Quiet

It's quiet in the house. The dog is sleeping, and the only sound is the faint whirring of fans as they cool the room, our computers, and occasionally, the fridge. Plus the sound of my typing. And of course my ever-present tinnitus.

When it's quiet, sometimes my thoughts race as I wonder or even worry about what is to come. Sometimes I do something to fill the void: write a grocery list, play music, anything but be silent in my own thoughts. Other times, though, like this time, I tune into what I'm thinking about and set it aside in favor of experiencing this moment, this one fleeting experience, and enjoying it. I feel the rhythm of my breathing, and I remain present in that rhythm, being grateful for the breath of life. I see patches of sunshine come in their brilliance, and pass behind clouds, hiding the sun's rays in a cloak of water droplets. I marvel at how everything seems so still when the Earth is actually hurtling through space at thousands of miles per hour; it is a miracle that we do not fly off the face of the planet. I tune into my spirit and notice that today, it is content. I am grateful for that contentment.

Photo "Sun Ray Behind Dark Clouds"
by Sura Nualpradid at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Sometimes my husband will comment on something that he has seen or learned, and we discuss it. Time with him, when he is truly present (like now) brings such peace and joy to me. I enjoy his company, which, although it sounds trite, rarely has need for words, but we talk anyway.

I hear the footfalls of my daughter as she awakens to another day. I wonder if she will be in more or in less pain than she was yesterday. She is never totally without it. Once, that realization troubled me deeply, because I had an unhealthy need to fix it; now, I am amazed and inspired by her courage and tenacity. She has taught me about so many things just by living them in her life: acceptance, tolerance, maturity, friendship, and more. I am grateful for her quiet, indomitable and yet vulnerable spirit.

I think about my friends. I am amazed by their patience with me as I have been so busy juggling career and school that I have rarely had enough (sometimes not any) time to spend with them as I would like. I know they support me in my chosen path - which means a great deal to me - and I hope to have a bit more time to spend with them as my work life comes to a close and I can concentrate more on school without that added burden of making a living. I have missed our times of fellowship together. With COVID-19 restricting our movements the last few months, I have become acutely aware of the effects of prolonged isolation even on a confirmed introvert like me. How awful it must be for those who need social contact to feel complete! They must feel like they are running on empty all the time! It firms my resolve to reconnect with my friends, one at a time, even though the chief health officer has deemed that it must be at a distance... so no hugging. 😞

The puppy has awakened now, and is letting us know there is a delivery person at a neighbour's house. The silence is broken, but I am left with a sense of calm and peace that remains with me.

I like that feeling.

Drinking it in

It's raining today: a steady, soaking rain. After a fairly dry summer - we had to water our garden to keep it growing - the trees, grass and shrubs are enjoying the rain.  They are drinking it in gratefully, the leaves perking up where they've been drooping and the grass seeming greener than before.

All of us need that experience of a good, refreshing, cool drink of water ... whether physical or spiritual ... to keep us supple and nourished inside and out. 

It got me to thinking today about what nourishes and feeds me. I have plenty to eat, and clean water to drink, which makes me far richer than over a billion people in the world.  I also have a roof over my head that keeps the extremes of cold and heat out, and more than one outfit to wear - again, more than what billions have - and most days, I take these things for granted!

Photo "Autumn Gold" courtesy of Simon Howden
at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But as Thanksgiving approaches, I find myself feeling gratitude bubbling up from within, for many of the things I normally don't even think about. 

I have so many blessings, not the least of which are those loved ones who live with me: my husband and family (including the four-legged kids too!) who always believe in me, and always look out for my well-being. As Dory said in Finding Nemo, "When I look at you, I'm ... I'm home!" I can't begin to express the degree to which their presence in my life brings me a sense of joy and completion. I only hope that someday they will get an inkling of how important and amazing they are to me.

Sharing the little events of each other's days, the joys and the sorrows, the ups and the downs: these are blessings. Living in the moment, just as creation does, loving every raindrop, every sunbeam, every bit of provision from the Creator, is curiously rejuvenating.  Experiencing all of this with the people I love is quite the trip, and yes, I am drinking it in, like a refreshing thunderstorm after a dry spell. It restores me, makes me whole, and gives me a boost to keep going. I need that, just like I need air ... just like the plants need rain. 

Her Shoes

They caught me off guard the first time I saw them again. I was looking for something else, about three years ago, and there they were, as if she had slipped them off and thrown them in a corner. They were her sneakers, with a Velcro closing, from when she was about two. 

I found this picture on Pixabay.com - free!

And the sight of them - and the memory of whom they belonged to - stung at my eyes and swelled my throat until it felt tight. Images from when they fit her flooded back, unbidden, and I relived those days in a brief moment in time. It felt like months but in fact, it was only about a minute as I stood there, transfixed, the vivid film in my memory playing like some long-forgotten and perhaps discarded footage. I gathered it all and threaded it back on the reel, each ordinary moment now precious. The puddles she jumped in, while I scolded her for getting her shoes wet. The grass she ran through after her father had just mowed it, spreading grass stains on the toes. The tap-tap-tap of those little shoes beside me as I ran an errand with her while her older sister was in kindergarten. The tug on my hand as she stopped to inspect the rainbow of motor oil in a puddle of water, crouching down right beside it in those little shoes. I would have missed out on that beauty. She noticed it. 

She noticed everything. Nothing escaped her attention. She noticed the man sweeping the side of the parking lot, went to him and told him what an important job he was doing keeping the parking lot safe for people, and left him whistling as he continued along the edge of the walkway. She noticed the birds on the wires, the bumblebees backing out of flowers with their legs heavily laden with pollen, the squeaks in bicycle wheels, the chirruping sound of robins seeking mates, and so much more as those shoes carried her to her next discovery. 

