To keep your balance you must keep moving.
- Albert Einstein

Counting Down: 10 Things I Learned from Shirley, Part II

If you missed the first part of this post, Part I can be found here.

I love the pet-loving community. A few weeks ago, I mentioned on Facebook that Kame's nails were getting too long, and I might have to resort to a vet visit to have them trimmed.

A fellow animal lover commented that her friend's daughter had worked with turtles and might be able to assist me... A few e-mails, phone calls and private messages later, a young lady came to my door with her mom and her bag of turtle-trimming equipment.

Kame was not impressed with his first manicure. He fussed and squirmed and protested this imposition on his dignity, but his nails are now a bit shorter and I'm certain he's more comfortable. (and no, in spite of several suggestions, we did NOT add color to the poor boy's nails) He's somewhat over the trauma this morning. He finally dug his way out from his mulch-covered hiding spot and even ate a bit of breakfast. (Lexi, you were right, he does like strawberries!)

Kame is an old soul. He rarely gets flustered or truly upset by much of anything that happens. He takes life as it comes, one slow step at a time, keeping alert for change, but facing it unafraid. I often think humans could learn a lot from turtles, from their tenacity, determination and calm, deliberate approach to life.

In a blog a few weeks ago, I mentioned a dear lady, Shirley Brinkerhoff, who I was blessed to meet at the Montrose Christian Writer's Conference. While Kame is an old soul... Shirley was eternally young. I rarely saw her without her favorite accessory: a smile. She seemed to be lit up from the inside with an unquenchable joy. In the few, too-short years I knew her, I learned so much... but for now, I will list the remaining five of the "top ten". Perhaps in future blogs I may share more, because the only way to keep a candle's flame burning is to pass it on.

Now, without further ado, here is Part II of what I learned from knowing Shirley:

5) God has not brought tragedy into your life for the benefit of others.
I remember the conversation so clearly, as if she is right here with me... Discussing personal tragedy, Shirley looked at me, for once unsmiling, and explained, He is in the business of using broken things, however, he does not break them for His use. "God does not allow tragedy so he can use your story."

Writers make use of every experience. We are always telling and shaping stories... but God is in the business of shaping lives. Thanks for the perspective, Shirley. It changed my paradigm, and my life.

4) Seek out the good in others. Shirley was a master at seeing people in their best light, at looking for Jesus in the sea of faces, and finding Him in each one.

3) Respect others' stories. Don't try to interpret what God is saying to and through them... He can speak for Himself.
This talent goes along with listening. Shirley's example and wisdom came as often in silence as it did with words.

2) Cut three. This... was a running joke in our little writer's group. She once asked us to cut three words from each sentence of our manuscript pages, telling us that good editing means accepting that "sometimes good stuff ends up on the cutting room floor". In life, I've learned to "cut three" from my schedule. Trimming the less-significant tasks leaves so much more room for what's truly important.

1) And the number one thing I learned from Shirley... Fly with a good flock. A Duck alone is a sitting... target, for predators. Life is a group sport. Participate.

~*~*~

Ships that pass in the night, and speak each other in passing, only a signal shown, and a distant voice in the darkness; So on the ocean of life, we pass and speak one another, only a look and a voice, then darkness again and a silence.

-Longfellow

Perspectives

Once upon a time, Kame was homeless... By our standards. He lived wild, in the freedom that comes of having all of creation for a home. When I think of him... and all the others who live in the often harsh conditions of nature, I am filled with a mix of pity and envy. Freedom has dangers, but it is glorious. I live captive to all I own, and to my family and my marriage. I do not know, if I had a real choice, if my kids weren't so dependent on me at this vulnerable age, if I would choose freedom, or remain in captivity.

Last night, I took my kids to the roller rink. It was closed, even though the website had clearly stated hours. Turns out a private party had taken over the place for the evening. I drove away grumbling. I had four kids in the car and had planned on leaving them there while I went shopping for a few glorious child-free hours.

A mother is nothing without a back-up plan, so I had one of the teenagers with a smart-phone check movie times, and detoured to the theater instead. The change meant taking four kids with me to the grocery store (we had over an hour before the movie started), but I was able to drop them off and run the groceries home while they took in the show. I'd get my kid-free time after all.

Heading into the theater, I was approached by an older man. His beard was trimmed and his clothes clean, but an odor hung around him, stale and slightly sour. He approached, holding out his hands as if to prove himself unarmed, mumbling. When he drew closer, I could understand.

"Help a Vietnam vet get a chicken dinner, ma'am? I's hungry. Ain't ate for 2 days. I can get a chicken dinner over there, right behind ya, ma'am. Chicken dinner sure sounds good. I'm hungry, ma'am."

My first response... I am ashamed to admit... was fear. I didn't know what was wrong with him, what he would do. I was herding four kids into the theater, and my first thought was to defend them.

"Just a minute, hon, I've got to take my kids in to the movie," I replied, trying to control the shiver in my voice.

I hurried the kids inside, and lingered long enough to be sure they'd gone in to their show. I went back outside reluctantly, uncertain if he'd still be there, but he was, hopeful but keeping a respectful distance.

He saw me heading for my car, and called "Have a good evenin', ma'am," giving me a friendly wave.

I'm sure he's had many people simply hop in their car and drive away, ignoring his existence. For a brief moment, I considered it, but there was something in that friendly, sad little wave, that compelled me. I know what rejection feels like and I couldn't bear to inflict it upon someone who has grown so used to it he accepts it as his due.

"Wait a minute," I said, as if I'd planned all along to help him.

He came hesitantly but with a sort of repressed, shamed eagerness, still keeping his distance. He's learned this dance well. Never get too close, don't crowd people. It makes them uncomfortable. Always be ready to run. I remember, too well, living by those rules and my heart hurt for him.

