Anger

A couple weeks ago, I screwed up on Facebook.

Yep, it happens. It happens a lot actually. People say things they regret, or they get into pointless arguments, or they post drunken pictures of the party they shouldn't have been at because they'd called in sick to work that day. Facebook can be a minefield for the unwary and the careless.

I'm usually more careful, but I let my temper get away with me. When I get angry, words are my medium, my weapon, my outlet. If I'm angry with a person, I quite often write them a letter, though I rarely send those words spilled out in anger, burning through the page like acid. It helps me to get the anger out of my system, to pour it out and look at it with a saner mind, and quite often it helps me to put things into perspective.

Image by William Arthur Fine Stationary, courtesy of Flickr.

This time, in an impulsive moment, I poured my anger, grief and frustration out into a post, not meant to be seen by anyone involved, but I made a mistake. Well, I made TWO mistakes. First, I ranted publicly about an incident that made me angry and sick and sad, but that did not happen to ME. I had my facts straight, but the story wasn't necessarily mine to tell.

The second mistake was to make my post "Public". If you're unused to social media, here's a quick tutorial: you have the option of setting your posts to "friends only", "friends of friends", or "Public". There is also an option to put certain friends (like your boss, if you're prone to posting photos of your weekend exploits), on a "restricted" list. Those friends will then only see your public posts.

Image by Sean MacAtee, courtesy of Flickr

I accidentally made my harshly-worded post public, and made comments elsewhere, setting off a minor explosion. I responded, apologized, and removed the rant entirely, which is what I should have done in the first place. I did what I could to stop the drama before it went any further, but I couldn't take back what had been done. Blood spilled can't be recalled, which is why we must be cautious always, whether we wield a sword or a pen... a fact that I have been well aware of for a long time. The urge to defend, prove, and explain is still strong, but whether I was right about what I said or not doesn't matter. The fact remains that I shouldn't have handled it the way I did.

It took me some time, and some reflection, to understand the anger that propelled the entire incident. My fury was out of proportion, and it drove me to acting out in a way I normally wouldn't. I've spent years learning to control my anger, and learning to direct it into positive, constructive solutions. I learned many years ago that only bullies scream and rant and yell and assert their power over others because they can. Only bullies and cowards tear down or attack or are mean even in little ways, because it makes them feel powerful and in control.

Childish thinking leads to childish actions.

My father, by contrast, was the most gentle, easygoing person I've ever known. I rarely knew him to raise his voice, and even more rarely saw him argue or fuss. I don't think there was a mean bone in his body. He was one of the most respected people in our little community. His funeral was packed. A custodian from a little town, retired for over 15 years, and still former students, teachers, family and friends packed that church so that we would've been hard pressed to fit one more person into the assembly. My dad was a real man, something that I think we are lacking these days.

The more I thought about what happened, the more I came to realize that anger is always, always fueled by fear. My rant was fueled by fear. Fear that something like the incident I ranted about could've happened here, where I live. Fear of living in a neighborhood where I feel vulnerable as a single mom trying to raise two teens. We live in a rural area, in which kids run loose, much as I did growing up.

Image by Earthworm, courtesy of Flickr

 I've been afraid since last year, when some local scrappers took advantage of my letting them have the metal out of a bin out front, and came back to try and steal what they could find in my garage and barn.  It makes me nervous to live here now, with my ex's and father-in-law's extensive collection of metal miscellaneous junk laying around the property. To some, that looks like easy money, with the scrapyard paying well for scrap metal and hey, her husband isn't there, so it's free for the taking, right?

I'm angry that I've had to inform my ex, and my father-in-law, who I'm rather fond of, that they have to remove their stuff because I can't keep it here any longer. I'm angry that I can't take my time cleaning up the property myself, because I'm afraid someone will decide to simply help themselves. I'm angry that I should have to worry about this kind of stuff, on top of everything else that comes with being on my own.

Image by jbcwalsh, courtesy of Flickr

 On the flip side of the anger is the intense gratitude for the family, friends and neighbors who are good and decent people. There are those who've given me a hand up. My own family, of course. While I'm grown and they have no obligation to help me out, families take care of one another. I'm grateful for my brother, who came and put siding on and replaced windows. I'm grateful for my Mom, who has been a rock, and my other siblings who've helped when they can and who've been nothing but supportive.

