Existence versus Life

As I write this, my mind and heart is a jumble of myriad tangled feelings, thoughts, memories, and pain – each competing with the other and yet co-existing and draining my strength as they fight their constant battle. This battle? This war? This is grief. This is love when arms can no longer hold the loved one.

Less than 48 hours ago, my brother Ben passed away from septic shock combined with pneumonia that he developed from an infection in a tube-site for his gall bladder. The tube was initially inserted in February 2017 and his surgeon hesitated to remove both it and the gall bladder for fear of him experiencing a coronary on the table. He had atherosclerosis (with a total of 3 stents in various heart arteries, for which he was taking a blood-thinner since the last heart attack on February 14, 2019.)  He also had insulin-dependent diabetes, chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, nephrolithiasis, and chronic renal failure, and he was on dialysis three times a week.

In fact, that’s how I found out that he was in trouble. His dialysis nurse called me and said he didn’t show up for his Monday morning appointment. After trying to reach him, thinking he had overslept, I called a relative and asked them to go check to see if he was at home. His car was, but he didn’t answer. After that, I called 911 who patched me through to the RCMP. They went to his house, saw him awake on his bed through his (main floor) bedroom window, and he was unable to get up. They broke the door down and called the EMT people. That would have been around 3 pm or so. The EMTs came and got an IV started. They took him to the local hospital who assessed him and intubated him as he was having difficulty breathing. Then they ambulanced him to the hospital where he normally did his dialysis. They got him there around 7 p.m.  Three hours after he got there, he took a turn for the worse, and went into septic shock. The nurse called me and asked me or someone to come to the hospital right now. They tried to revive him three times but to no avail. At 10:15 pm, he was pronounced dead.

And that is what the doctor told me ten minutes later, over the phone, as I was getting my coat on to make the two-and-a-half-hour trip to see him. Such pain I had not felt in over six years since my youngest daughter died at the age of 21.

My night-time trip was cancelled, of course. I made plans to pack up the next day, and go to the homestead to assess the damage and the mess. I might have slept four hours that night. The next night, with the help of some Melatonin, I slept for six hours, although there was one interruption at five a.m. when Ben’s alarms went off to remind him to get up for dialysis. Hopefully, tonight will be better.

During my waking hours, I have been doing a lot of thinking about the difference between existing and living. For most of his life, Ben just existed. He grew up thinking that he was a nuisance to his parents. He bore the inner scars of physical and psychological abuse by his mom and abandonment by his dad who never stopped her, and the bruises of an older brother who criticized everything he did and regularly pounded on him. He bore other scars too: a marriage that lasted only 14 years before it ended in divorce, alienation from his sons, rejection from an endless string of women, as well as being used by women who befriended him only for his bank account. His was a lonely life. He battled the loneliness with his art: he could draw landscapes, animals, and people just by looking at pictures of things. He composed so many songs and sang them with me and with that older brother when we were all so young (I was 16 at the time, so he was 22 and the other brother was 26) – gospel songs that were so beautiful you could hear a pin drop when we were done.

Yet he suffered. I remember him coming home from senior high school and sobbing as he begged me never EVER to judge a man just on his appearance. I never EVER forgot his words. 

Yes, most of his life he was a melancholy man. He existed; he created beautiful things and appreciated beauty in nature and in people, but his existence was spent waiting for the next good thing to happen, and being disappointed time after time after time. 

After his divorce in the early 1990s, he moved in with Mom and Dad. He was there for Mom after Dad passed away, and he made sure he was there to look after things for her. Others would come in and see him lazing around, as they called it. He rested because he couldn’t breathe if he got up and moved around. He had so many ailments: his lungs, his kidneys, his heart, his gall bladder, his pancreas,… people didn’t understand and he felt a lot of condemnation come from them. Nobody understood him, he told me, except me. And sometimes even that wasn’t enough to tame the monsters of hatred and bullying that he experienced – whether real or imagined – from others.