I gave him the little cash I had, and a Twix bar I'd bought in a moment of weakness. Dieting has never been easy for me, and the allure of chocolate, caramel and cookies had proven too much for my weak will. When I'd stood in line at the grocery store, that Twix bar had whispered my name, alluring, calling, pulling me in like a lover to a secret tryst. Now, I handed it over without a second thought, at once ashamed that I'd been so greedy and thankful that I had something to share.

"Oh!" he exclaimed with a smile. "I like them! They're chocolatey. Thank you, ma'am."

And with that, he was gone.

I have no grand illusions that my clumsy kindness last night will make a lasting change in that man's life. I'm certain that I'm simply one more in a long line of soft hearted saps who've handed over a few dollars and supplied him with another evening's beer. I caught the sharp scent of alcohol when he stood close, and I know the statistics of alcoholism among the homeless as well as anyone. I'd like to hope he got that chicken dinner, but I have my doubts.

He did mention that his check would come "tomorrow" and he'd be able to buy food again. His running ramble seemed designed to reassure, to communicate that he's not that bad off.

"Stayin' at the motel, here," he assured me. "Check'll come tomorrow, my food stamps. Then I can eat. Money ran out though, and I ain't ate in two days. Chicken dinner sure sounds good."

Suddenly, my efforts at dieting seem... almost ridiculous. Want to be thin? Try not eating for two days. For over a month, I've been complaining bitterly over a $900 repair bill for my car. I have a car. And my family had the $900 to pay the bill. It was a bitter blow, but we managed.

On the way to the theater, I was mentally grumbling over the high-spirited hijinx of my kids and their friends. The day before yesterday, another friend's little niece was diagnosed with Leukemia. (And if you are moved to pray for this little angel, her name is Brianna.)

I'm not trying to pretend that we're lavish in our lifestyle, or that by enjoying the gifts God has graced us with- good mental and physical health, the ability to work and support ourselves, and our healthy children, that I am somehow sinning, or adding to the burden of my brother who asked for a few dollars to buy himself a chicken dinner.

The money I gave him was the last of my cash for the week, and I will have to make due with a quarter tank of gas until my next check comes. Somehow, my sacrifices seem miniscule, in the bigger picture. A Twix bar and a few dollars... they seemed so important to me, until I met him... And now, I will never forget a ragged old man whose eyes lit up, who really appreciated a candy bar and a few dollars to buy a chicken dinner... More than I did, until I gave them away.

"Oh, I like them! They're chocolatey!"

May you enjoy it in peace, my friend. You'll be in my prayers.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

~*~*~

There is a lot that happens around the world we cannot control. We cannot stop earthquakes, we cannot prevent droughts, and we cannot prevent all conflict, but when we know where the hungry, the homeless and the sick exist, then we can help.
Jan Schakowsky

"The King will reply, 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers of mine, you did for me.'
-Matthew 25:40
New International Version (©1984)

"Let's make a small room on the roof and put in it a bed and a table, a chair and a lamp for him. Then he can stay there whenever he comes to us."
2 Kings 4:10

Counting down to a memory: the 10 things I learned from knowing Shirley, part 1

Kame is always stretching, always climbing, always reaching to greater heights. It is, I think, how we grow. Staying still means atrophy. We can only continue to live by moving.

While Kame was in hibernation this winter, he nearly stopped growing, stopped changing. He slipped into a long period of quiet and rest, hardly moving except when I'd dig him out of his mulch to weigh him and dip him in his pan for a drink, a process he resented. He made his displeasure known with hisses and tucking himself into his shell...

Much the same way I wanted to tuck myself up in a shell and hide over these past two years. Life, however, has a way of moving on and we must grow... or atrophy.

Three summers ago, I lost a dear friend. I've mentioned her here before. Shirley was more than a friend to me, she was a mentor, someone I looked up to, and sometimes someone I went to for guidance and advice. She was an incredible lady, and I was blessed to know her.

Remembering her, however, without learning and growing from what she offered through her life and the work she did as a teacher would do her memory a disservice. Good people are remembered fondly. Great people leave a legacy. Shirley was one of the greats... and so, Saturday Night Live style, I'd like to share the ten most important things I learned from knowing her. I learned many more things, of course, but while I was at Montrose last week, sitting in one of the rockers on the porch, and contemplating our time together, these are the first that bubbled to the surface.

This is the top ten things I learned from knowing Shirley, part one:

10) Always smile. Your smile is what people will remember when you're gone, so use it often, so that it is etched clearly in their memory.

9) When something's funny, laugh. Laugh until your belly hurts, until tears are running down your face, until you can't breathe. Laugh with your friends, and share their joy.

8) Listen. Really listen. Your story isn't nearly as important for others to hear as theirs is for them to tell. Often, if someone's telling you their story, it's because they need to tell it to themselves, to begin to understand it. Listening can be the most beautiful gift you can share with another human being.
(Shirley was an expert listener, a skill for which I will always be grateful.)

7) Be transparent. When the time is appropriate, share the parts of your story you own, the parts you've already come to understanding and peace with, the parts that can uplift and heal someone else. Don't try to make it pretty. People need honesty, need to know they're not the only ones who've been where they are.

6) Take care of yourself and know your limits. Rest when you need to rest. Take time away to pray and to be alone with God. Even Jesus withdrew from the crowds sometimes, to rest and meditate.

That's it for today, folks. I'll give you the top five in the next post. For now, I have other work to do, and miles to go before I sleep.

Safe travels.
Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

~*~*~

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

"Stopping by woods on a snowy evening"
-Robert Frost

New horizons

It seems, lately, as if all I've written about has been sadness and reflection. I've been in that place of going along, watching the ground in front of my feet, for so long, I haven't looked up in quite a while.... And there are so many beautiful things to see.