In that one minute, I remembered, and the memory was painful because she was gone from us, and I missed her so very much!.  And part of me wanted to discard those little shoes because I didn't want my heart to hurt like it was hurting. But then I stopped myself - and I left them there, exactly where I had found them, because.... 

In spite of the hurt, the memory was somehow comforting. I did not want to toss away the fact that she had graced our lives - even for such a short time - with her indomitable zest for life and laughter, with her uncanny ability to see and believe the best about everyone, with her unshakable faith that everything would work out in the end. Those memories - painful as they were - were a reminder of the lessons she taught me about noticing, about being a friend, about being a person. 

And today, I came across those shoes again - and this time I picked them up, and put them together neatly, as if laying them out for her to wear again. Even though she had long since outgrown them, trading them in for flip-flops, tight jeans, eyeliner, and a driver's license ... to me, those little shoes were an ineffable symbol of the wonder and optimism she took with her from her childhood into her everyday young adult life, and of the legacy of "today" that she gave to me just by knowing her. 

They are a reminder that she is still with us. She still watches, still notices, still cheers us all on and believes the best for us. She is aware of every celebration, every anniversary and birthday, everything that is the stuff of everyday life for us. And she enjoys them with us. I have felt that giggling presence so many times I have lost count. 

And so now, when I see her shoes, I smile and say hello. 

Quiet

It's quiet. But this time, the silence feels different than at other times.

I remember other times, other moments, even other places. For example, a week ago, as I was sitting in my dormitory room in Calgary, Alberta, with my roommates gone for the day and me finishing up breakfast, the quiet was deafening. I felt isolated, alone, trapped. I was thousands of miles from everyone I held dear, eating breakfast alone without their company, without their laughter and conversation, making do with my keyboard tray and my laptop as a makeshift table, and feeling incredibly homesick. Tears began to sting my eyes as they rose to the surface. 

Of course, it wasn't as bad as one time (one very LONG time) when I felt so very alone. My youngest child had died and the funeral was over, and the sympathies from well-wishers had tapered off, and I was (yes) surrounded by my closest family and closest friends ... but knowing that the tick, tick, tick of the clock would never again be interrupted by her raucous laughter or her crazy antics ... made the quiet an open sore.  I wanted to play the last video she sent to me just to hear her voice again, but it made my family sad, so I sat in the quiet - the cruel, taunting quiet - and suffered loss that no parent should suffer. 

A few days previous to the breakfast incident in Calgary, a classmate took me to "see the Rockies" - we drove up to Canmore, Alberta, (see my previous post) and I was increasingly in awe of the indescribable vastness of these wondrous creations, the closer we got to "The Three Sisters" peaks. Even though most of the time my classmate chattered away, in the core of me there settled a blissful quiet, where I was able to commune with my baby girl because she had seen the Rockies this close too, about a month before she died. It was somehow a shared experience, and in the inner quiet ... I felt close to her in a way I had not felt for a long time. And I knew she knew it, and that she was deliriously blissful and at Home, more than she ever could have felt here. I knew that she was okay, that her restless, anxious days were done. Happy tears slipped their way past my lower eyelids and slipped unhindered down my cheeks.  The quiet healed me, soothed me, comforted me. 

A black squirrel - July 19, 2017,
on the Mt. Royal U "Lincoln Park"
campus,Calgary, AB.
It nearly blended in
to the tree trunk...

A hare munching on fragrant white
clover, July 20, 2017

In Calgary this year, there were also times during the ordinary hustle and bustle of the day, when I sought out the quiet and made it part of my day; there, I could recharge my emotional batteries and gain strength to face whatever task was ahead. There was a lovely park on campus where I would linger either on my way to or from class, and sometimes both... being there seemed to restore my soul. Perhaps it was because it was so beautiful. I watched the water from the man-made waterfall tumble over the rocks and land in a little pool, close to an arbour with a little park bench inside; I smelled the roses and drank in their striking fuchsia, bold musical tones that sang to my eyes and caressed my nostrils in the breeze.

I was particularly drawn to the wildlife in Alberta. I got to see some amazing creatures there; to the locals they were a dime a dozen, but to me, they were remarkable: magpies, gophers, and hares abounded. Even the squirrels were different than at home: larger, and black instead of reddish-brown. They were fast too, so I was pleased to get a photo of one (see above, left). The quiet they produced in me was tender, almost a communal feeling. I felt somehow at one with my surroundings. It made being far away from home not quite so lonely. 

But the quiet today is different still.  It is a calmness, an assurance that all is right, that I am where I am supposed to be, that my family is not far away, and that I can rest and relax without worrying. I can close my eyes and know that when I open them, I will see the familiar - the jumble of cat toys and pillows, my books and papers, and the occasional cat walking across the floor or playing in an empty cardboard box. 

I like this quiet best of all.

Commemoration Days

Commemoration is something you do to honour the person (or people) who has (or have) died... for whatever reason.  Usually you hear the word around November 11, but someone said that word to me last night as I explained that the next day would have been my youngest daughter's 24th birthday. 

"Are you doing anything to commemorate? you know, something special?"

Frankly, I was just going to try to survive the day. But when I awoke this morning and started thinking about it, and planning my meals for the day, I began to think about my girl's favourite things... and how I could honour her in the choices I make in the little things today. 

