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