Once, he even tried to commit suicide. He had finally learned how to love unconditionally, and his girlfriend stole from him and used the money to get high. 

A few months later that girl died … and it took him months to make peace with that.

Photo "Eye" by graur codrin at www.freedigitalphotos.net

But by that time, he had learned to live. To REALLY LIVE.

You see, in October 2016, Ben had been diagnosed with stage one colon cancer. And in January 2017, he underwent a six-hour procedure to remove the cancer along with a 5-inch section of bowel. And when he woke from that surgery, while he was still recovering in the hospital, he was listening to the radio and a singer Skip Ewing was singing, “How can he be a king? He’s just a kid.” And God spoke to him in his heart, and said, “Are you listening, son?”  And he responded, tears streaming down his face, “Yes, Father. I’m here. I hear You.”

From that moment on, Ben started to really LIVE. He had some setbacks and some heartaches (like the death of that girlfriend). And he was living on a very limited income, never knowing if he would need to starve in order to be warm, or to freeze in order to eat. It was hard. It was REALLY hard. But he was finally LIVING. We would talk on the phone – and I would let him listen to music that he liked – and he would cry tears of beauty and joy. He never forgot how God rescued him, miraculously let him live, and would look after his every need. Even if he misplaced his car keys. Or his needles. Or his wallet.

Last year, on Valentine’s Day 2019, he suffered a major heart attack. The paramedics found him and the emergency team had to put an intravenous shunt through his shin bone to give him liquids. He screamed in pain and then his heart went into atrial fibrillation. They had to use the paddles to get him back – and he was “gone” for a few seconds there.

He remembered those few seconds. He felt completely at peace. He couldn’t see anything, but he knew that he was loved, cared for, and safe. And from that time onward, he lost his fear of death. He lost his fear of living, too. And the living he had been doing up until then just intensified. He could not keep silent about God’s love for him. Anyone who knew him heard him talk about higher things, spiritual things, wonderful things like love and joy and peace and goodness. He touched so many people that way: people in dialysis, people in drug stores, people at church, in grocery store lineups, everywhere.

That’s not to say that he didn’t have questions. We would talk for hours at a time as he tried to understand some spiritual concept or other. We talked almost every day, for up to two or three hours at a time. (It’s a good thing I have such a good cell phone plan that includes free long distance!) But every time we talked, he would not hesitate to tell me what he had been learning, what God showed him or how He helped him find something he needed. Or met a need in his finances. Or let him talk to someone about his experiences in the Lord.

And now this week, I have been living in his house without him here. Memories galore. Yet it feels so surreal: not quite right, like he should be here laughing and joking with us, listening to YouTube videos, or talking about how wonderful Heaven is.

And yes, he could not let a conversation go by before he mentioned how deeply he longed to see his Master’s face, to walk the shores of Glory with Him, to hug Dad, and to jam with friends and family gone ahead.

And now he is there. And he is LIVING beyond his wildest imaginings – and he could imagine a LOT!!

Good night Ben. See you in the Morning. Keep a chair for me by the hearth, and say hi to Dad for me. I love you beyond measure. 

And … I will miss you. I’ll never forget what you taught me about how to live life in a positive way and not just exist expecting the worst.

Thank you. Thank you SO MUCH.

Around the Bend

I like to be able to see a clear path ahead. I like to know what is coming so that I have time to prepare. I like it, but it doesn't often happen.

There are bends in the road. Where I live, the members of my family joke about how the designers of the roads must have been on a drunken binge because the roads twist and wind and nearly turn back on themselves so much that if you took all the curves out, and went in a straight line, you could get to your destination 80% quicker. 

Mind you, the scenery would be a lot more boring. :) 

Photo "Serpentine Path Stones On A Park Lawn (concept)"
courtesy of arturo at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Lately, in my work and professional life, things have been taking quite the twisty path.  After my best prospect for a counselling practicum placement fell through in my city, I received rejection after rejection until I had exhausted all possibilities. It was quite discouraging.