I started with cooking a breakfast for myself that was one of her favourites: "hash" - which is hash-browned potatoes made with "real" potato (not the instant kind) - bacon (cooked chewy but not crispy), and scrambled eggs (that last bit was for me). As I ate it I recalled how she would relish every bite, rolling her eyes back with ecstasy when she took that first bite of bacon, that first taste of potato. Then how she would try to get as many potato pieces as she could fit on her fork, and give her potato-head fork a "haircut"... fill her mouth really full of the food and then act silly trying to talk through a mouth packed full. 

Arielle at Sam's - early 2012
Copyright 2012, Judy Gillis

I lingered over breakfast, savouring every morsel, each one a memory of fun times at the breakfast table either at home or at her favourite restaurant to have breakfast at: Sam's. Our family still goes there, quite frequently.  We like it there too. 

The last couple of weeks I have been living in Calgary, Alberta - I'm here for my schooling - and being this close to where she had her accident has been very emotional for me. It has made me more sensitive, and affected nearly all my interactions with people.

I find myself usually thinking about the things I miss about her - and there is a LOT of that! - and not wanting to think of the things about her that drove me crazy - her in-your-face attitude, her loudness, her impulsiveness to the point of taking unnecessary risks and not being considerate of people who were worried about her - but those things were a part of her as well. It took her quite a while for her to learn not to crowd me (she'd stand too close for my personal comfort and would NOT lower her voice) but she eventually learned that it "made Mom's skin get all snaky-feeling."

I miss her smile. I miss her laughter and her fun-ness. I miss how generous and loving she was, how she would put herself out for a friend in need.  I miss the quirk of her eyebrow ... and I miss her unshakable faith.  I miss her hugs ... most of all I miss those. 

I know that I will find other ways to make this day special.  But honestly, she left such an impact on my life that I try to "commemorate" her by living a little more like she did, by her unique life's motto, "Every snowflake counts" (see my October 24, 2013 post), every day.

It not only keeps her close, it's a wonderful way to live. 

Thanks, sweetie, for lighting the way.  

And counting...

Well, it's finally here. 

Three hundred and sixty-four days ago, on the evening of the day we found out about her passing, we had no clue that we'd have made it this far. "The day the police came" is now family code for the day our lives turned upside down with the sudden death of our little girl at the tender age of 21 years. 

I've written so much about her here on this blog that no doubt you feel that you know her; that was my intent. To know her is to be changed by her. She was - and is - a force of nature. Learning her story is transformational. Telling it reminds me of the things she taught me just by being herself and going to the mat for people. 

The past year has been one I've spent counting. Counting the days at first ... six days since she passed. Ten. Twelve. (Every Wednesday was agony. The sleep wouldn't come until after 1 a.m. most nights.) Then I counted the weeks - two, three, four, five, six... thirteen - interspersed with months... each one seemed to drag by until it was over and then I would look back and say, "I can't believe it's been four months." Or six. Or eight. 

A trusted friend, one I've known now for 13 years, told me at the beginning of this process that the time would come when I'd stop counting the weeks, stop noticing it was Wednesday. 

I didn't believe him. 

But he was mostly right. Time has a way of ticking away and the tyranny of the urgent sometimes becomes a bit of a comfort; busy-ness can sometimes get one's mind off things and give it a bit of a break from the harsh realities of loss. 

But it doesn't diminish its intensity. 

What has healed me most has been the love and loving expressions of support and friendship that I've experienced - at first in a flood back last fall, and more lately in odd comments that this one or that one will make - comments that remind me that people haven't forgotten. They haven't forgotten me, my family, and best of all, they haven't forgotten her. 

This is the counting that - for the most part - I have taken to doing now. I count the expressions of love, the kind deeds (like the apple someone brought me today because she heard that I liked one once in a while and because she knew it was a tough day), the emails and Facebook chats, the posts on her wall and on mine - the snowflakes left on her stone today from three special people ... and the list goes on, and on, and on. 

These are the things I count now. Time does march on ... but love brings music and gratitude and peace. I count friends ... friends who sincerely care and who show it, as she did. I count remembrances of her. I count friends of hers who loved her dearly and who now - for reasons I can't quite explain - love me too. I count songs that she loved or that remind me of her personality or her beauty or her feisty in-your-face defense of her friends - or her ability to make others laugh... sometimes just by bursting out laughing long and loud and strong ... for no reason at all. And her laugh was so contagious. So very contagious. Even when I was angry at her, I couldn't help laughing with her.

Days like today are very hard. I won't deny it. But as love goes on and on, I am not counting the days ... but the signs of life that I see springing up where she has walked. The changed lives, the transformed attitudes, the seeds of hope and faith and love she planted that are now bearing fruit: these are the things that I count. 

Because THEY count.



Oh!  PS: This was actually one video that Arielle texted to me, but my cell phone broke it into two videos. It was created around the first of September 2013, about six weeks before she passed away. I've been waiting for the right time to share it with my readers. This seemed like a good time.  I apologize for any poor picture quality.

Part 1:

aaaand part 2. 

Breathe. In and out. Repeat.

Some days just pass by without me taking much notice; they seem normal and uneventful, as if nothing tumultuous has ever happened to me or to those I love. 

And other times, I have fleeting moments where I need to remind myself to breathe, to let go, to concentrate on doing the next right thing. 

"Waterfall In Forest" - courtesy of
phonsawat at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Still others are entire days when I need to remind myself continually of those things: specific days such as a birthday or an anniversary, a statutory holiday like Christmas or Easter or Thanksgiving. At those times, I wonder how I'll get through the day, remind myself to breathe, in and out, and repeat as needed. And it's hard, even with relying heavily on my relationship with God and reminding myself that "He's got me."  

And ... miraculously ... I get through it. 

I had a day like that recently - our baby girl's birthday was last Wednesday. She would have been 22 years old. Try as I might to treat it like "just any other day" ... it was difficult to concentrate and I kept making silly, stupid mistakes that just weren't "me." 