I'm grateful for my neighbors who helped get my lawn tractor running again, and who have offered practical help with getting an old barn down. I'm grateful even to those neighbors who've done nothing but mind their own business and let us get on with life, without judgement or spreading gossip. There are those who call themselves friends, who are all talk and no where to be found when there's work to be done or a problem to be addressed, and then there are those who have stepped up and done more than I could've, our would've thought of asking for. I've been surprised at who's landed in each category.

Anger can be poison. It gets into your system and festers, like a splinter under the skin. Unleashed, it can only cause destruction. However, anger isn't the problem. Fear is the problem. Fear causes the lack of control that sets anger free, reckless, dangerous, and destructive. Anger needs to be controlled, directed, and focused, to be productive.

I'm working on that.

*~*~*

“Angry people are not always wise.”
~Jane Austen

“Anybody can become angry — that is easy, but to be angry with the right person and to the right degree and at the right time and for the right purpose, and in the right way — that is not within everybody's power and is not easy.”
~Aristotle

Of Roots and Wings

Today is not a good day.

For the first time in over two months, I have nothing to do. No new pile of work sitting in my inbox waiting for my attention. No urgent e-mails. Nothing. And it's driving me crazy.

Kame never has any trouble finding something to do.
There's always something good on television...

I've gotten used to being a working woman, to waking up every morning to a job that needs to be done. Not having that... leaves me rudderless.Oh, there's plenty I could be doing. I could clean (yuck). I could write... if I could pick up the thread of the story I haven't looked at in 2 months. I could paint... but that would mean dragging out all my materials and finding something I want to do...

I could paint my peonies that just opened...

I could blow the entire day, chatting with friends and hanging out on Facebook. I could write letters. I could do so many things... that I'm paralyzed by the sheer number of possibilities.I should, perhaps, go outside and enjoy the plethora of flowers that are finally coming into bloom. My yard smells amazing... but the forecast calls for rain, and all I want to do is go back to bed and wait for this day to be over so I can return to my normal routine.

The back yard is full of forget-me-nots.
Not having a working lawn mower has its advantages.

This year, my lilacs burst into flower. The plant has been growing into the foundation of this house since we moved in. We tried, once or twice, in the early years, to remove it, but it always grew back, just a little green puff of leaves. When Ken was building the porch, I knew that would cover the foundation, finally depriving the tenacious little tree of light and water. I decided that, since it had worked so hard to eek out a living from between the stones, I couldn't let the plant die such an undignified death. I found a sprout that had grown into the earth, and dug as much of the root as I could from between the crevices. I planted the 8 inch tall tree in the front lawn.

That was almost 5 years ago. So much has changed since then.

My lilacs, blooming for the first time in over 17 years.

I feel as if... I should be happy. Things are going relatively well. I'm working, and making more now than our income when we first married. In less than a year, I've become financially self-sufficient, to the point that the kids and I are living entirely on my income. I still need to build a solid cushion of savings for times, like this, when I'm not getting enough (or any) work, but on the whole, we're doing fairly well.

So why do I feel so... stretched thin, tired out, sad? Is this the lingering grief? I know I'm not the first person to ask, "why can't I just get over it?" But the pain bites fresh every time... and I don't know how to stop being surprised by it.  There are times I miss my own dad so deep I can hardly breathe. He comes to mind more and more often these days, and I just want to talk to him, to get his advice... I want to hear him say things will be ok. I want to know if I'm doing the right thing. I want to know if he'd be proud of me, even though I let my marriage fall apart. I want, so much, just to hear his voice.

My dad rocked. Yes, that's a chipmunk on my lap.
Dad had been sitting on the bench, feeding him peanuts all morning.
When I came out, he had me sit down and gave me a peanut. This is
one of my happiest memories, despite those insane longjohn type
pajamas. What was up with that?? Sometimes I wonder about my
parents' fashion sense. :-p

 I miss him, so much. And my mom, too, since she moved to Florida this spring. I'm happy for her, because I know she has more help, living adjacent to my sister and her family, and my step-father is nearing the point where a nursing home was a distinct possibility. Mom can't take care of him by herself anymore. The inevitable has been delayed, at least for now, and she has the support she needs to help him make the transition if and when it becomes necessary. Since I came along so late in Mom and Dad's lives, I'm used to being on my own for many of life's big transitions. Growing up, they were immersed in my elder sibling's lives and problems. The year I graduated high school, my dad was dying of cancer. Going off to college, Mom was dealing with his passing.