I had also looked into placements outside of the province, but these seemed unworkable... until one day my husband indicated that he would be willing to make whatever sacrifices he needed to make to allow my dream to become a reality - and if that meant me living in a neighbouring province, then so be it. 

Really?

Yes, really. So I contacted these prospects and tomorrow, I will be attending two interviews with these places. By the end of the day, there MAY even be an offer on the table. In the space of about two or three short weeks, I have gone from ultimate discouragement to first a glimmer, and now a beam of hope. And not a moment too soon.... with only three weeks until my practicum arrangement must be approved by my grad school, timelines are tight. 

And yet ... and yet aside from the usual jittery feelings preceding an interview, the deep inside part of me feels a sense of calm about the whole thing, like I don't need to be concerned about it.  It will be what it is. And it could be quite wonderful. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. And before you know it, I will be around that next bend in the road. 

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.

Relax into it

Every so often my daughter - who is prone to anxiety - gets so tense that she can't relax herself, so she gets headaches and backaches that can't be touched by anti-inflammatories, muscle relaxers or electric massagers. That's when she asks me if I will give her a massage.

It's something I used to do a lot when she was having regular migraines. 

So I get her to sit down in a chair in front of the dining room table, with her arms resting in front of her on the table and her head resting upon her arms. She knows "the drill" - the unspoken request for her to fight her natural instinct to tense up when I start to massage a tender spot. Tensing up only makes it hurt worse in the long run. So she has learned to "relax into it." 

Photo "Oil Massage" courtesy
of samuiblue at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

And the massages take far less time as a result. I can literally feel the knots loosening under my hands and fingers as I work. She accepts a certain amount of discomfort, knowing that when I am done, the pain will be far less than when I started. 

It's a lesson we teach each other. I've been taking her example as I get into a different season in my life, one of waiting. I find waiting so incredibly hard. 

Yet I spend the vast majority of my time doing it. 

Just now I'm in transition, extricating myself from one university program to migrate to one in a different university that (even though it will take longer) will give me a more usable degree when I am done. The process of change is stressful, but already I am seeing myself with more time on my hands, and having that much free time is a bit of an adjustment for me after spending almost every spare waking minute studying. It's too early to apply for the new program, so in some ways I'm twiddling my thumbs. This (believe it or not) is tension-producing. I'm learning ... slowly ... to 'relax into it' and let events unfold as they unfold. For someone who historically has had to know what was going to happen for the next five or ten years in advance, this is a relatively new skill. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Relax. Good words. 

Good words to remember as this week (Wednesday) we try to find a way to celebrate (and survive) Arielle's birthday. To know that that particular day marks 38 weeks since we got the news of her death. And to take the next breath in. And let it out. To relax while we do it. And then do it again. 

"Relaxing into it" is a lifestyle lived out day by day, hour by hour, minute by minute. It's a lifestyle of acceptance - acceptance of people, places, and circumstances. It is a refusal to tense up and stress over things I can't control. It is letting go of what was before and embracing what is now ... even if the now is painful. Or uncertain. Or blah. It's all good. God has His finger on that pressure point and all I need to do is turn my attention to His care for me and the knots of tension disappear from my soul. I can breathe again, move again, laugh again. I can learn to live in that relaxed state. 

And why not?

Journey of 1,000 miles

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, so the saying goes. 

And then there's the next one. And the next. And the next.

And a seemingly endless, terrifyingly long journey it is. Taken into the mind all at once, it seems insurmountable. 

So many things in life are like that. Grief is one thing. Pain is another. And truth be told, the entirety of LIFE is like that. One day blindly merging into the next and if taken all as one heap, overwhelming. Bewildering. Uncertain. Stressful.

