Never too late

One day, not too awfully long ago, I was standing at a wicket at the Department of Motor Vehicles and waiting for someone to process a form, when I saw the most peculiar sight at the next wicket. Two people were standing there - the family resemblance and the ages told me that it was probably a grandfather and grandson. 

"Oh isn't that sweet," I thought to myself. "Someone is getting his first driver's license." 

I started to listen in on the conversation. The two men beside me were both Korean. The woman was speaking to the younger man, who looked to be about 16. He was acting as an interpreter for the older man (who looked to be about 70) who was paying the money to the counter attendant. And that's when I heard it. "Make sure he knows that this license is good for two years, and it expires on his birthday," she told the younger man. "So he will need to come in here before that date to renew it." 

The young man promised. The older man put the newly acquired license as well as the receipt in his wallet, murmured a "Thank you," to the woman, and the two of them made their way out of the building.

I thought about those two for the rest of the day. What a proud moment for them both! I found myself picturing the process they had just been through - wondering how much the younger had to convince the older that he could do this.  I thought about how this teenager was probably with the older man every step of the way as he learned the rules of the road enough to take his beginner's test, acting as interpreter the whole time. He may have gone out with him multiple times as he practiced. Finally, he went with his granddad when he was taking the road test (acting as interpreter for the instructions of the examiner). And that very day as I was there beside him, he got his 'graduated' license, something that sixteen-year-olds look forward to, dream about, and long for in our culture. 

We take it for granted. 

What an inspiration they both were - the young man for the commitment he showed, the caring that was obviously there on his face - and the time he took to be there for his grandfather. And the older man inspired me, reminded me that it's never too late to make a new start, to learn a new thing. Never mind that he only had a few years left to enjoy this new freedom he would now enjoy; the point was that he would be able to enjoy it. 

Over the last while I've had some doubts about how feasible it is for me to get my education in preparation for a new career. I'm in my fifties and to go to school with people who are less than half my age is somewhat off-putting. I enjoy the learning part (even if it scary at times) but sometimes I wonder if it's all worth it. And then I remember that old Korean man. So many strikes against him - the language barrier and his age being the top two - and yet he persevered because he saw value in having that license so he could help his family and possibly even so that he would not be a burden to them. 

It's never too late. No matter how much less time I would have than someone half my age, what matters is that I enjoy the rest of my life and that I'll be able to help as many people as I will be able to help. Me. Not my age, not my appearance, but me. With all the life experience that I bring to the table, I know that when I finally graduate (which won't be for a few years yet) I will be uniquely positioned to be able to help people to find their own pathway to freedom, to "get unwrapped."

And I guess it reminds me of another thing. 

I'm really looking forward to getting MY license, too.

Photo "Psychiatrist Examining A Male Patient"
courtesty of Ambro at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Fresh pages

September rises on the scene almost unannounced ... whispering, 'Oh, by the way, school starts soon.' And soon ... is now. 

Yes, I'm back in school again, this time taking an undergraduate course from my alma mater to beef up my qualifications to take a grad program from a school in Calgary, Alberta. It's on learning and motivation (maybe I'll learn something, haha!) and it will take me about three months or so. 

Attending the first class made me feel really good; I understood the prof and had some hope that I could actually get a leg up on my educational quest. That is, perhaps she (if I do well, which I think I will) would be willing to write a letter of reference on my behalf when I apply to Athabasca University in another five months or so. 

There's something oddly satisfying about opening a new book that has not been used, or turning a fresh page in a notebook, especially the first one. There is so much that has yet to be learned, written, experienced. It's so hopeful. 

Photo "Notebook And Pen" courtesy
of jiggola at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

It's been a month of fresh pages and new beginnings for our family. 

Specifically for me, this new course has represented a new start, an opening of the door to new possibilities and the promise of a future as a counsellor ... eventually. 

At home, there are fresh pages turning as well. We discovered that our deck - which was here when we moved in 25 years ago, was rotted and being eaten by carpenter ants. So, we paid a couple of guys to build a new one! (I've already flooded Facebook with those photos, so I won't put more here...) 

It's been good though, to be able to feel secure about going out on the deck without fear of falling through, or getting splinters in our feet, or slipping and falling. The guys did a great job - thanks Mike and Dalton W!

And then there's new life as well. We got a call from the shelter about three weeks ago, asking us to take our newly adopted kitten before she got to be big enough to spay. (Usually they like to keep them until after the procedure is over.) They said that she was losing weight, and that that she needed to be away from the shelter atmosphere to thrive (this happens sometimes). They asked us if we could foster her until she was old (and heavy) enough; they have to be at least two pounds! (We didn't hesitate to say yes!) So she is here as a foster-kitty (which means that all vet bills are the shelter's, a bonus!) Once she is spayed, we can finalize the adoption (that is, pay the adoption fees and take ownership.) Her operation is scheduled for September 17.