One of very few pictures I have of Mom and Dad.
They looked so young here, at least to me.
This was taken about 8 years before dad passed.

Mom has been able to be there for much of my kid's early childhoods, and she has been an absolute rock throughout the end of my marriage. She loaned me a substantial amount to have my house re-sided and insulated, which made going forward possible. I am now closer to being eligible for a home equity loan, which would allow me to finish the renovations this place needs, if I decide to sell in the future. Without the siding, that would not have been possible. I'm trying hard to make good use of the chance she's given me, by making sound financial decisions, and thinking about the future.


I think that, from all of this, the lesson is that I just have to keep on getting up, every single day, and moving forward. Mom and Dad gave me life. They weren't perfect, (are any parents perfect?) but they tried. They taught me right from wrong. They loved me. They were usually good about acknowledging my accomplishments. Dad let me follow him around when I was little and thought my Daddy was the best thing since the space shuttle. Mom has supported me and loved me through some of the most difficult times in my life. They laid the foundations, and now, when everything else is shaking apart... those foundations are holding strong.

 I hope I'm building strong foundations for my kids, in my turn. I love them. I'm working to build discipline into our routines, something that I struggle with. I try to remember to praise often and scold gently. I try to tell them, every single day, that I love them.

My beautiful, amazing kids, as we sit down to a meal on the porch.
Arek cooked on the grill. Jessi helped me set the table.

I can only hope that I've done right by them. I can't make up for everything that's gone wrong. I can't make up for my mistakes, or the loss of their parent's relationship, any more than my Mom fill the hole left by my dad's passing, though I know any parent, if they could spare their child pain by taking it into themselves, would do so without a second thought. If I could relieve them of the hurt they've suffered from the divorce, I would live through it 10 times over. All I can do is keep moving forward, and keep laying those foundations. I hope my kids can see the bricks being laid, one by one, and that one day, they'll know what to do for their own kids, in their turn.

Even Kame struggles to move forward at times.
When obstacles block his path, he just
goes over them, and moves on.

We'll keep on keeping on. Sometimes, that's the best you can do. Something tells me that the best is yet to come.

God bless.
-Mary
*~*~*

"God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. 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."
~Psalm 46:1-3 NIV

Full

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??"

 

.

 

 

 

 

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

Dignity

"Dignity" isn't a word often associated with my home. "Chaos" is more suitable most days. The above picture  is a of a portion of our latest chaos. The Thursday before Easter, we were blessed with an unplanned (but not completely unexpected- Mom looked as if she'd swallowed a cantaloupe) surprise.  Eleven squirming bundles of puppy-warmth came into the world that night. Unfortunately, not all of them were strong enough to navigate this world. Four passed within a few days.

The remaining seven are five weeks old today. Rambunctious, playful and increasingly messy, Mr. Moo, Arrow, Smudge, Star, Diamond, Sleepy and Streak come together to form the very definition of chaos. I love each of them. I love Mr. Moo's block-headed stubborn sheer boyish puppy-ness. I love Streak's habit of pouncing into the center of any brawl, even though he's considerably smaller than his brother, Smudge, who's usually in the center between Moo and Diamond. I especially love little Diamond's tenacious personality- she's not afraid to mix it up with the boys. I love Star's sweet face. I love Arrow's calm dignity as he sits beside my feet looking up as if to say 'what's up with them?'. Sleepy's elfin looks and habit of sidling up for a surreptitious nibble on my shoe make me smile. I love them all... And I will be glad when they go to the homes we've carefully chosen for each of them and my house subsides to a lesser chaos once more.

Although this litter was unplanned, and... honestly, unwanted, each of these lives have brought joy, and each of these unwanted puppies will go to a home where they will be cherished for the rest of their lives. Because, after all, isn't that how life is supposed to work? We're supposed to be chosen, in delight. We're supposed to be loved as we mature, as we learn and grow. We're supposed to reach our full potential within a relationship...

