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Introducing Akai. That's a saucer beside him, not a dinner plate.

We do seem to have a habit of acquiring pets around here. They're like potato chips... we can't stop at just one. Today, I'd like to introduce Akai. (Ah-kye). "Akai" is Japanese for "red", and although you can't see it in this picture, this little guy's sides and bottom are marked with bright scarlet. He's a painted turtle, a common species where we live. My friend found him on the road. Ordinarily, the right thing to do would have been to admire this beautiful little guy and move him off the road, but if you look closely, you can see the cracked shell above his tail.

A crack like this one is an invitation for infection, not to mention a serious structural weakness that could threaten Akai's safety if he were attacked by a predator. My friend thought it best for Akai to seek refuge for him with Kame, and I agreed. Akai is a bit smaller than Kame. His shell is about 5 inches from front to back. The crack takes up an inch and a half, making it a significant injury. He may have been clipped by a car.

Although Kame is nearly twice Akai's size, he was... somewhat ambivalent at first, about his new roommate. Once he discovered Akai would not hog his food, he accepted him readily. Turtles, unlike humans, are not especially territorial.

Kame: "Dude, who is this turtle and what's he doin' on my rock??"

 

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I... am having more trouble sharing my space. Memories keep intruding, staying like guests who just can't take a hint. Emotions are also crowding me. Grief, anger, disappointment, loss... and anger keeps bubbling up in the most unexpected ways. Anger motivated me to re-paint my upstairs bathroom, adding color where Ken preferred white walls. Anger makes me want to remove every trace of my husband from this house... to assert my own sense of style I so often set aside in favor of his taste and feelings.

Even if I would give in to the urge, it wouldn't be possible. He and I have been remodeling for almost ten years. Our sweat, our blood, and our tears are nailed, spackled, and painted into these walls. I can no more remove his presence from this house than I can remove my emotions. And, when I think of my kids, I know I don't want to. Whatever my feelings are, he is still their father, and my job, first and foremost, is to love and support them through this transition. I will paint, and pretend it's just to make our home nicer for them. Passive-aggressive? Maybe, but at least I am doing no harm to my children's psyches this way.

My kids... They are the reason my friends keep telling me I'm dealing better with this entire situation than they would. They would get a jackal of a lawyer. They would take him for everything they could. They would toss his things in the yard, burn them. They would not stack his things on the porch. They would not wait patiently for him to create space in his new home (there's a big anger spike right there!- when I think of the work THIS house needs... OUR house, and that he is doing so much in another place...). They would not tolerate his nonsense! And I just smile and shake my head, because although I have anger, I can't imagine doing those things. I don't want to... not for more than a moment when I'm frustrated, anyway. There's simply no point. Being destructive would not make me feel any better. Inflicting hurt to "punish" him for hurting me, lashing out... Those are all the things I learned in counseling and parenting classes, years ago, to  avoid. The counseling that has helped me control and direct my emotion into positive action has left me unable to throw the temper tantrums I sometimes feel like having. The urge comes on me... and the voice of my counselor in my memory asks "Will it help? Will you feel better afterward, or worse?"... and the anger fades before the fire can be stoked out of control.

And so, I stack his things on the porch. I try to be reasonable. I don't e-mail HER and say "Are you happy now?" I try not to dwell on what's gone by, because time is a river... and you can't stop the flow. It moves on, inevitable, and fighting it will only leave you waterlogged, exhausted and drowned.  

I may not be dealing with this the "right" way. I may be too tolerant. I may, as some have told me, be "letting him get away with" too much. But, I'm keeping my head above water. Besides, in the end, who will be happier? Who, when this is over, will have "won"? Who, in the end, is walking away with more?

I look at my kids, and I know the answer.
With or without him here, my life is full, and I am blessed.

~*~*~

"Not leaving: an act of trust and love, often deciphered by children”
~Markus Zusak

 “Nothing you do for children is ever wasted.”
  ~Garrison Keillor

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

Anniversery

I haven't opened with a little anecdote or comment about Kame this morning. Some wounds are just too deep to patch with a metaphor, and too painful to make light of or draw into perspective... yet.

A year ago, my husband traveled to Los Vegas without me, ostensibly to attend a friend's wedding. He went alone, or so I thought, until I got The Call, from an old girlfriend's husband. "Did you know...?" No, I didn't.

A year later, I find myself searching for perspective in the whirling chaos that phone call left behind, and falling short.

Robert Frost wrote:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

***

The Call was the culmination of everything that had led up to that point. We'd been dancing around each other, with bitterness and resentment creeping in but unwilling to face things head on for so long it felt like we were two nations in a cold war, playing at peace while bolstering our defenses and building secret stockpiles of ammunition. Vegas felt like the first salvo in what could become an all-out war, depending on how I responded.