This week, Kame is at home with a friend coming in to be sure his dish is always filled with fresh greens and berries and a bit of egg, all his favorite foods. I am on our yearly camping trip with the family, taking a moment to breathe... and a moment to look back upon where we've been... and forward to where we are going.

The healing process, it seems, is a slow one. Each time I feel as if I've come to a place where a certain name will never cross my mind again, something reminds me and takes me back to that earth-shattering phone call, and the sick, lost feeling of dreaming you're falling and never hitting the bottom. I remember the betrayal, and I am angry all over again.

Those moments are painful for my husband as well. Just when he thinks we've gotten past all that, when he thinks it might be safe to move forward, to grasp the happiness we once shared, I turn on him. Oh, I don't shout or rant or bring it up and pick a fight... It can be something as little as a look, a turning away, a frown, but he knows, almost always, what's in my mind. I hate the flash of regret for what should not have been. I hate the hurt and what I fear will soon turn to resentment if we cannot resolve this rift between us.

I hate knowing my churned up emotions are the cause, when the scab is torn off yet again and we are left to bleed, each in our own ways. Regardless of who inflicted the wound in the first place, we must work together to heal it. If trust can't be rebuilt in a marriage, what will be left? I fear some days that we will end as very good friends... but nothing more. When I think of what is at stake... I can not stomach the thought.


My fears, though, are fading, slowly, painfully. This week, we've been out kayaking...
























And having fun together...


And hanging around the campfire, watching bats flit overhead. (by the way, we got the funky colors by tossing in a couple packets of stuff they sell at the camp store.)


Yet, I found myself acting out of jealousy and insecurity, pushing myself too hard physically to keep up with the activities my family wanted to engage in, pushing myself emotionally to be "upbeat" and social, unconsciously pushing my husband away and withdrawing when I felt he wasn't paying enough attention to me. In short, I found myself sabotaging what I needed most: A few days of simple interaction with my family.

For several months now, I have been working long hours, trying to establish myself as a freelance writer and editor. I've been throwing myself into this job... and trying at the same time to avoid neglecting my family and friends. I've been trying to succeed without losing that vital part of myself that makes me who I am. It hasn't been easy. There has been frustration and resentment on all sides as my family adjusts to Mom working. I had hoped this week away would help re-cement my commitment to my family; to show them that I am still available to them, and have not been swallowed up in chasing my long-held dream of finishing college and writing full time.

The extra work has made my life more stressful than before, and, I'm learning, makes it more difficult to stay connected, to stay in the moment, to work at a marriage that still needs attention and nurturing if it is to survive.

This week away has taught me that if we are to rebuild what is broken, we will have to recommit every single day, to remember what it is, exactly, that we're fighting for. We will need to go through these moments, the happy and the painful ones, and we will have to learn to set aside our day to day rush sometimes, and just be.

There is hope. It burns bright, just beyond the bend. All we can do is keep walking, keep striving, keep working together every single day. It's the only way to win the quest, to live the adventure, to find our own happy ending.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

~*~*~

"I love you because you
Are helping me to make
Of the lumber of my life
Not a tavern
But a temple;
Out of the works
Of my every day
Not a reproach
But a song."

-Roy Croft

“Do you want me to tell you something really subversive? Love is everything it's cracked up to be. That's why people are so cynical about it. It really is worth fighting for, being brave for, risking everything for. And the trouble is, if you don't risk anything, you risk even more.”

-Erica Jong

Going on

Kame seems determined to explore the wider world beyond his enclosure. He's not content with the confines, knowing there is more, somewhere, if he could just get free.

I wonder, sometimes, just what it is he's searching for, if he's looking for something he remembers deep in the recesses of his turtle brain. I wonder if he recalls that there's green grass and juicy slugs outdoors, where I've taken him on warm summer days, and he's trying to get back to that turtle paradise. I wonder if even he really knows what it is he's searching for.

Some days I find his antics amusing... and others, I know exactly how he feels.

As much as Kame enjoys his little excursions, either in the yard or just around my office, he's always grateful to return to his home. We have a lot in common, he and I. Most of the time, like me, I think he's happiest in his safe, familiar surroundings.

Still, all of us, now and then, need an adventure. All of us need a chance to get outside ourselves and see what lies beyond our door step. All of us need a chance to explore... all of us need a chance to grow. I think we all have that need to see what's beyond our own front doors.

This morning I wrote an note to a friend who I am no longer in contact with. I wrote it, read it over, and decided not to send it... because the person has moved on and there is no point in going back over paths already traveled. Re-reading, I realized I really had nothing to say, because what I'm searching for isn't in the past. To find where I'm going, the only way to travel is forward.

Life is like that sometimes. Things change. People grow... and sometimes they leave. Sometimes it's painful... Sometimes it feels as if you weren't ready to move on.

In three week's time, I will be returning to Montrose Christian Writer's Conference in Montrose, PA. It is a glorious week of writing, laughter, fellowship and learning, a week of recharging, of getting in touch with myself as a writer, a week of networking, of renewing old friendships and building new ones.

It is also a week full of memories...
My friend and mentor Shirley Brinkerhoff was an amazing woman. She left her mark on my heart, as she did, I think, on all who were privileged to know her. Her legacy lives on in a scholarship fund, and in a beautiful painting by another friend that hangs in the classroom she taught in.

Since her passing two years ago, I haven't been able to bring myself to take classes taught in that room. I may never be able to sit around the table again without hearing her laughter and seeing the sparkle of mischief in her eyes. She was contagious, and we never got through a class without fits of giggles.

Montrose is sacred ground for me. It was a life-changing experience, attending that first year, and I never come away the same as when I arrived. Every year there is something new to learn, something new to take away. These past few years, with so much turmoil in my life, it has been my sanctuary.