But people are not puppies. Life doesn't always work out the way we planned. Sometimes, things go awry. Sometimes, people's hearts change. Sometimes they change their minds.

"People change, and forget to tell each other." -Lilian Hellman. 

And yet, somehow, life goes on.

I am still wrapping my mind around the idea of a forever without Ken by my side. I had dreams... dreams of the days when our kids were grown, finding their own way in the world. Of course, I knew they'd wander home now and then, but I hoped we'd equip them with the skills they need to seek out gainful employment and the desire to begin building lives of their own, separate from Mom and Dad. I looked forward to a future in which we would build the little A-frame cabin in the woods we'd talked about, where I would write and he would hunt and pursue his hobbies. I dreamed of getting old together.


The dream has changed. Ken has made his escape, moving into a new home, building a new space for himself, moving away, separating. To say it has been a painful process would be to say a tsunami is an ocean wave. Our lives have been broken apart, shattered. This separation isn't the natural growth I look forward to in my kids, the breaking off of a seed that drops away from the tree to set its roots into the soil and begin its own journey toward the sun. This was an unnatural break, the loss of a limb... and the scar will take time to heal.

In those first few days, as my kids clung like little burs to my side, a much-younger reaction than I expected, but natural considering the way their security had just been snatched away, I wondered if I'd ever be happy again. I wondered if I'd ever find love again, and if I do, if I'll be able to trust in it, if I'll ever dream of the future the way I once did. I see family and friends who have lived through this building new relationships, wearing them like an artificial limb, but there is something that rings false in many of those relationships. There is friendship. There is affection. There is companionship, all the things a human being needs to thrive, but there is something... something vital and precious that is missing. The sparkle when they look at one another is not there. The longing, the deep affection, the feeling that this one, this person and no other, can fill the space in them that needs filling, is lacking somehow.

That's not to say they're unhappy, or that they shouldn't seek out what they obviously find fulfilling. I have always known I'm a different breed. I expect too much, and too little. I'm too wild and too quiet, too lazy, too determined, too frenetic, too happy, too sad. I know I set myself apart, and now I know that it's a mistake to be anything different than who I am, or to try to settle. I know that by rejecting the idea of a casual romance, I may be creating a future in which I am alone... and I am ok with that. I have learned that I would rather be alone than change who I am. One day, perhaps someone will come along who looks at me and says

"This one. This is the one I want. This is the one who can fill that space in me that needs filling, this one, and no other."

One day, perhaps, I will be chosen and I will choose. One day. But for now, I will simply try to live my life with dignity, and look forward to whatever dreams this new future brings.

~*~*~

“Think of it! We could have gone on longing for one another and pretending not to notice forever. This obsession with dignity can ruin your life if you let it.”
~Mary Ann Shaffer

“Be strong. Live honorably and with dignity. When you don't think you can, hold on.”
~James Frey

Out of Limbo

I'd like to introduce the newest member of our family. His name is "Squirt" (via my kids, and after the little turtle in the movie, Finding Nemo).

Meet Squirt.

Squirt is an Eastern Mud Turtle. He is the victim of the "Aww, it's so cute, let's take it home!" syndrome. A friend works in a local pet shop, and someone came in the store with Squirt, explaining that relatives had returned from a trip to Georgia bearing this adorable, but unfortunately unwanted, little gift. Since my pet-shop friend is already overburdened with her own pets (many are cast-offs, abandoned by careless owners), she allowed Squirt to come and join our family. Squirt is undoubtedly unhappy about this change in his circumstances, but since reversing time is not a talent I possess, we will attempt to give him the best life possible within his new reality.


The thing about life is, it never stops changing. If it stopped changing, that would mean that growth had stopped. That all was still and silent and... cold. Life that stops changing is no longer life. And here, in our little corner of the world, life is changing again. 

Tomorrow, Ken will explain to our kids about the house he's been renovating. He'll explain that this is more than a job, that the work he's put into the place has been not for pay, but for himself. He'll tell our kids that he's moving out.

I'm afraid. I'm afraid they're going to be shattered by this news. I'm afraid of the way the monumental shift in our family is going to effect them. I'm afraid I won't be enough for them, that I won't be able to comfort away this kind of hurt. I'm afraid they will suffer life-long scars. Until now, we've been able to shield the kids, to take the body-blows into ourselves and absorb the impact. The kids felt the repercussions, of course,  but were not devastated. This time, there is no way to soften the hurt.