The love of friends and family helped me as I breathed in, and breathed out. Giving myself permission to grieve without guilt or shame was key to surviving the experience. And love, love expressed in tangible ways, was the healing balm that I needed. God usually finds a way to remind me that He cares by showing me that people care. This particular time it was through a thoughtful gift from a friend miles away from here. 

Photo "Daisy Flower" by
markuso at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Someone reminded me a few weeks ago that the pain of an initial physical injury (such as when I tore the cartilage in my shoulder on August 7, 2006) can be remembered, but not brought back and relived or re-experienced with the same intensity. (Not that I'd want to!!) 

However, the pain of an emotional injury is just as fresh and excruciating as its memory. If the emotionally painful experience is remembered, the emotional pain comes with it. 

What I didn't know until several months ago is that the brain releases the exact same chemicals when experiencing emotional pain as when having physical pain. It's therefore crucial to be gentle with ourselves when life throws a monkey-wrench into our daily experience. 

"It will pass. It will," a still small Voice says inside of me. "Breathe."

"Again." 

And I do. And it passes. 

And the next day life could return completely back to normal. And it often does. 

But I'm so glad that when those times come, when the billows roll over me and knock me around, I know I can count on Love to be whatever I need it to be for me at the time I need it. Even if it's hard. 

Love is Life's breath.

So I breathe. In and out. And ... repeat as needed.

Waiting to blossom

Whether winter happens for you in December through March (and here in the Maritimes, it's more the end of April...) or June through August, the colder weather, the reduction in humidity, and especially the shorter days (and therefore less sunlight) can play havoc with people's moods and activity levels. There's a kind of pseudo-hibernation that seeps into the mind and sometimes even the body. 

Where I live, "cocooning" is very common. It's the tendency to hunker down inside the house and not go out except for necessities: groceries, gas, work, possibly church. People don't visit each other - or they have to make a special effort to do so. 

The last couple of months, I've been experiencing this kind of phenomenon more than usual. There's an almost imperceptible sense of being in suspended animation, of 'waiting' for something... sometimes not so patiently.  

About three years ago, I ordered a Hoya carnosa plant from a nursery in Georgia that specializes in those kinds of plants. They sent me three rooted cuttings and I planted them. ONE survived. It grew from a five-inch-long stem with three leaves on it to the size it is today, about four feet long from root to longest tip. 

This kind of plant has to be well established before it will bloom. So, I've been waiting and expecting it to produce bloom clusters - they fill the air with a heady fragrance that is intensified by the nectar that hangs in droplets from the center of each flower. So far ... it has not bloomed. I've seen signs that it's developing the "nibs" from which the flower clusters will eventually grow, but it's happening a lot more slowly than I'd like.

My Hoya - photo taken about three weeks ago

It is healthy; it is growing and sending out shoots, and the foliage is lovely. Yet I find myself wondering when it will blossom.

In a way, I feel like my life is like that plant right now. I know where I want to be, but it's like I'm in a state of pseudo-hibernation. I'm healthy and growing; I know I am ... but it seems the conditions are not right for flowering. 

I know that it will happen. I just don't know when. And there's a large part of me that longs for it to start happening NOW. 

What I need to understand about the plant is that it takes however long it takes ... and that in the meantime, I need to look after what's there. There may be only leaves, but maybe if I focus on keeping them healthy, Mrs. Hoya will surprise me. And the way I keep them healthy is by providing enough light, warmth, and the right amount of water and food to nourish the roots. 

The same applies to me. I just need to make it a priority to look after my growth needs, to nourish my roots (those parts of me that are hidden from view but which are crucial to my spiritual health) and to stay in the warm atmosphere of acceptance, and the light of unconditional love.

Decompression

Part of my regimen of self-care for the past couple of years has been my Winter Plan. 

This usually involves taking about one day of vacation per month during those long, cold winter months (February seeming to be the longest) during which there are no statutory holidays at all from New Year's Day to Easter. (No, the place where I work doesn't allow that civic holiday in mid-February, and I don't cound Valentine's Day because it's a normal workday for me.) 

Today is one of those vacation days. I had requested it in late October, and had forgotten about it until about three weeks ago, when I was checking what leave I'd taken so far, and saw that request sitting there. (Bonus!) 

That's when the plan took shape. I'd not purchased a Christmas gift for my husband yet, and a suggestion from an acquaintance of mine was niggling in the back of my mind.

So, I went to expedia.com and looked into slashed prices for an overnight getaway. 

I found one. It sounded marvelous: a traditional room with a fireplace, and a free continental breakfast ... rated at four and a half stars. It was pricey even with the deal I was getting, but I figured it was well worth it... so I booked it.

Last night, around 5 pm, we arrived at the hotel, which had private off-street parking. We were greeted warmly, told where the elevator was and what complimentary beverages would be available (and when), and given our pass keys, as well as a card addressed to me (as the one who had booked the room) and some other information. 

The card itself was an engraved welcome to me by name, and wishes for a great stay. Okay, that was amazing in itself. 

Little touches like that were what we noticed most about our stay. We got a phone call in the room, fifteen minutes after checking in, just to see if everything was to our liking. When we went out for supper (around 7 because we'd had a late lunch) and returned, we saw that our blinds had been lowered and drapes shut, with Ovation mints and yet another card wishing us a great evening at the hotel waiting for us on freshly turned-down bed linens. 

We soaked in the quietness of this little nook. It was like a healing balm for the harried soul. 

We made use of the gas fireplace ... a LOT. 