Last year, I didn't even attend the classes... I was emotionally injured, and in a good deal of pain last year when I went to Montrose. I was worried about things at home, I was confused and lost and sick at heart. Mostly I sat out on the porch, holding a friend's baby, and remembering happier times. I also went kayaking. It was, perhaps, not what conference is meant to be... but for me, it was good. It was healing. It was what I needed during a very dark and confusing time.

This year, I go back, changed again. I've had new experiences this year. I have new things to share... I hope I will make new connections and learn new concepts and ideas that will strengthen my writing. I am going this year, determined to attend classes and make connections and soak in all the professional wisdom available. I am less in need of the healing warmth, but no less grateful that it is there to embrace my heart.

This year, I am stronger. I have begun to heal. I will always, perhaps grieve for the past, but I have come far enough to be able to look toward a brighter future. I will go and sit in Shirley's room... it will always be Shirley's room to me... and I will remember her, hear her laughter, and smile.

Then, I will get up and go out into the conference and embrace and absorb everything God has in store for me this year.

"In three words, I can sum up everything I've learned about life: It goes on."
-Robert Frost.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

~*~*~
"The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: This is the morning"
And as he spoke, He no longer looked to them like a lion; but the things that began to happen after that were so great and beautiful that I cannot write them. And for us this is the end of all the stories, and we can most truly say that they all lived happily ever after. But for them it was only the beginning of the real story. All their life in this world and all their adventures in Narnia had only been the cover and the title page: now at last they were beginning Chapter One of the Great Story, which no one on earth has read: which goes on forever; in which every chapter is better than the one before."

-c.s. Lewis, The Last Battle

To those who have gone before me on into Aslan's Country... happy reading, my friends.

Though I look forward to the great reunion one day, for now, I am content, knowing I am at the right place in the journey, and that it continues on, upward and onward, always.

Until we meet again, tsune ni oboete okimasu.

Vengeance

Kame enjoyed those last few days of warmth in the fall so much... digging around in the leaves and searching out slugs, his favorite gourmet treat (and before you say "EEEWWWW", remember that humans gladly eat escargot.

Summer is coming again, and he is already excited, more active, ready to leave winter's icy grip behind and step out into the sun. He's ready to come awake. he's ready to live.

It feels as if I've written a lot about death recently. I had hoped to write more light-heartedly today... So much is happening, college has started and a new puppy has joined our family...

And yet I find myself pulled back one more time, checked for a moment, stopped by events that cannot be ignored.

I don't watch the news. Haven't in ten years, since airplanes came crashing into New York City's twin towers, and my generation's sense of security, the sense that an act of war could not touch us, indeed had not touched American soil since Pearl Harbor, came down with the buildings. It wasn't so much the towers falling that sickened me, as the video reports in the days afterward, of radicals and crazies dancing, celebrating the attack, celebrating death, horror and despair.

Watching the footage, I felt physically ill.

This morning, news broke out across the USA. Osama bin Laden is dead, killed by US troops in Pakistan. I wouldn't have known, except for people's announcements on Facebook. I woke up to celebration, wondered why... And felt sick all over again.

Now, before you peg me as a terrorist sympathizer, let me just say that I believe he deserved no less. The man caused devastation wherever he went, inflicted pain and suffering upon at least two nations. He was personally, if not directly, responsible for the 343 brave firemen and women who gave their lives to save others in September 11, 2001. His name has come to be synonymous with horror and depravity. Our troops should hold their heads high today. They have done their duty, and done it well.

Death... vengeance... I have mixed feelings about those words. Surely death must happen. Surely there are times it is justified. Surely, evil must die, good prevail, for there to be peace. And yet... there is a sort of sadness in it, a regret, that cannot be assuaged, even by justice.

I can't help but wondering, what right do we have to celebrate, as if we had done something good? What right do we have to dance on this man, or any man's, grave? What right do we have to celebrate death?

And yet...

A dear sister in Christ shared a tale of her recurring nightmare on her blog today.

Her dream begins with memories of horror inflicted upon her person, her family's apparent indifference and helplessness to stop it, and ends with revenge being violently carried out against the man who deserves it, if anyone in this life does.
It took incredible courage for her to share her story, because vengeance is not pretty. She is angry. She has every right to be angry.

I've seen the pain he inflicted first hand. I've felt it vibrating across the wires in conversations with her. The damage he inflicted has touched nearly every aspect of her life. He took something precious from her, her sense of security. Her sense of freedom. Her sense of being the beautiful woman that she is.

I can't feel anything but support and empathy when she expresses a desire for revenge. If I were to hear of this man's death, would I celebrate? Would I join others who care about her, in dancing on his grave? I'd like to say no... but that feels like a betrayal. Her pain demands payment. Her blood, like Abel's, cries out from the ground, and demands justice.

Vengeance. It implies justice being done, doesn't it? It implies a sense of right. It implies that the one facing it deserves what they got. Anger can be destructive, but sometimes it's righteous. Sometimes vengeance is justified. Sometimes death has a purpose, when it stops more evil from being carried out...

I just can't figure out how I feel about the celebration.

~*~*~

"I am in such a good place in my life right now, and am striving to be happy. I know I will never "get over it" but I sure as Hell am getting through it."

-Christy Spurlin, one of the bravest women I know.

~*~*~

"Regarding the celebration of Osama bin Laden's death:
“Do you think that I like to see wicked people die?" says the Sovereign Lord. "Of course not! I want them to turn from their wicked ways and live" (Ezekiel 18:23)."

-James Watkins

Remembering Amanda

Amanda
1998-2009

Kame, while he is the pet I most often feature in this blog, is not my only four-legged friend, or even my first.

Several dogs have graced my life over the years... beginning with Prince, the family mixed breed I grew up with, followed by "Scruffy", a beagle who wandered onto our property when I was perhaps three or four years old, and her offspring, Daisy and later Daisy's only surviving pup, Toby.