Regret for the past and worry for the future fill our mental health care facilities. We can call it a lot of fancy-sounding names but the many forms of depression and anxiety boil down at their most basic form, to an inability to live in the moment. (Notice I didn't say an unwillingness. I said an inability.)
 
"Without help it is too much for us." (Alcoholics Anonymous, ch 5: "How it Works"). 

Help comes from various sources. 

• friends who care and who show it
• mental health professionals
• support groups
• 12-step groups (which primarily are NOT support groups, so they get their own designation)
• family and/or "chosen family"
• church members
• pastors and other church leaders
• and last but definitely not least, trusting in a "higher power" has the potential to help. Immensely.

Even the word "help" implies a source outside of the self, so let's not delude ourselves into thinking that we can do this (live our whole lives) in isolation.

Ahh yes. Like a two-year-old flexing his independence muscles, the self vaunts itself up and says, "Me do it myself." 

Maybe. But would I ever want to be that self-sufficient that I didn't need anyone? Would I like the kind of person I would become if I thought I didn't need others in my life? Ever?

I don't think so. 

I think I have met a few of those people who honestly think they don't need anyone else. They wouldn't think of reading someone else's blog - at least not one like this - because they feel they have it all together. (Of course there are many reasons for not reading blogs; that's just one of them. ;) ) ...  But here's the thing. While these folks ooze with a sense of their own brand of bravery ... well, I cannot recall ever wanting to be around them for too long, because it all seemed a little, you know, arrogant. Just saying. 

I do know a few people, though, in whose company I feel welcome, safe, and accepted. And every single one of them admit that they need others in their lives to be able to put one foot in front of the other. To feel centered.

To stay in today. 

Photo "Footprints On The Beach Sand" is by
foto76 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Life - and death, and deep grief (I am discovering) - teaches me that today is the day in which I live and love. Yesterday is gone, although I can still have wonderful memories to sustain me. Tomorrow is not here yet, although I can still dream of better days. But living life happens right here, right now, and while I'm doing that, I need help. And help is there. Even in the darkest of nights, all I need to do is whisper, "God?" and I know He understands. And He carries me for a while.

And there's more. 

Help from people is all around me if I know where to look; sometimes I need to ask for it, because people (contrary to my "if they love me they'll know how I feel" fallacy) can't read my mind, especially if I hide how I feel to "spare their feelings." (As if mine didn't count.) And sometimes help even comes unbidden, from places I never thought to check! This is certain: more people care about me than I had ever dreamed; I am finding that out now more than at any other time in my life. And although sometimes that care is expressed in ways I might not understand or appreciate at the time, I am learning to see past fumbled words and awkward silences and see the heart beneath. 

And it's good.

But help can only go so far, and the helpers around me only frustrated, if I insist on tormenting myself with the regrets of past that I can't change and with the dreaded events of the future that I am powerless to prevent. That is one reason why I have to remind myself to stay in today; it's the only way to not just survive, but to live. Fully. Take THIS step. Then the NEXT one. Left foot, right foot. Look up. Be grateful. Forgive. Breathe. Move on. 

Repeat. Repeat as many times as there are steps to take ... because the journey is worth it.

The Truth : Taking Responsibility

| This above all: to thine own self be true,
| And it must follow, as the night the day,
| Thou canst not then be false to any man.

- Polonius, in Hamlet, Act I Scene iii (William Shakespeare) 

I've been having discussions with a few people lately about how important it is to be honest about even the little things, to maintain personal integrity. The practice of honesty with oneself (and then inevitably with others) is one that, in today's society, is slowly going the way of the whooping crane. 

It is high time to revive it. 

During the last four and a half years, I've been living a lifestyle that demands rigorous honesty - first with the self, then with God and with others.

That forces me to be realistic with myself about a great many things I might otherwise have shoved under the carpet and lived in denial about. It fertilizes my conscience. It demands that I own up to my mistakes - even to (and especially to) my children. It makes me examine the motivations behind my own behaviors that still at times baffle me.

