The Luxury of Letting Grief in through the Crack in the Door

I swore I wouldn't start a blog and then abandon it, but this is, at the very least, a neglected blog. Today,  I write because I need something. Today, I expect it to be cathartic. Today, I am hopeful that if I blog, I may be able to keep it together a little more. I am hopeful, but not unrealistic.

A dear family friend, Christi, lost her three-year-old to cancer last night. There is no universe in which this simple fact is not completely fu&%ed up. I am angry. I am afraid. I am heartbroken for her, yet I worry that if I fully acknowledge that this happens to children, it will happen to one of mine. I am too selfish and scared to let it all in. How fortunate I am to have that option. Christi doesn't.

I start to let the grief gain entry little by little,  as I imagine what her days will be like from now on. Details like: what to do with his belongings, how to pay the medical bills. More difficult issues, such as: seeing the obvious space in the back seat where she used to look back and see him, responding appropriately to a mom at the park who says, "I see you have two children" because she can't see the gaping hole left by absence of the third.

I don't know how she will do all of this. I don't know how she will eat, sleep, breathe. She is a better person than I am. She continues to say God is good. This isn't even happening to me, and I'm practically screaming at him like a defiant teenager.

I don't have any resolution for this post. Fitting, I suppose.

A Day No Laundry Would Be Folded

My sweet niece has come to visit for a couple of days. I had forgotten how precious the sound of a babbling toddler is, the intoxicating smell of silky baby hair after a bath, the sweet snuggle when she first wakes up, bleary-eyed, bewildered, and looking to you for guidance on how to start the day. It is two days I will savor, as I worry that I let this time slip by with my own three children.

When Melanie arrived at our house, we had waited, prayed, hoped, had our hopes dashed, cried, resolved to move on, then dared to open our hearts to the possibility that she really could be ours. She had just turned nine months old the day she came home. We watched her play, we watched her sleep. For two solid weeks we had very little contact with the outside world. The TV and radio were, for the most part, silent. The "guilty pleasure" novel on my nightstand went unread. Once we resumed normal day-to-day activities, a large portion of time was still devoted to being in the all-too-fleeting moments of Melanie's babyhood.

Alex came to us in an altogether different way from his older sister. He arrived with the the drama (and trauma) of labor. An emergency c-setion and horrendous bout of post-partum depression made his first few months a blur. My family stood in for me until I was able to rejoin life and motherhood, but I still feel pangs of guilt when I think of the time lost with both Alex and Melanie during those days.

Sara-Alyce came two weeks before Melanie started kindergarten, and Alex started preschool. No depression this time, but I still feel like her first few months are a blur because I was exhausted from the demands of three children, working from home, volunteering, and trying my hardest to keep my marriage and friendships going.

I blinked, and we are here. We are on the eve of middle school, fourth grade, and first grade. Sure, there were great "fully engaged" vacations, outings, special occasions. I'm not saying I missed out on it all. I'm saying that many times, I just wasn't fully present for each moment that I wouldn't realize the value of until it was gone.

This morning, when I should have been cleaning the kitchen or folding laundry, I watched my three children play with my niece. I listened to all of them laughing. I saw my almost six-year-old "baby" play mentor. I was enraptured.

Warning: It could be awhile before the dishwasher is unloaded.

Chasing the Wild Goose

Where do I begin? It is so difficult to talk about without using such seemingly trite words as "awesome" and "amazing." But it was. We arrive Thursday afternoon, just as the deadline for bringing cars into the campsite has passed, so we haul all of our gear in from the car. It's steamy. The trek equips us with the appropriate amount of humility and fatigue to gratefully receive the rest of the festival, I suppose.

From the car to the campsite we pass the social justice and sustainability booths and displays being set up.  Among these: Blood Water, Amnesty International, People of Faith against the Death Penalty, The Gay Christian Network, Triangle Interfaith Alliance. It is clear we are going to be a part of a place that dares to tackle the real issues, not just the protestant "fluff" to which we are so accustomed when discussing missions work.

After setting up camp among others tents at the tree-shaded edge of a large pasture, we head to the opening ceremony.  It is a blur now as I try to recall it. We sing, dance, laugh, and spread mud, ashes and water on one another. "The trigger has been pulled on Wild Goose, " says Founder Gareth.