Toby was my first real dog, in the sense that I was mostly responsible for what little care he needed. Being a "farm dog", he lived happily outdoors, retreating to the garage when he needed shelter. He was, for most of my teen years, my best friend.

Toby lost his sight early on, and lived blind for the last few years of his life. It never slowed him down for a moment. He'd race along after our bikes as we tore around the small dirt track that constituted a driveway, only realizing his handicap when he'd run into the back of a parked car.

It didn't take him long to recognize my parent's usual parking spots, so the collisions didn't happen often, but when they did, he'd shake it off and keep right on running, as if the sun and wind on his fur and the sounds of our laughter were enough to keep him cheerful forever.

Toby passed away when I was 18 and away at college. I didn't have another dog until Ken and I were married. We had one dismal failure in a mixed-lab pup, Jack. At two he turned aggressive despite our best efforts, and at our vet's advice, we were forced to have him put down. I decided then that I didn't want another dog, that my husband's Lab, Brandy, was enough dog for both of us.

For the next two years, I had my hands full with a toddler and housework and life. I worked for a year at the Press. Life was chaotic and crazy and full... and yet something... some indefinable essence was missing.

What happened next was my friend Amy's fault. She brought me the newspaper, pointed out the ad. "For sale: Australian Shepherd pups. Home raised."
I hemmed and hawed. I didn't want another dog. I had a two-year-old and I was pregnant with our second child.

"Let's go look," she said. "It'll be a nice drive." she said.

Finally, reluctantly, I went.

We went on a spring afternoon. We admired the dogs, and finally the breeder led us out to the barn, where the little female, the last of her litter, was cloistered. Aussies have a way of getting attached to one person, she explained. Once they bond, it's very difficult for them to move to a new family. She didn't want the pup to bond with her own family, and so she was living in the barn.

She brought out a squirming black and white bundle of fur. I eased to the ground, finding it easier to sit down than try to bend with my bulky baby belly. Jessi stood next to me, pointing.

"Doggy, Mommy! Doggy!"

Amanda flew at us, leaping into my lap and licking every bit of face she could reach, before giving a giggling, delighted Jessi the same treatment.

What took my breath away wasn't just her manic energy and the speed at which her stump of a tail wiggled... but her uncanny resemblance to my first best friend. She looked exactly like a long-haired version of Toby. I would visit twice more, bringing Ken to meet the newest member of our family, before bringing her home, but it was inevitable. She was my girl. Whether or not the timing seemed good to me, she was destined to join our family, and she came to us not a moment too soon.

It wasn't two months after Amanda's entrance into our household, that she cemented herself irretrievably into my heart. Jessica was a very active toddler. It'd been a warm fall, and in desperation I took Jessi outside to run off some of her energy. Run she did... straight to the pasture that housed our six month old steer, Mac. (Short for Big Mac. My husband's idea of a joke). Mac was more pet than potential beefsteak. At six months he weighed around 400 pounds, and believed himself to be an over-sized puppy. With Ken he was docile, but he seemed to take great pleasure in butting me playfully with his rock-hard head, sending me staggering. To him, Jessica was nothing more than a new playmate... and she was through the fence before I could catch her.

I'd brought Amanda out on a retractable leash. Seeing Jessica running up to a cow that stood twice her height at the shoulder, I had only one thought- retrieve my child before she was badly injured by the lumbering, careless steer. I dropped the leash, and ran... waddled.

Amanda, on the other hand, had nothing to slow her down. She flew into the pasture and ran at a shocked Mac, lunging and barking and placing herself directly between the steer and my giggling red-haired toddler. I had time to get into the pasture and pick Jessi up while Amanda held her ground, snarling as if she would eat Mac on a bun if he so much as stepped closer to us.

Mac stood, staring at this dog as if she'd lost her mind. He snorted and gave a little lurch toward her. She dodged and nipped at his nose, a clumsy puppy determined to do a working dog's job. Mac decided he'd had enough. He spun around and kicked up his heels, catching Amanda in the side of the head as he ran off.
I was nearly hysterical by that point. This brave little pup had just saved my daughter... and earned herself nothing but a cracked skull, I was sure. I was so afraid I'd lost her... but she got up, shook herself, and came over to be picked up and comforted. I took my two babies back into the house, weeping... an emotional wreck, but so grateful everyone was safe.

The trouble with pets, and dogs in particular, is they never live long enough. In February of 2009, I took Amanda to the vet. She hadn't been acting her usual chipper self for a while. I'd been trying to tell myself age was catching up with her, that all dogs slow down eventually. After 11 years with us, she'd certainly earned a relaxing retirement, but when she stopped eating, I knew there was something far more serious wrong than the onset of old age.

Lymphoma, the vet said, reciting numbers like a death knoll. A canine oncologist could preform further tests, offer treatment options, give us perhaps a few more months, a year at most. Or...
I nodded. It would be best, I knew. Amanda was already nearing the end of her life expectancy. She was nervous with strangers and I couldn't bear the thought of putting her through more tests, more needles and poking and prodding when she seemed so... tired.
I'll take her home, I said. One last night with her family. To say goodbye.

The vet gave me some medication to help her feel better. Anti-nausea medication so she could eat. Something to ward off pain. I put my old girl on the seat of the car, and drove home to break the news to my family.

The next day, she lay around, looking tired and weak. It was clear she was going, and I knew the time had come, though I'd hoped to have more time with her, I couldn't allow her to go on this way. I called the vet to make an appointment for the very next day. I made her as comfortable as I could, and stayed up with her quite late that night, knowing it was our last.

As it turned out, one more night was all we would have. The next morning, she was laying, as peaceful as if she were asleep, in her old spot in front of the stove. Amanda, my brave, amazing girl, was gone.