I've discovered that as I embrace this personal honesty, I have less tolerance for being snowed, no matter who's doing it. It's like I have this "BS meter" that points not only within but also outward. It pings all over the place when I hear people talk whose power has gone to their heads - notably politicians, high-ranking officials in businesses or organizations, and the like. 

However, the loudest pinging goes on when I am not being true to my moral compass, when I allow myself to be led astray or I start rationalizing my behavior to myself. That's a good sign. The loudest pinging used to be when I noticed someone else being dishonest. I still notice, but it's tempered with the knowledge that it could just as easily be me compromising my principles to satisfy some ulterior motive.  I know. I've done it.

Insisting on honesty doesn't mean I'm not tactful when I notice something askew in someone else's behavior. It doesn't mean I "let it all hang out" and justify my lambasting someone by saying that I'm being honest. Nor does it mean that I keep silent when silence is not called for. It means that I look at my own reactions and check my own integrity first. It means that I understand that I am human. Fallible.  And that it is okay to make mistakes - as long as I recognize them, and that I learn from them. 

Telling myself the truth is the first step in me taking responsibility for my part in whatever situation has become unlivable. It doesn't allow me the luxury of blaming another person entirely for the state of a relationship or a situation.

When I do need to confront someone, I remind myself to do so in meekness and kindness, with consideration for that person's feelings. It's the way I want to be treated whenever I mess up.

Wouldn't you?

The Acid Test

The term, "the acid test" has been around since the days of the early gold prospectors. They needed a way to determine if the metal they found was real gold or some other metal. So, they would mark the metal with nitric acid, which would melt other metals; gold, not so much. That term came to mean the way by which someone would know if something was genuine or not - from merchandise to someone's promises or beliefs. 

I got to thinking about this expression this morning as the face of this one person came into my mind, someone to whom some people react one way while others react the opposite way.

I first met Joseph in the late 1990s. He's an itinerant - a man who chooses to be homeless. He has a "home base" - the home of a relative in a different province - but he only goes there once in a while to catch up on his mail. Most of the time, no matter what the season, he walks and sometimes hitch-hikes from place to place.  He has a full beard, wears layer upon layer of clothing (because there's no other place to put it) and smells of spruce, wood smoke, and sweat. He makes no apologies for his appearance or his lifestyle. He sleeps in the woods, sometimes in a sleeping bag and sometimes not. 

It's intriguing to see the reactions of different people to this man. The first time I saw him, I was a receptionist at a church office. He walked into the office one day in 1998. My immediate impression was that he was a homeless man in his mid-fifties, in need of a bath, a good meal and a change of clothes.  There was something about him, though - something in his eyes, which contradicted what my sense of smell was telling me. My boss at the time, a wonderful pastor, caught sight of him and came out to greet him warmly. I decided to watch him, talk to him, and get to know him a bit better. 

Taken at Picadilly Circus, London.
Thanks to photographer Mantas Ruzveltas
for this photo, "Homeless Man" - obtained at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Over the course of the next week, as he used the woods behind the church to sleep in (with the pastor's permission of course!) I learned that he loved his life, that he enjoyed country and western music (well, nobody's perfect), that he was a diabetic, and that he had the most gentle, humble character you would ever want to meet. I instinctively knew that if I ever needed anyone to look after my preschool children, I could trust him implicitly to guard them with his life. 

I began to look forward to his visits; he was always so full of joy, so content with his chosen lifestyle, so grateful for every bit of help offered to him, and so accepting of others. About once or twice a year he would show up, stay a few days and then move on. Whenever he did, he'd stop for a church service on a Sunday morning. He'd usually sit at the back, close to the door, so that he could slip to and from the washroom unnoticed. It was there that I noticed the varied reactions to his presence. They were much like my original impression had been - except that they were a bit more (how shall I put this nicely? oh never mind) "in your face."  Some reactions were downright visceral; they were clearly repulsed by this man and got as far away from him as possible. 