I'm hurting too, as he is, I know. This isn't going to be easy, for any of us. This isn't what we signed on for. This isn't how it's supposed to be and it's not fair. It's not fair. I'm going to be hearing those words a lot, I think, in coming months... and they will ring with truth. This isn't fair.

I'm masking my own pain for now. Out with Jessica yesterday, alone with my daughter, the secret we have not yet revealed to them hung between us, unspoken. She sensed its presence. I could tell by the way she waited for me to speak. She knows the disaster's coming. She just doesn't know yet that it's coming for her and her brother as well as for her dad and I.

I'm avoiding talking about my own feelings, I know. I'm focusing on my kids because they need me. There is no time for me to cry for my own loss... I have two kids whose lives are about to be irretrievably altered.They need me to keep it together, to support them while they grieve. As a mother, their pain hurts me more deeply than my own.

This morning, I read a blog by the parents of a little girl, Avery. She has an incurable genetic disease that will take her from this world too soon, and her parents are doing their best to fulfill Avery's bucket list, to see that she experiences the fullness of life in the short time she has on earth. They were faced with a parent's worst nightmare, and instead of letting it devour them, they have climbed atop the dragon's back with their daughter, and are allowing it to carry them as it flies. I hope I can learn from Avery's parents. They have found hope in a hopeless situation.

Two years ago, I followed a path. I made a choice. It has led us through some difficult places, some dark ones, but there has also been joy. There was, for a time, a sense of reconciliation... but all that time, his path was leading him further from us, into places we cannot follow. This has been a time of transition, of changes, of growing up. We have come to another crossroads, but this time it is my husband, not I, who must choose. For better or worse, he has chosen the road I turned away from, and this is one path I cannot walk with him.

I can only walk on, and look toward whatever the future may bring. 

*~*~*

My prayer for us, for my kids, for myself, and for my husband, whatever these changes bring:

"The LORD will guide you continually,

And satisfy your soul in drought,

And strengthen your bones:

You shall be like a watered garden,

And like a spring of water,

Whose waters do not fail."

Isaiah 58:11

Am I an Idiot?

Wow. Just ... wow. I didn't realize just how grumpy I've been lately until today, when I got into an argument on Facebook with a mouse.
Yeah... I know how crazy that sounds.... Let's just say that role-players are interesting people.

But I digress. My mood has been horrid lately, even though life, in general, has been good. We've had our ups and downs... but when do we not?

Our daughter is struggling to finish her first year of high school. Our son is having some trouble with homeschooling- the curriculum we began the year with is not working, at all, and we need to change our approach radically.

I can see that I will be strongly challenged next year, to keep him interested and consistent in his work. This year, I've allowed my instincts to direct us, allowing him perhaps too much leeway, but giving him the room he needs to heal and mature past his frustrations from the past couple of years.

This week, I was offered an opportunity to work on retainer for a client, a big step for a freelance writer. This... is good news. A regular paycheck is a positive move for me, giving me the independence and freedom I need, as well as the means to better support us and to perhaps begin building a savings account. So, why am I so grumpy?

I wish I knew. I have several theories. A lack of sleep. The nightmares that plague me. The feeling of being slowly buried under an avalanche as I try to dig myself out with a spoon. College, work, home-school... all with the deadening pressure of uncertainty, is crushing me.
I'm tired of feeling this way. I'm tired of feeling as if there's a hole in my life, a missing piece. I'm tired of feeling alone, even though I'm surrounded by family and friends who have been my rock throughout these past two years of turmoil.

Do these feelings mean it's time for me to make a decision? Do they mean I should move forward? Does this mean I should end my marriage?

I wish I knew. I have said, in the past, that I will not be the one to file for divorce. I have said that I will not be the one to walk away. I will not be the one to destroy us... to take that final step. I pray that I am doing the right thing. I felt, when this started happening, that God was asking me to stand firm, to keep my place, no matter what my husband chooses. I have not felt as if that has changed.