In the two years since she left us, it is a rare day that's gone by without Amanda entering my thoughts. The first tearing grief has long since passed, but there are still moments when I feel the phantom of remembered warm weight against my leg, and reach down without thinking to scratch ears that aren't there. For eleven years she was my walking partner, my writing foot-warmer, my steady companion in an often unsteady world. Her fur absorbed my tears, comforted my hurts, slid soft and silky through my fingers. She was crazy and hyper and spastic, and I loved her.

George Bird Evans wrote in his The Trouble with Bird Dogs:

"I think we are drawn to dogs because they are the uninhibited creatures we might be if we weren't certain we knew better. They fight for honor at the first challenge, make love with no moral restraint, and they do not for all their marvelous instincts appear to know about death."

Amanda, in her brief time with me, taught me about courage, about loyalty and love and life. She woke up every morning as cheerful as if the previous day had never been, and as if she had a thousand more mornings, all as beautiful as the last.
She died the way she'd lived, with quiet dignity, and I am blessed to have known her.

Rejoicing in the day the Lord has made,
-Mary

*~*~*
Near this spot are deposited the remains of one who possessed Beauty without Vanity, Strength without Insolence, Courage without Ferocity, and all the Virtues of Man, without his Vices. This Praise, which would be unmeaning Flattery if inscribed over human ashes, is but a just tribute to the Memory of Boatswain, a Dog.

~George Gordon, Lord Byron, "Inscription on the Monument of a Newfoundland Dog"

Melancholy Part 3 of 3 ~That good night~

Some days Kame seems determined to stay buried in the relative security of his mulch. He seems to think that if he can't be seen, he is unassailable, untouchable, safe.

Safety, I have come to believe, is a relative thing. The truth is, Kame is not difficult to find in the confines of his enclosure, no matter how deeply he burrows into the substrate. He doesn't recognize that his safety is guaranteed by the very presence he would hide from.

Isn't that typical of our attitude as human beings, riding on this green rock spinning through space? We believe that if we are in control of our own fate, our own destiny, we are somehow "safe"... secure. We believe we can be in control, when the truth is, the only safety to be found is in the Hands of the One who controls everything. In this life, there is no safe place, no guarantee, no promise. There are only the challenges of life, and the choice: will we choose to overcome, or to lie down and be defeated?

At nearly seventeen, crushed under the weight of pressure I could no longer bear, I attempted to end my own life. Thanks to a friend's intervention, the attempt was unsuccessful, though I will always bear the mark of my momentary defeat.
I will never, as long as I live, forget the expression on my father's face when he responded to the call to come at once... he walked through the door, and hugged me and asked...
"Why?"

I couldn't answer... but I knew, in that moment, that the path I had tried to tread was closed to me. No matter how difficult life becomes, I will never again risk causing pain that deep to anyone. What I think of myself and my circumstances is irrelevant in the face of the concern others have for my continuing existence. If to deprive them of my presence on this earth is to inflict the hurt I saw in my father's eyes, I can't help but fight, with all I have, against it.

Dylan Thomas wrote the famous words "Do not go gentle into that good night...".
He goes on to beg his father to fight against encroaching death, imploring him to curse, to fight, to bless [Dylan] with his fierce tears.

These days, when life is difficult, when I'm thwarted at every turn, when life seems like one frustration after another, I remember. I remember my friend and her desperation. I remember my father's face and his pain. I remember where I have been, how far I've come, and how much I owe to those who've been with me this long and those who've since journeyed on to other shores.

Life is about moving forward, climbing onward and upward, ever closer to Aslan's country. There are no shortcuts. I will never go gentle into that good night. Life with a second chance is too precious, and I intend to embrace every last moment. I give my solemn word to rage against the good night, with all I have in me. Darkness comes, to be sure, but always, always, there is the hope of dawn, and so I continue...