Many of these people are the first to attend prayer vigils and go to spiritual retreats, talk about the glory days, and tell others exactly what they believe. 

But Joseph is the acid test  -  his very existence challenges people and he isn't even aware of it; he just is who he is. Yet the challenge hangs in the air, "Do you really believe what you say you believe?"

A few months ago, as winter melted into spring, I found myself wondering where Joseph was, if he was still out there tramping the roads and touching lives with his uniqueness. 

And then one Sunday morning recently, I saw him - sitting by himself in the back near the door. His hair and beard were more gray; his face was more gaunt, but it was him. He was beaming, basking in the simple but profound pleasure of good music and shelter from the rain. When the service was over, I rushed over to where he'd been sitting, but he was gone. Disappointment settled on me like a wet blanket. I made my way back to my seat and began to pick up my purse and other items.

Then I turned and saw him, not ten feet away! He'd been in the washroom (most likely) and was coming up to the front to talk to the pastor and ask for a drive. My eyes misted over; what a beautiful soul. I shook hands with him and was delighted that he remembered me - his grip was a little weaker, but still firm. He was wobbling a bit with age and the ravages of life on the road - but it was the Joseph I remembered. His eyes were still as bright, and his smile as ready as it always was. 

Given the rainy day, the pastor asked a young man (a student interning at the church) to drive Joseph to where he needed to go next - across town - and I wondered if yet another generation would come to appreciate the inner beauty of this simple man ... and pass the acid test. 

I sure hope so.

My "Other" Family

Okay, I have to admit it. Sometimes I can be a funny duck. Funny like .... strange. 

Having multiple chemical sensitivities, I enjoy the company of house plants: they clean the toxins from the air and give back oxygen in return, and they're pretty! 

I got away from having plants at home unless they were up high where the cats couldn't reach them; so many house plants are poisonous to cats and dogs, and even if I could find one that wasn't, I was not fond of the idea of having it destroyed by a furry buddy with a vine-chewing fetish. So at home, I only have a couple of plants, set up where the four-legged kind can't reach: a hoya plant which I raised from a cutting, and an umbrella plant that I got on sale for a buck fifty at Wal-Mart. 

But at work - where there are no four-legged critters - I've amassed quite a family. Most of them I have inherited from other people who were willing to give them to me. One came from Wal-Mart, and grew from just a little shaver into a bushy fella I've taken cuttings from to give to others.  Another came from a plant that I bought in a flower shop and which grew so big I had to divide it and give three-quarters of it away. 

Helen sitting and rooting between the spider-twins.
Yes, each plant has its own label on my shelf.
I'm just that quirky.

I have the twins, Anson and Anna, children of the now-deceased Queen Anne (a huge spider plant). There is Nigel, a robust and friendly English Ivy I bought at Wal-Mart three years ago or so; he kept hugging every other plant set beside him, so I had to keep him by himself until he learned to behave. Now he's better, so as of Thursday past, he has a new companion, a lovely philodendron I have named Philomena, given to me by a friend who was leaving the building to go to a different job. That same friend allowed me to have a cutting he was growing of a baby rubber plant. Since I'm a great Pixar fan and I'm fond of their latest superhero movie, "The Incredibles" - I named this one Helen, after Helen Parr, the secret identity of "Elastigirl". She sits between the spider-twins at the moment and keeps them company, concentrating on growing roots in a big Santa-Claus mug. 

Serena, next to the pot which will be Helen's home.
(My neighbor's peace lily is in the background.)
The only critter I let near my plant family is Tigger,
a crocheted critter made for me by
my friend Dorothy, whose e-store
is at http://dorothyscritters.ecrater.com/

And finally, I have Ireney, the Peace Lily. She is the other of the plants that I purchased (Serena) who got so big that she needed to be divided. I gave the other three plants to good homes. She's higher-maintenance than the others, but every so often she gives me a treat: a lovely white blossom that graces my cubicle for a couple of weeks.