The casement windows were a breeze to open and shut; we left one open a crack (since we weren't on the main floor) to provide some fresh air all night. We slept soundly and awoke refreshed, relaxed. The pace of life shifted into slow-motion; we savoured every moment. Nothing was rushed.

This morning, we enjoyed a luxurious continental breakfast in the lobby (itself so posh with leather couches, a grand fireplace, and an old upright piano in the corner). As for the food, they even had single-serving quiches as well as the usual fare, like muffins, bagels, biscuits, bread for toasting, and other surprises like four kinds of juices (served in a carafe with an ice-cylinder insert to keep them chilled, and coffee or hot water for tea. Once breakfast was over, they reset the lobby landscape, and revealed a huge Keurig machine and various kinds of K-cups for different tastes ... which we indulged, of course. 

Amazing. 

I can honestly say that I have never felt so pampered in my life, and hubby said the same. 

You know that feeling of everything being "right" in the world? the one where you just want to hug everything about that experience to yourself and make it last as long as you possibly can? The warmth of that very feeling was there from the first moment, and even after we checked out, it carried us through the rest of today as we had various errands to do. Early this afternoon, when I spoke in person to that acquaintance who'd suggested an overnight getaway, she told me that I was just glowing, that I looked so relaxed. 

It was relaxing; the whole experience was a time to decompress, to allow ourselves to be cared for, to be "made over" as the old-timers would say. 

Four years ago, I never would have considered doing such a thing. And now (although it would be nice to be able to do it more often) I'm even daring to dream about making it a regular (i.e., annual) thing.  

As miraculous as my recovery has been, this aspect of looking after myself has taken quite a while to grasp. As I've come to understand it, self-care is all about allowing good things to happen and not pushing them away just because of the lies I believed for so long: "I'm not worth it, nice people look after others first, and looking after myself is selfish." This getaway was a strong hint, not only to my husband (that he's worth that kind of spoiling ... and so much more!) but to me as well. 

I think I'm starting to get the message.

On Hold

"Your call is important to us. Please stay on the line and your call will be answered by the next available agent."

It's no secret that I hate waiting. In a sense, I guess that's why I think I do so much of it: the cosmos appears to try to neutralize negative pressure. ;)

In other words, "Get used to it."

The theme in the last couple of months for me has been to get used to waiting. I freely admit that this theme has been met with a lot of kicking and screaming. Waiting to get my old computer fixed. (and waiting). Waiting to see an answer to prayer for a friend. (As usual, God let us wait until the last possible moment before charging in and working a miracle!) 

I've even hated waiting for a diagnosis for our eldest whom we strongly suspect has torn at least one ligament in her knee and severely sprained her patellar tendon. Waiting for that appointment with the specialist, even though it was far sooner than we thought, has seemed interminable as I have watched her take with grace and aplomb the events of the last few days. 

Her attitude has been amazing. Mine? Not so much.

I know that in my relationship with God, if there is some lesson He wants to teach that I'm either just not getting or am unwilling to learn, He finds a way to get me to listen. Usually it's through circumstances that force me to do the thing He wants to teach me to do. When that doesn't work, there is that last resort ... sickness.

So you guessed it - I'm sick. It's "only a cold," but by the Mister Man, those little critters can sure pack a wallop! 

It started yesterday afternoon at work. I couldn't concentrate, and I caught myself "zoning out." Last night, it hit. I felt awful.

Suddenly, all around me, people are making ordinary plans, doing regular things, going on about their lives - and I can't join in. I'm too weak, my throat is too sore, and my body is too tired to do much more than sit at the computer and lurk on Facebook, bolstered by Advil, DayQuil, Vitamin C and coffee to stave off the drowsiness. Even then, I find myself drifting off to sleep.

A nap. A nap might really help. 

Life slows down to a snail's pace. And I spend a lot of time ... waiting. 

Waiting for others to finish doing what they're doing. Waiting for the medicines to kick in. Waiting for my body to fight the virus. Waiting for my throat to be well enough to eat the yummy - yet scratchy - foods that everyone is eating all around me: pizza, for example. 

Normal living - well, as "normal" as it gets for me - is "on hold." My definitions of what's important, what's essential, are being rewritten. Again. 

Okay God. I'm listening. This is me ... waiting.

The pain drain

Ever noticed that things that you would normally not mind seem to bother you more when you're in pain?

I have.  I've been in pain - not severe, but pretty much constant - for the last few months now.  Just when I think I'm getting ahead and can do more, it hits again and I'm down for the count - and the simplest, stupidest things can set it off.  Like turning to look at something by twisting around instead of moving my feet. (OW!  ... Grr.)  

And the pain (as I was saying in my opening) wears at you.  Even when other things take your attention and you forget the pain is there, one move and it reminds you that it has you. You become more irritable, less patient.  Your tolerance for everyday annoyances becomes practically non-existent.  At least mine does.  

And that can lead to some pretty stinking thinking.  Negativity.  Snappishness.  Resentments.  Or acute (and by that I don't mean clinical) depression.  

Those things creep up behind you when you've been strong (or tried to be strong) for a long time, and they grab you by the throat, sometimes through the most innocent of circumstances.  It takes a lot of acceptance and courage to let it go and to trust God when there seems to be no end in sight.  Especially when the feeling that you're being targeted, singled out, and attacked seems so overwhelmingly real.  

It's precisely BECAUSE the pain is always there, like a slow leak in your gas tank...  that when the ups and downs of life happen (as they do to everyone) they seem to require more of you or leave you running on empty.  

And you feel guilty for taking time so often to fill up, to look after your own needs instead of everyone else's. So you don't ... and the cycle starts all over again.  