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

*~*~*
Do not go gentle into that good night
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

~~~

Dear friends... today's entry was difficult to write, and even more difficult to post, because of the sensitive nature of the topic.

Please do not take this as a sign I'm considering doing anything foolish. You have my word of honor that if those feelings and thoughts ever assault me again, I will seek out appropriate help. I'm not a teenager any more, and I have had many years and some very good counseling to help me develop coping skills. Life is often difficult, for everyone, but I've had a lot of practice being me.

Furthermore, if anyone reading this blog ever has the idea that there is a peaceful end to whatever difficulties they are facing, please understand that such a route can only cause unimaginable pain. You are loved. You are cherished. You are a child of God. Don't listen to the whisper enticing you, it is a lie. Believe me. I've looked it in the face and seen it for what it is. You are not alone. Someone is waiting to speak with you. Don't put it off, and don't be embarrassed. Make the call. You'll be glad you did.

1-800-273-8255 (National Suicide Prevention Hotline)

Melancholy Part 2 of 3 ~Faith~

Kame doesn't always appreciate what I'm trying to do when I place him in his water pan for his daily soak. Sometimes he fairly scrambles to get out of the water.

Silly turtle. What feels unfamiliar and perhaps uncomfortable is in fact a necessary part of his maintenance... so much like our own struggles in life.

In my last entry, I wrote about the need for something to cling to, and the choices we make. I wrote about the depression that has been my on-again, off-again companion for most of my life.

Someone asked me, several years ago, how I do it. How do I deal every single day with having a child with behavioral issues that have resulted in his removal from public school, a husband works sixty or more hours a week to sustain us, and the ongoing reconstruction of our 200 year old farmhouse after a tornado did extensive damage?

Fast forward a few years and add to the equation even more loss and the natural progression of my dear sweet daughter into a volatile, hormonal teenager, my insecurities regarding my recent return to college and the prospect of homeschooling our son in the fall, and the challenge, some days, seems insurmountable.

So how do I do it?

The first, simplest, and most obvious answer is faith. Faith in a God who is, as we say at our church "Good, all the time." Faith that everything will be all right in the end, and if it's not all right, it's not the end. Faith that there is a purpose, even when the filmstrip seems to be flying off the reel, snarling and looping and knotting into an impossible mess. Faith that what I see in this life is the back of the tapestry, with all its loose threads and knots... and that one day I will see the masterwork from the other side, and the amazing beauty God is weaving in and through me will be revealed. When the storm threatens to swamp me, I cling to my faith.

It would be dishonest of me to stop there, however. "Faith" is the easy answer, but there is another, more practical and down to earth answer, and it is the foundation upon which my faith has been built. To talk only about faith as a solution to life's problems is to work the illusion without ever revealing the conjurer's trick.

The purpose of this blog has been to support and encourage others facing their own dark times, and I know from experience that the short answer is just that... falling short, and imparting nothing but dissatisfaction and despair.

The reason I can face down every day is, I know it's not the worst. When you've fought a dragon, an angry grizzly bear doesn't look like such a frightening monster. When you've walked through the darkness, gone so deep into the pit that you've touched the cold, hard bottom, and risen again to feel the breeze against your face and the warmth of the sun against your skin, ordinary darkness no longer seems quite so black, and every-day cold doesn't have the power to chill quite as deeply. I can go on because I know, no matter how bleak things look, that there is a bottom, and the worst that can happen is that we'll reach that point. From there, as they say, you can only go up.

Faith is often thought to have a "foundation". Mine is rooted in the darkness of the past, but like the lotus blossom that grows from the depths of the dark pond, it has grown, stretching and reaching to the sun. It is, after all, the only way to bloom.

*~*~*

"Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging. Selah"

Psalm 46: 2,3

Melancholy ~Part 1~

Will Kame ever wake up?

That question was on my mind yesterday, as I dug my little friend out of the mulch yet again. He is more active, surely, than he has been all winter. When I put him in his water pan, he will paddle around a bit, drinking deeply and soaking, before climbing out and seeking out his daily "salad" of spinach, boiled egg and berries... but he still will not come out to seek food and water on his own.

I am grateful each morning, when I check on Kame and he hisses in annoyance at me. I am grateful, every day, for the miracle of life, even in these days of melancholy.

What is it about early Spring that brings on this lethargy?
I know that a lack of sleep is contributing to the faint darkness that is trying to pervade my mind. Dreams... nightmares... leave me feeling, in the mornings, as if I haven't slept at all. I am implementing my coping strategies... taking time for myself, doing things I enjoy, exercising, meditating, praying, going to bed early, before I am over-tired... and yet the dreams come.

Perhaps it is because death has been on my mind recently. As new beginnings loom large... new possibilities, new vistas opening with new chances, new goals, and new challenges, I can't help looking back, at what's come before. Disappointments and failures litter the path behind me, obscuring the successes. How do I know I will not fail again? How do I know that this, this is the time that everything will fall into place, and my expectations will be met? How do I know I can do this? How do I know, when I'm faced with the choices that mean success or failure, I will choose success?

Loss is an old acquaintance of mine. It didn't take me long to understand that nothing in this life is permanent. Not things, not home, not family. There is not one single thing this life can give you that can't be ripped away again. Success? It can disappear overnight. Reputation? Destroyed in an instant. Relationships? Misunderstandings, choices, and death can shatter and steal them. Safety is an illusion. Life is loss. All that is left to us is a choice: What will we cling to, when everything else is gone?

~*~*~

TBC...

Changes

Kame is an intrepid soul. He seems to have decided the stairs are his Mt. Everest, and he's determined to defeat them... from above. My fear for my little friend's safety means I must deter him from making such a treacherous leap, but that doesn't mean he won't come back and try again and again. I fear if Kame ever does succeed in his attempts, he will suffer irreparable damage. A turtle's shell is a vital part of his skeletal structure. I must be diligent in keeping him in check, although I am sure he resents being returned to his safe abode.

In ten days I will begin my college career. To say that I am nervous would be perhaps the boldest understatement ever made.

Did I mention that I'll be working in a program that allows an individualized learning plan, a combination of traditional classroom, online courses and one-on-one tutoring in which I'm expected to design my own path to a degree? Oh, and by the way, next year Arek and I will be homeschooling. To top the mountain off with a beautiful snow-cap... Ken has accepted a job with Homeland Security as a State Fire Instructor, a job which adds 20 hours a month to his already hectic schedule.

Just to recap: College. Homeschooling. Second job.

It's quite a heavy load to lay on a marriage that has already cracked once. A lot of strain to put on the still-healing scars of the past. I haven't been sleeping well, thinking about the possibilities, and remembering. Remembering the long nights when Ken was volunteering more of his time to the Fire Department, the resentment as I fell into what felt like a single-mother role, the strain and the snapping at one another, the lack of communication, the ruts we fell into, undercutting one another, the anger that built up until it bubbled up through the fissures and very nearly broke us apart.