The next three days are full of music, talking, praying, crying, and a great local beer from the Fullsteam Brewery in Durham. I learn that Jay Bakker (yes, the offspring of Jim and Tammy Faye) is passionate about acceptance of the LGBT community in church. (On that note: I heard way too many pastors say "I believe in including these groups, but I'm afraid of what my congregation/diaconate/convention/fellowsip, etc. will think of/do to me when they find out I feel this way.  We realize it is the same argument used over and over again in the South during the Civil rights movement. Baker essentially tells all of them to grow a pair and stand up for the marginalized! Yes, my friends "on the fence" I agree. I say this out of tough love: GROW A PAIR!)  I listen to Tickle. Campolo, Mclaren. What they say fills me with both righteous indignation and renewed commitment. I learn, under the lights of a humble barn stage, that Michelle Shocked is one hell of a storyteller, and that the Psalters (kind of a Matisyahu/Mumford and Sons mashup) are incredible live. I learn that DoxoSoma brings body and spirit together in a similar fashion to yoga, and I love it. I learn that the greatest encounters with God can occur during seemingly irreverent moments like "The Bluegrass Liturgy" and "Hymns and Beer." I learn that total strangers are called to love on my children like they've known them for years and to teach them to create, and to experience love and fellowship by zooming down a 300 foot slip and slide covered with baby shampoo and water from a fire truck that has backed up to it.

Yes, I feel like I need debriefing for my re-entry to the "real world." But even though I have washed the festival dirt and grime down the drain, and have pulled two stowaway ticks off my husband, I will continue to have Wild Goose with me.

Wildly Out of Balance

As I sit here, composing a post for a blog which has lain dormant for the past few months, there are papers stacked all over the place, laundry on my bed, and far too many pounds registering on the scale each morning that I weigh myself. My first inclination is to eat a whole bag of Dove Promises, dive under the mountain of clothes on the bed and hide out until sometime tomorrow. My second inclination is to be angry with myself for even having my first.

How does this happen to me every few months? Can I really blame being a teacher at the end of the school year? My schedule? Having three children?

I see so many women accomplishing so much. I support my friends who are writers, yet I am insanely jealous. Hey! I was going to do that! They go by with their 13.1 and 26.2 stickers on their cars. Again, I am reminded of my own shortcomings. They lead women's groups, bible studies, audition for shows, and fold all of that pesky laundry so it doesn't end up on the bed. They even have time to send me a quick email from the desk of their full-time job to remind me of what to bring to my children's class  parties. Crap! The class party? I completely forgot!


Tonight, I am going to fold a lot of laundry. Tomorrow, I will wake up and go running. Baby steps. I'll keep you posted. Ok, I'll try to keep you posted.

This is the real stuff.

So, I was running with a friend today and she was remarking on the fact that I had been married "a long time." Almost 16 years is a long time, I suppose. Danny and I have had our share of good and bad. Married life is not always pretty. It's not all passion, hearts, flowers and jewelry. It's helping you remember the "football hold" when the baby you are nursing won't latch on. It's loading a washing machine with the comforter that your child just threw up on. It's holding the hand of your mother-in-law and the hand of your  husband, as your mother-in-law takes her last breath. And, lately, it's blood pressure and colonoscopy scares. This is marriage. Sometimes, not pretty. Always beautiful.

If the Birks fit...

I will be 37 years old in just one month. The birthday itself does not upset me. What does is the fact that it took me so damn long to embrace who I am. I realized this as I caught the whiff of a sandalwood candle while browsing the shelves of the Home Economist's Market in Davidson. This was it! My happy place. Ten years ago, I tried to tell myself that a Coach Bag, the right house and a club membership were what I needed. It seems so shameful to admit to this. There's nothing wrong with any of this, but it's just not me. Show me a cute pair of shoes, and I'll smile. Show me organic, fair-trade, shade-grown coffee, and I'm over the moon! I have friends of all kinds, and yes, if you voted Republican, you are welcome at my table, even though we probably shouldn't discuss politics. But a decision has been made.  I am going to stop apologizing for not driving a mini-van, for not having (or wanting) a Pandora bracelet, and for wanting to camp instead of going to Vegas. Love and acceptance will come my way no matter what. How beautiful!

Girl Time, Dining Solo, Self-Loathing

So, welcome to February, even though it is already half-gone! I had a wonderful weekend. I spent time with my dear friend, Anne in Asheville. We have known each other for just shy of 19 years. During that time, our friendship has gone through good, bad, and silent periods. After a very long silent period, I am thrilled to say we are able to have it be "just like the old days." Except, there are gray hairs and wrinkles on the scene, now.

I finished my time in Asheville on Sunday in an Indian restaurant, dining solo. In my twenties, I never would have attempted this. I would have felt like everyone was suspecting I had been "stood up." Now, I do not mind this at all from time to time. I see it as growth, to be able to take myself out on a date.

Now, on to where I could do better.  I am angry with myself that I am not reaching my fitness and weight loss goals, that I continue to sabotage myself, that I binge mindlessly, that some nights I opt for a glass of wine on the couch instead of a run on the treadmill. I must do better with this. I am the only one standing in my way. I can blame no one else.