I can't stress it enough.  Self-care is so very important.  You are the only you that you have, and if you're not at 100%, guess what. You're going to need rest, recharging, refueling more often.  There's no shame in admitting that you need rest, help, quiet, a hot bath, a walk (or a saunter, or a waddle in my case) in the park, a movie, a night out, or whatever it is that rejuvenates you. 

It's not a luxury.  It's an essential.

It's essential because you're you.  Okay, if you want other reasons, it's also because you can't give away what you don't have... so if others are depending on you (for whatever reason) you won't have the resources to help them if you're not looking after yourself. 

I've put myself in last place for so long that the habit is really hard to break. You know the habit I mean.  Put the food on everyone else's plate first (after all, it's polite.) Put everyone else's schedule first and fit your stuff in (if at all) at the end when you're spent from looking after their comings and goings. Spend money on everyone else at the store but not you; after all, there's no money left to spend, right? 

Carving out time for yourself is HARD.  It feels awkward.  You feel kind of guilty, ashamed of even admitting that you have needs, let alone taking steps toward meeting them.  That's the old messages of manipulation from your childhood creeping in, things you heard at school, from relatives, in church.  Silencing those voices is difficult and at first, they will be loud.  Very loud.  Attune your internal sensors to pick up the wistful whispers from your inner child, the one that always had to wait, always got the leftovers, always was overlooked. 

It doesn't mean that you're selfish.  It means that you have your priorities in the right order.  Your relationship with God. Then your relationship with YOU. THEN your relationship with others.  

And one more thing.  (This was tough for me, and it still is.)  Embrace the word "No."

I think that tonight, I need to spend some time with a few close friends in an accepting atmosphere, and I know just where to find that.  :D

Seeds

Don't judge each day by the harvest that you reap but by the seeds that you plant. - Robert Louis Stevenson


I heard this quote for the first time tonight. 

It reminded me of one of my favorite stories, based on a true story, called "The Man Who Planted Trees" - if you don't know it, I suggest you go to YouTube and look it up - the video (done by the National Film Board and narrated by Christopher Plummer) is about 30 minutes or so, and for this reason they have broken it up into about three parts, I think.  Anyway, the story is about how the faithful planting of trees by one man for several years, transformed a desolate wasteland into a life-filled countryside. 

I got this still from the video at this site

The truth is, we don't know what our seed-sowing will produce.  We have no idea whose life we will touch, or how - and we may never know. But someone will. 

Someone is glad I am here. Someone has been, is being, or will be blessed by something I do, say, or leave behind.  I do believe that.  I believe it is true for every person; each has a purpose that is far beyond his or her capacity to imagine.  

It is hard to say what that might be, or how it will pan out in the end.  But we all plant seeds - for good or ... not - and these seeds WILL bear fruit.  We may be curious as to the reasons why, or to our purpose, or to the "harvest" that may result.  But the harvest - small or large - doesn't matter.  Only the planting matters.  One seed after another: a smile, a kind word.  Honesty, openness, willingness, day after day, hour upon hour.  

Tiny seeds. Who knows where they will lead, how much they will grow?
I don't.  But I know Who does.

Soaking in love

The last day or so, I've been focusing on looking after myself, doing what I need to do in order to nourish my spiritual life, taking care of my mind and my body and especially my emotions.  

This morning I had the choice to go on the morning trip to take our daughter to work and to run errands with my husband. Normally I would go without question ... but today I decided to stay home.  I needed some quiet time just to myself.  

As I sat here, the silence - broken only by the gentle breathing of sleeping creatures and the quiet tick, tick, tick of the battery-operated clock - was like a soothing balm.  I could feel my muscles relaxing, hear the sound of my own breathing, and let God love me.  

Yeah I know, I know. God loves me all the time - but often, I don't make myself stop and experience it, take notice of it, remind myself of it.  When I don't remind myself, and I don't take time to intentionally soak in His love, I start to droop spiritually.

From the website:
http://www.flowershopnetwork.com/blog/peace-lily-drooping/

Just like my peace lily, which I keep at my office.  

Sometimes when I go to work, my peace lily is limp.  It means she has run out of water and needs it ... badly.  Peace lilies need a LOT of water compared to other plants like ivies.  Yet all it takes is a good dousing of clear (preferably room-temperature) water and she will slowly soak in that moisture and her leaves will perk up.  If she has blooms, they'll stand up straight too.  But it's not immediate.  It takes a few hours for the roots to be nourished enough to allow the excess water to travel to the leaves and blooms.  I get that; I was seriously dehydrated once, about 20 years ago - close to organ failure in fact.  They had to search really hard to find a vein since they were collapsing; I was nearly past caring at that point - yet scared enough to realize how important it was ... not only for me but for my unborn child ... that they find a functioning vein! Thankfully they did find one (or I would not be here to tell about it!) - it took them ten minutes of poking around. But re-hydration was even slower.  It took five days of IV fluids to get me to the place where I was even able to take soft foods. 

That's a scary place to be, spiritually as well as physically.  And this is where I was emotionally even as little as two days ago.  I am blessed to have been able to recognize that dragging myself around for weeks and not having the energy to do anything without exhausting myself, and not wanting to interact with anyone, even my family, were all warning signs of an internal drooping that had gotten so bad that I needed external help to start to look after myself.  And I am doubly blessed that I got the help and support I needed to start that process.  So I am deliberately "soaking in love": being nourished from the roots on up, and working out ways to incorporate self-care into my daily routine, not to let everyone else's needs and opinions take priority over my own.  

The best thing is ... that lovingly working on my behalf, I have the best gardener EVER.