Recently, I read a book a friend has written. I read as a copy-editor, to help her prepare the final manuscript for publication. As I searched the text for misspellings, inconsistencies and typos, I found more in the pages than excellent writing. I found truth. I found advice that I wish I'd received years ago. I found truth, hope and humor from someone who has "been there and done that". I found more insight into what is "off" in my marriage that I have never before been able to put my finger on... and I found reminders about personal responsibility, accountability, loyalty and commitment. I found strength to carry on a bit longer, in hopes that God might use this particular "idiot" to His glory.

I don't know where this journey will end. I do know that I chose the more difficult path, when I made the decision to stay in my marriage. I know that it's possible I'm being stubborn, even pig-headed, about this decision. I know that by staying I am relinquishing "what might be". But... I made a promise, and it is one I intend to keep.

No matter where this road leads us, Elaine Miller's book, We All Married Idiots, has become a part of the journey I'll cherish.

Dream sweet, friends. Dreams are powerful things, the stuff hope is made of.
-Mary

~*~*~

"Make your choice, adventurous Stranger;
Strike the bell and bide the danger,
Or wonder, till it drives you mad,
What would have followed if you had."

~c.s. Lewis, The Magician's Nephew

Limbo

Limbo... It's not just a dance. According to "TheFreeDictionary.com", Limbo is:

1. Roman Catholic Church The abode of unbaptized but innocent or righteous souls, as those of infants or virtuous individuals who lived before the coming of Christ.
2. A region or condition of oblivion or neglect: Management kept her promotion in limbo for months.
3. A state or place of confinement.
4. An intermediate place or state.

We've had an unusually warm winter, with very little snow. Kame couldn't seem to make up his mind whether or not he would hibernate. He would disappear under his mulch for a few days at a time, then come out, looking for food and water. He's been in limbo... and so, it seems, have I.

A further explanation of Limbo describes it in the Catholic tradition as "the edge of hell", where unbaptized but righteous souls go to await the final judgement day. Will they be welcomed into the Kingdom of God, or cast forever into the darkness where there will be "wailing and gnashing of teeth"?

The edge of hell... That sounds familiar.

I've been walking a new path lately, one that's dim and difficult to see at times. It's narrow... rather like walking a tightrope. And I am juggling everything as I walk along, and must keep my eyes up, or risk dropping things and tumbling... with no promise of a net below.

College, home-school, freelance writing work... and my friends and family sometimes toss in other random items, like performers in a circus act. Before I know it, I'm juggling an afternoon out for coffee, kids' computers needing expensive repairs, the payment that's due for a class trip, like yesterday, the upcoming home school convention where I hope to find curriculum to better fit Arek's needs next year... and somewhere in there are editing jobs, as well as my own writing, which often seems to get lost in the mix.

I've been quiet these past three months because I am lost, stuck somewhere in Limbo. I keep moving forward... what choice do I have? But for the first time in a very long time... I don't know where I'm going. I don't have a plan. There is no light at the end of this tunnel. I feel as if I have two choices- Move forward with pursuing a divorce and destroy this family. Hurt my kids, hurt him, hurt me... all in the pursuit of a freedom that may or may not be worth it.
Or... Forgive all. Move on, as if none of it ever happened. As if the D-word never resonated like a quiet earthquake through our bedroom, opening a chasm between us that I don't know how to bridge or cross. Pretend it's not there... and risk falling in.

I don't know which way to go. The crossroads is before me, and I don't know which path to take. I'm lost, confused, hurting. I'm angry, so angry some days it feels as if I'll boil over. And I do... with tears. I know that closing my eyes to the chasm would prove disastrous, but I don't want to admit defeat, either.

The truth is, I don't want a divorce. I want my family. I want my husband. I want the man I married to be the man I need him to be. I want him to be faithful to me. To adore me. To think I'm the best thing that ever happened to him... to feel the way I felt about him before I knew about her... the way I think I could feel again, if I could believe he sincerely regretted the damage that's been inflicted.

I don't know if he can be that man. And if he can't... there really is only one choice. I just don't want to be the one to make it... and so I continue on for a little longer, here in Limbo.

~*~*~*~

"People change and forget to tell each other."
~Lillian Hellman

"Then He arose and rebuked the wind, And said to the sea, "Peace, be still!"
And the wind ceased and there was a great calm."
~Mark 4:39

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.

~*~*~

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

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

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"

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