And yes, if you haven't already guessed by now, I name my plants... which is why I said that I'm a funny duck. 

Of course they're like family to me. They brighten my work space, clean my air, and help me remember that there is a world outside the four walls of both my cubicle and the building in which I work. They remind me of the people that gave them to me. They help me remember that differences make life interesting. And they have opened quite a few conversations ... just by being there.

I guess that's the main reason I keep potted plants: as an object lesson to me that one doesn't have to grunt and strain and strive in order to grow; one just IS. With proper care, the growth will look after itself.  In some ways, plants are self-sufficient: they send out roots and they make chlorophyll out of light, a process that boggles my mind. However, these indoor plants are also completely dependent on the water and the care that I provide. Without me, in a very real sense, they can do nothing. I need to be reminded that while it is all well and good for folks to be self-sufficient and pull their own weight, everyone is dependent on others to provide a safe place to grow and thrive. 

We all need each other, whether we want to admit it or not. 

Philomena settling in. You can just see Nigel
peeking over the top of my cubicle to her right.

 

The Open Door

When one door of happiness closes, another opens; but often we look so long at the closed door that we do not see the one which has been opened for us. - Helen Keller

In my last post, I talked about giving myself time to let go, to lean against the closed door and process the natural emotional reactions behind letting go, before looking for that opened door to which Helen Keller referred. 

It's kind of funny how life has a way of telling you it's time to move on. Like having an opportunity you thought was open for you way up the road, suddenly appear before you.

Let me explain.

A few months ago, I began looking into the possibility of furthering my studies. I have an undergraduate degree - and this has opened doors for me in the past and made it possible to work in a job that I enjoyed - but a combination of events has birthed a desire in me to make more of a difference to the world than I am now. 

I had decided that, because of certain financial projects that were in the works for this year, I could go back and get my graduate degree starting in May 2014. It would give me time to take care of those projects and then to save up for my tuition. I even looked around and chose the school and the program I would be taking. 

And then, a door closed in my life. That one closed door had a number of repercussions I had not expected on several of those expenses I thought I would have - and as I sat at breakfast with my husband this morning, he took something I had mentioned in passing last night, and ran with it. He gently suggested that I could go back to school sooner. Much sooner. Like in September - only a little over 3 months away. 

Gulp.

Within the space of about 10 minutes, we were talking about logistics, finances, schedules, and division of labor. 

And I felt it happen. 

"Blank Paper Sheet And Pin" photo courtesy of
Witthaya Phonsawat at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The page was turning. That open door looked a LOT closer. 

Nerve-wracking? OH yes. Yet, as we discussed it, I recognized the sensation of anticipation - almost excitement, right along with all the nervousness and trepidation. 

I'd stopped leaning against the closed door. I was standing on my own two feet and pondering opportunities instead of regretting what couldn't be. 

It was almost surreal, like I was in a time warp - the world in slow motion around me. Voices muffled; all that existed was this pivotal moment.

The sense of pervading peace and serenity, even in the midst of uncertainty and near-panic, was unmistakable. This was it. This was the next right thing. This was something I needed to do.  For ME. I needed to do this to look after myself, to challenge my limits, to overcome obstacles, to practice self-discipline, and eventually to give back to the world.

Oh, did I mention that my graduate degree (Master's) would give me the opportunity to register as a certified counselor? Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you that part.

☺

There is something very gratifying about turning that new page, that page with nothing written on it yet. For a writer, there's a little thrill when opening a new notebook, sliding a hand across a clean page, and preparing to write that first word. It's almost as if that first word is the most important one, even if it is a small one. 

This is a small word. 
I. 
The next word is a verb. 
I want. 
What do I want? I want to make. 
Make a difference.
A difference in me, a difference in others.

So ... guess what?

The door is before me. And I'm reaching for the doorknob.