Sea of Tranquility

I nudge my scrawny, 10-year-old body between two spruce trees, avoiding the prickles and dead twigs protruding from the bottom, and I pause.  I see a carpet of green grass, ringed completely by evergreens so thick that it is difficult to see past, and tricky to navigate on foot.  I allow the safety of this place, its beauty and quietness, to seep into my tired spirit.

My brother had shown this place to me a few years previous.  He called it the "Sea of Tranquility" - named after the same place on the moon - a flat place which was ringed in, protected.  I had visited here several times since.  

I pad silently into the circle.  The summer breeze plays 'in and out the window' between my bare, scabbed knees, war scars from learning to ride a bike.  There is just enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes away.  The sun soaks heat and restoration into my skin.  Here, the only sounds are the distant chirping of a cricket, the buzz of a couple of grasshoppers singing to each other, and the occasional bird chirping from one of the trees.  So peaceful.  So different.  

I lie down on my back, and lift my thoughts above.  The clouds are playing slow-motion tag, and I watch the birds swooping to catch flies on the fly, above me. My tense muscles start to unclench.  My soul drinks Creation in, like a desert traveler coming upon a natural spring.  Yet in the back of my mind I tell myself, "Mustn't stay here long.  She'll wonder ... and then I'll be in for it."  

The uncut grass blades tickle the backs of my legs.  I rub my calves together to take the prickling feeling away.  Slowly, the miracle of Nature soothes my thoughts, salves my troubles, and gives me just a little more strength.  The mental straitjacket loosens enough for me to catch a breath of the divine.  I allow myself to feel the caress of comfort.  I am not aware that I have begun to smile until a few minutes later, when I catch myself doing it. I close my eyes.

I hear a dog bark; it jolts me from my reverie.  I don't know how long I've been here, but my stomach lurches suddenly in panic.  Not because of the dog; I know all the dogs and they like me.  Not like her.  

I roll over onto one elbow and tuck my knees under me, rocking back onto my feet again.  I take one last look around and fill my lungs with freedom, enough to last me until the next time.  As I breathe out, my spirit says "Thank You," and my heart is resigned to what awaits me.  I tighten the straps around my heart once again, and squeeze past the trees, heading back the way I came.

This far - no further

Lately I've been struggling with boundaries.  

Not so much with where they are - I am slowly getting a comfort level there - but how to set them .... and how to enforce them .... is the thing that's been occupying my attention the last few weeks.  

I know I have to set these boundaries, and the hardest ones to set are those that must be put up for the first time with people (especially members of one's family-of-origin, be they natural or extended) who not only don't have ANY boundaries of their own, it seems to be part of their religion to cross over others' borders too - and stomp all over the tulips while they're there.  So (this is a given) I know for certain that they won't understand. I used to think exactly as they do now.  I know that they will wonder just what the big deal is.  And that they'll judge me - and tell everyone they know how cruel and ungrateful I'm being, to get them to judge me too, so their own treatment of me seems justified.  I KNOW this. Yet I am feeling compelled to tell them why I'm setting that boundary, how disappointed I am that they wouldn't have had the good sense to know not to "go there".  How wrong their crossing it is.  How much it hurts.  And yes, a large part of me wants to stick it right back to them.


I can't lie about it.  But it doesn't make their trespassing on my emotional property any less wrong.  And here I sit.  And I question.  And I pray.  And I wonder.  

Image "Businesswoman Asking To Stop"
courtesy of imagerymajestic at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

How much should I tell them?  How do I tell them?  Do I tell them ANYTHING?  I write stuff so ... should I write to them?  Hmmm... any of the rare times I've ever written to someone before about something similar - it wasn't pretty.  The fangs and claws came out - on both sides.  It was pretty ugly.  I hesitate before doing that again.  

Maybe I should just be quiet and not "go there" myself.  Say nothing, but refuse to play that game - and then when they ask about it ... keep it not only simple, but short.   Yet there's this big, empty ... whatever... out there which begs, no, demands to be addressed.  The call of that thing is so strong, perhaps irresistible.  Or is it really "out there"??  Maybe it's actually "in here" - maybe it's just my own desire for self-justification.  Or maybe, as people in the recovery circles I hang around in say, it's "the codependent crazies."  That desire to gain the upper hand, to change the other person's behavior - even though I know for sure it won't - and will probably make it worse...!  

One of the things I learned in a course many years ago just popped into my head.  The course was on decision-making - and I remember the instructor saying, "The decision to do nothing is still a viable decision.  Sometimes a problem needs to just stew for a while - as uncomfortable as that is - and come to its own conclusion." 

That is the only option for me right now that has any semblance of peace attached to it.  Everything else is rife with turmoil.  So - once again I turn the whole situation - and myself - over to God, asking Him to relieve me of the bondage of self-will run riot, and to make me an example of what happens in a heart totally in love with Him.    

GIGO

GIGO  -  Garbage In, Garbage Out.  It's a computer saying, meaning that if you program a computer wrong, all that you get back is wrong.  I used to say this all the time to my kids when they were growing up, referring to the multitude of mindless kids' shows on TV which glorified mediocrity, applauded insolence, and condoned lying.  

Of course I overdid it, but that's another story.  

I was reminded of the principle of GIGO tonight.  I'd been somewhere talking to someone and our circumstances were not going according to plan and we had to wait for someone else.  I felt irritated, insulted by the people who were inconveniencing us when they knew we would be there at a certain time.  I started railing inside at these people, looking for someone to blame, looking to attribute motive to what these folks were doing, rather than take the incident at face value: they were delayed.  In the meantime, someone came in wearing a scented product.  Oh, this was just ducky.  Now a headache on top of it.