We broke under the pressure once, and... if I am honest with myself, I know it could happen again. I hope that we have learned something from our experience. I believe we have. We communicate better these days. I am far less quick to whip out my "Whatever.", a code-word for "Fine. Do what you want. I'll make do, but I won't like it." Ken is better at listening, and being honest about his own feelings as well.

I sometimes want to herd us away from the danger, to avoid challenges for fear we could fall. I want to protect what we're rebuilding. I want our marriage to work. It's easy and comfortable in our safe little place... and if we stayed here we'd stagnate.

Life moves forward, with or without our consent. We must go with it, or be swept away.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

*~*~*

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

-The Hobbit, J.R. Tolkien

~*~*~

"It's a dangerous business, Frodo, going out of your door,' he used to say. 'You step onto the Road, and if you don't keep your feet, there is no knowing where you might be swept off to.'"

-Fellowship of the Ring, J.R. Tolkien

Forgiveness

Slowly, slowly, Kame is waking up. He still needs to be dug out and shown his food, placed in his pan of water, reminded to eat and to drink, but he is more alert, more active, for short periods of time. As the days grow longer and the mercury in the thermometer begins to edge higher, he is remembering that winter does not last forever, and spring is coming. He is coming out of hibernation and remembering what it's like to be alive. He is awakening.

Sometimes I have felt as if the path we've been on would never end. An arctic wasteland seemed to stretch out in front of me as we struggled to piece our marriage, and our family back together. We were wandering through Narnia, where winter is eternal and Christmas never comes.

Then, one day, a flower broke through the snow. There was a moment, looking into my husband's eyes, that I saw him soften, saw the ice melt just a bit, saw the faint sparkle of the old humor, the understanding and acceptance, the fun. The first crack had taken hold, and the ice couldn't keep together.

I think that life is nothing more, and nothing less, than a series of choices. Over a year ago, I stood at a crossroads, and felt that the choice I made would direct the rest of my life. Since then, I've stood at many crossroads, and made many choices, each of which has sent my life, our lives, in new directions. No one choice has been irrevocable. No one decision has changed my life so much that I can't go back and choose another direction.

In a few weeks' time, I will begin college classes. Twenty years ago, I left college and never looked back. Now I am standing once more on the threshold of education, wondering where the springboard of a degree will take me. How high will I be able to jump? Will I finally reach my goals? I have grown and changed, but I have carried my dreams along with me like a satchel. Some things are just too precious to leave behind.

A year ago last Thanksgiving, I thought my marriage was ending. I believed we were destined to break apart like glass shattered on the rocks of betrayal and disappointment. I believed a part of my life was over, that the lightning strike had destroyed us.

Over a year later, the first cautious buds are emerging. New growth is appearing where only charred, smoking ruin lay frozen in the ice. The early flowers are poking brave tendrils up through the snow, putting on an occasional burst of color and fragrance, unafraid of the frost and the chill still in the air. Spring is approaching. Life is new. Forgiveness is settling on our shoulders like a comfortable blanket, warming the chill away and reminding us how good it is to stand in the sun, basking and warm.

Spring is coming, I can feel it, and it is good.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

"Forgiveness comes after a long time. After a long and gentle rain of tears. The earth is soaked and the smell of springtime is in the air. New life will come."
..."I have forgiven today, which could not help but come. I have forgiven yesterday, which could not help but pass. I will forgive tomorrow, too."

-Walk Softly, Rachel, by Kate Banks

Loss

Kame isn't much bothered by being alone. He travels along, bound for wherever turtles believe the grass is greener, on the other side of the lawn in this case.

It was a rare warm late-fall day. Kame had explored several areas of the yard before taking off across the lawn as if he knew exactly where he was going and just how to get there.

For a moment, he paused, basking in the sun and seeming to contemplate his surroundings, to orient himself and decide just where to go next. I wonder if he felt alone, although I wasn't far away. I wonder, in that moment, whether he felt lost, or if he was just taking a moment to consider things.

We all suffer loss at some point in our lives. Some losses are great, and some are small, but when we are traveling through that grief, the worst feeling in the world is to feel alone, lost and forgotten in a big, wild world. If we are lucky, friends and family are close enough to offer comfort, but loss, at its heart, is a lonely emotion.
We must each learn to deal with it in our own way, often in the quiet, dark room after everyone has left us, when we lie down and hold a pillow tight, and let the tears fall.

Alfred Lord Tennyson wrote in his poem; In Memoriam:27, 1850:

I hold it true, whate'er befall;
I feel it, when I sorrow most;
'Tis better to have loved and lost
Than never to have loved at all.

The famous lines have become cliche, but do they still ring true? Is it better to love, to feel the depth of the joy and passion and longing, knowing... knowing it can be ripped away at any moment, whether by death or by circumstance or by the simple changing desires of the human heart?

That is a question I am still trying to answer. Even with the ongoing repairs and rebuilding of my marriage, there is loss, something precious that was broken in this process, something I do not know if we'll ever fully recover.
I sometimes find myself grieving for that first, untainted love, the knowledge that this man, this one, is the one I'm meant to spend the rest of my life with, knowing in five years, in ten, in twenty, barring tragedy, he will be at my side. As time goes on, I've come to realize that what I truly lost was a sense of security, of surety in our future. What I lost was never really mine to begin with.

Even a promise sealed with solemn vows, with good intentions and with an honorable spirit, can be broken. 'Til death do us part really means until I change my mind... until I fall in love with another... until I decide this commitment is too difficult, and I want something different... until one of us decides that what we have is no longer worth the pain and the struggle and we let go, trading in our first love for freedom, and a second chance at what we think we're missing out on.

There came a point in my marriage at which I had to make a choice; to stay or to go. At that time, I decided that no matter what happened, I would not be the one to leave. Making that decision was painful, because it meant accepting that I could not stop my husband from leaving, if he so chooses. My commitment does not bind him.

Though the pain and fear have been severe at times, this experience has taught me that sometimes letting go is the stronger choice. Sometimes not holding on is the real test of your commitment. Sometimes you have to let go of someone and let them be the one who chooses to stay. It was the hardest thing I ever had to do, but a promise given unasked is stronger than the one brought about by a demand. I feared his choice, but I knew I had to accept it. I took a chance, choosing to believe in the character of the man I married, choosing to believe he would stay. It turned out to be the right choice for us, and we are stronger for it.

There are miles to go before we sleep, but our steps are guided by a higher Hand, and I know we are moving in the right direction.

Rejoicing in the day,
-Mary

~*~*~

"I cried when I knew I'd lost you, afraid I had lost it all. Then I realized that losing you didn't have to mean I lost me."