It was two days before Thanksgiving, and I was in a frozen wilderness, the accusation and my husband's confessions ("yes, he saw her there") and denials ("nothing happened") sounding in my ears, staring down two paths, one marked "Stay", the other marked "Go."

Which would I choose? Both looked difficult. Jagged rocks protruded, threatening destruction. "Go" was a downhill slide, filled with hidden dark pits of Loneliness and Desolation. War would be inevitable, fighting over custody, support... I hated the thought of what we once had changing into something twisted, of looking into a once-loved face and seeing only frozen resentment looking back.
I knew, from walking with friends as they traversed the path, that it could lead to smoother land, perhaps a whole new adventure, but the way was treacherous and fraught with dangers, and I would walk it alone, holding only my childrens' hands.

"Stay" appeared smoother, but I'd been injured on that path, betrayed by the one who should have been at my side, loyal through life's journey. Staying meant believing his regret was sincere, believing he was telling the truth, though at the time I had my doubts. It meant taking the chance that we would fall back into our cold-war patterns, that history would simply repeat itself and that battle was inevitable whether I wanted it or not.

I stood at the fork in the road, undecided, frightened, in pain so deep I thought I'd never find my way out again, and despaired.

Frost chose his path:

Then took the other, as just as fair
And perhaps having the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same.

***
The two paths... Rather than choose, I ran away, fled to a friend's house, a temporary sanctuary. I received advice, spent hours talking and crying... and in time, made a choice, although I was uncertain and afraid.

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

***
Staying was one of the most difficult, and one of the most important, choices I've ever made. I could say it was because of the kids... In fact, at the time, my commitment to staying was limited. It will be eight years before both our children are in college. I reasoned that it's difficult enough to navigate through this world, without the stigma of a broken home hanging over one's head. My children, at least, would be spared the scars of battle.

I kept the first for another day, knowing I might change my mind, might regret my choice... but now, a year later, way has led to way. We have grown and changed in this journey, and I doubt if I shall ever go back.

I have chosen my path. I have taken my road, made my peace, and though the going is sometimes rough, I believe I have chosen the better path. Only time will tell for sure.

~*~*~

"But Ruth replied, "Don't urge me to leave you or to turn back from you. Where you go I will go, and where you stay I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God."

-The Book of Ruth 1: 16
(NIV)

Life, unexpected

"Whatchoo lookin' at, Pussycat?"

I adore this picture of Kame, and our daughter's cat, Tat. She was curious, and Kame, well, he's being his usual unflappable self. Nothing seems to disturb this little turtle. He is fearless.

A popular country song suggests "If you're goin' through Hell, keep on goin', don't slow down, if you're scared, don't show it... You might get out before the Devil even knows you're there."

Sometimes life throws us for a loop. We're suddenly presented with something so big, so frightening, there is no natural response. All we can do is stare it down, and hope we can bluff our way through.

In the past ten years, Ken and I have faced down a tornado that destroyed our neighbor's home and dropped a tree on our roof, our kids having trouble in school, leading to a year's suspension for our fourth-grader and major health issues which have necessitated sweeping changes in our lifestyle.

It's little wonder, under such assaults, that we began to come apart at the seams. With Ken's election as Fire Chief for our local volunteer department, two kids with seemingly continuous appointments, practices and meetings and my own dedication to becoming a published author, we were wearing thin. The stitching that held our marriage together was beginning to unravel, and we were falling apart.

We forgot, for a time, the first rule in marriage: Turn upward and inward in the face of adversity. No matter what it is you're facing down, nothing, and I mean nothing, is more important than your relationships, first with God and second with your spouse. Never forget that this person is your partner, your team mate, your support system. You promised "for better or for worse". Unfortunately the worse comes harder and faster than you can imagine, and if you're unprepared, it can sweep you off your feet.

When Ken and I faced a new threat, it nearly broke us apart. Rumors were flying around the fire department, that he was stepping out with a young volunteer who happened to be our long-time babysitter.

I found the stories laughable. I've known the young woman for most of her life. I was (and still am) confident that he thinks of her as a sort of surrogate daughter, not a potential fling. Infidelity was the last thing I was afraid of. I thought my marriage was on solid ground, that despite our troubles we were committed and had been in love, and would be again. I believed the chaos of raising children was temporary. I believed that the history we'd built over the first fourteen years of marriage would be enough to keep us together. I was deep in Egypt, lounging along the proverbial river.

Ken was not having an affair with our babysitter. He's made mistakes, as have I, but his heart is strong, and loyal. He's often flippant in conversation, leading people who don't know him well to assume his values are less-than solid. The truth is, he's a passionate man who gives his all to the things he believes in. Once upon a time, he believed in me, in our marriage, our family and our future together. When that belief wavered, life came crashing down around us.

The house of cards has collapsed, but almost a year later, we are rebuilding. The process has been long and painful and it's not over yet. We have a long way to go before our marriage can be called truly healthy, but we'll keep on going.

We will face this, and all our Devils, and we will get out alive.