Once allowed to continue by this other group, the light blue funk I was in started to deepen in hue, especially since our own time was cut short, and then afterward, someone else assumed that we would do something we had neither the time nor the inclination to do; yet, we found ourselves agreeing to do it.  Then the requester found another person who was willing to do it instead. Instead of feeling grateful, I soon found myself talking about this person to someone else - none too flatteringly - and as I walked away from the whole encounter and got into the car, I felt disappointed, soiled, slimy inside.  Looking at my behavior the previous 2 hours it wasn't hard to see why.  

MY plans had been infringed upon.  MY space had been crowded.  MY position in the scheme of things had been supplanted.

It was all about me.  And then I realized that I'd been feeding garbage to my spirit, allowing it to snarf up a big pile of ego-led nonsense.  No wonder I soon felt like yesterday's trash.  

As we stopped at a local dairy bar for a small treat, we talked about something good, something uplifting.  I could feel my spirit getting lighter, more buoyant.  Finally I could see clearly to know what my problem had been.  As soon as I identified it out loud to my 'sundae date', there was an immediate sense of "rightness" that came over me.  Like Someone inside said, "Yeah....that's it."  And I could let the resentment go and focus on the positive instead of the negative.  As soon as I did, even the headache started to leave, all on its own.  

Well - sort of on its own.  I think it had Help. 

Endless Variety

My hubby loves carpentry and woodworking.  He says he's not good at it; however, he loves the smell of sawdust and the feeling of thinking something up in his own mind and seeing it come into being.

Uniformity is important in working with wood.  Symmetry.  Sameness.  The photo to the right is of something called a "jig" - which allows the carpenter to make cut after cut the exact same way with a table saw.  Over and over and over.  To me, whose art is more verbal and musical than that, that's boring.  But... it's necessary to have structure, even in writing and music!! 

I find it intriguing that the God of the universe, who is One of endless variety, would choose to be born into a family where the dad was a carpenter.  He understands from experience that the framework has to be the same.  The foundation has to be solid, the framing square. There is a certain order.  After that, creativity can be expressed and variety takes over.

Even a cursory study of the scriptures shows us that God doesn't like to be pegged.  Never, ever does He EVER do something the same way twice.  I suspect that this is so that we don't think we can figure Him out and predict what He's going to do, so that we don't get cocky.

Nature itself bears witness to His imagination and the joy He takes in creating masterpiece after masterpiece, no two alike.

Sunsets, cloud formations, all kinds of animals.  The same concept applies.  The same raw materials for the sunsets, the same basic skeletal structure for the animals.  But there the similarity ends.  God seems to take delight in doing the unexpected. 

So what makes us think that we can reduce His working down to a prescribed formula?  "A plus B equals C.  Believe this, do that, and God is obliged to deposit this desired outcome into your lap."  Vending-machine thinking!  The ones who have it all worked out to this nice, seven-steps-to-prosperity thinking have tried (and failed, might I add) to put God in a box. They somehow don't seem to realize that it's all a sham, that there is so much more to God than Him being a celestial Santa Claus who hands out rewards for being good. They've tried to put a "jig" on God.

Well, the jig is up.  Although His workings might follow a very vague pattern, there is no predicting what God will do, or what He'll use to accomplish what He wants.  He might even use things we never would have imagined - such as suffering that we brought on ourselves, even - to work out in us what He wants.  All of it is designed to get us to the point where we realize that without Him, we can do nothing in and of ourselves; we can't even believe in Him - even faith is a gift of undeserved favor from Him!  And then we ask - humbly, not demanding - for Him to live through us.  To grant His power to do what we have tried, over and over again, to do ... and failed miserably.  

At that point, when we admit that we are powerless over the fatal flaws in ourselves and in others, and ask Him to take over, that is when He breathes a sigh of relief and starts creating another masterpiece - from the inside out. 

In Quietness and Confidence

Whenever my mind is in turmoil and my thoughts in a vortex, when I'm either (as one friend put it) futurizing or pasteurizing instead of living in and appreciating the Now, I find it helpful to go to a quiet place, even if only in my mind.

I have a variety of vehicles to get there.  One is music, another is art, another is the beauty of Nature; still another is just ... quietness.

Even as a quiet person by nature, I had to train myself to be quiet in the way that I needed to be in order to thrive spiritually.  The pressures and demands of the day were just too much for me to handle and often I would attend to the urgent while neglecting the most important things: developing relationship with God, looking after my spiritual condition, spending time with people of like mind and faith, and reaching out to those with whom God led me to share.

As a result I got stressed, harried, and close to burnout, which is where I stayed for weeks, months at a time.  I felt that if I just pushed myself a little more, had more coffee, stayed up a little later, that things would improve. But I ended up having less time for the things that were important than if I'd just taken the time to put those things first.

First things first, as the saying goes.  The tendency is always there for me to rush around inside my head, thinking of a million different things that would be nice, but which are not essential to my spiritual growth or to the path of healing He has laid out for me.  I need to let go of my need to control things, to finagle my way into getting what I want, and let God do what He wants in my life.  Usually that involves me being honest ... first with Him and with myself, then with others.  When I do, much of the turmoil is replaced with peace.

Once in a while, God reminds me that all the things I think are so important are really only urgent.  The urgency of these things will pass if I just let go.  Just relinquish my hold on them.  Many of them simply fade away into nothingness. 

When I discipline myself to get alone with Him and turn my wants and the rule of my life over to Him on a continual basis, He works things out, often in the most amazing ways and in spite of (sometimes even because of) my own failings.  Through it all, He faithfully keeps reminding me that my strength is in Him, that the power to live my life is found in quietness and in confidence, and that as long as I have my attention focused on Him and let Him do His work unhindered, knowing He has my best interests at heart, I have nothing to fear.  And peace just comes.