So, in the meantime, we've been getting her used to her "big brother" Loki. The size difference (he's five times her weight) means we have to supervise their play rather closely, and limit their interaction, but we find that they really look forward to that time together. Surprisingly, sometimes Eris even gets the upper hand!

It's so interesting having a small (but VERY active) kitten in the house again. Eris moves so quickly that we've joked about getting whiplash watching her!! Her zest for life and her honest expression of how she feels is contagious and encouraging. It helps us to concentrate on life and happiness again. There's been too much death, too much sadness. 

We need hope. 
And laughter. 
I like laughter. It's good. 
And do-overs. 
And a never-ending supply of fresh pages.

Aloha

Aloha is a Hawaiian word. 
It means goodbye.
It also means hello.

This has been an intense week at our house. 

Monday night, our 13-year-old cat, Angel, disappeared ... never to return. We looked everywhere, scoured the neighbourhood for her, shaking her treat bag and calling for her, shining a flashlight under trees, behind bushes, into culverts. No sign of a body or of her.

We were about 75% sure that night that she wasn't coming back. It was just so opposite to "everything that was Angel" for her not to come trotting purposefully toward us when we shook the treat bag and called out her name. Over the course of the next few days, we began to be more and more certain that she would never return. Grief has been coming in waves, combined with the mental anguish of not knowing how it happened. Or how quickly. Or whether she was afraid. (shudder). 

Angel  -  June 2013

We've been saying goodbye ever since, in bits and pieces, in habits we find ourselves repeating (like looking outside for her when we go to the door) when we know ... that there's no need anymore. 

Aloha Angel.

We weren't the only ones moping around. Our kitten Loki (9 months old) has been unusually quiet the last few days. He misses having her around to play with - not that Angel ever allowed it, but he sure tried! - and now that she is gone, he has spent a lot more time sleeping. And he's taken to watching the door where he last saw her through the glass. 

The turning point came for me last night when we were chatting and our daughter said, "I am tired of talking about death. I want to concentrate on life." 

So today, we went to the shelter to find a companion for Loki. And ... yes, for us.

She had newly been put up for adoption we saw her - not even two pounds and looking enough like Angel that at first glance, I gasped and my eyes stung with tears. The differences became obvious afterward, of course. But as we spent more time with her, we began to see how well she could fit in with our family. And even in that short time, hearts began to heal.

Playing with her allowed us to get a glimpse of her zany yet demure personality; it has earned her the name "Eris" (pronounced AIR-ess) after the Greek goddess of chaos. It suits her. ;) 

So adoption papers were filled out. And the kitten will remain there until she is ready to be homed - she'll need to be spayed and that can't happen for another week, because they have to be at least a certain weight when that happens.

So, probably around the 18th to the 20th of August, we'll be bringing home a little sister for Loki (named, incidentally, after the Norse god of mischief. Do I sense a theme here? LOL) ... and in between, I imagine we'll be visiting her as she waits to get big enough to come home.

Aloha, Eris.

Diamond formation

A large lump of coal, under great pressure, over the course of years, forms a diamond. Such constant trial transforms a common stone into a treasure cherished by many. 

There are some people I've met who are diamonds, so formed by such intense suffering that it is hard to describe it. 

One such person cannot remember back past the time when her life was untouched by pain. 

When she was very young, she took a tumble and fell on her head. Unknown to her, it misaligned a vertebra in her neck. All of her childhood she suffered from rare migraines caused by a lack of blood flow to the brain; these were marked by nausea, extreme vertigo, and other unpleasant symptoms including temporary blindness on one side of her vision, but rarely any headache. 

She endured doctors not understanding her symptoms and then misdiagosing, several times. Not until she was 14 did she get a diagnosis (and only after extensive research by her parents who presented their research to the doctor): basilar artery migraines (BAM) also known as vertebrobasilar insufficiency. She was unable to take any medication for these attacks; if she did, she could have a stroke because the migraine medications constricted blood vessels. Since the migraines were caused by a lack of blood flow to the brain, further constriction (from medication) could shut off blood flow to the brain. It took only one such scare in an emergency room to drive that message home. The pediatrician had left standing orders to use a medication called DHE or dihydroxyergotamine, administered through an I.V. This medicine would constrict her vessels. The parents disagreed and objected; the attending physician (wanting to appease them) only gave her a half-dose. She had a mild heart attack and her migraine spiked off the charts. If she'd had a full dose she might have had a stroke.

She had to drop out of high school in grade ten due to missing so much time from the migraines, which came in clusters of up to three weeks at a time. This led her to believe that she was not intelligent, when in fact, she was extremely smart. Otherwise she couldn't have made it through elementary and junior high school with the high marks she did while still missing as much time as she did.

When she was 19 years old, pain in her neck led her to seek chiropractic help, where the slippage in her vertebrae was discovered on X-ray. The chiropractor gave her neck exercises to do with weights attached to her head, and within two months she regained some curvature to her neck and the slippage was reversed slightly. Over the next six months her migraines slowly tapered off. 

During that time, her dentist had to do a root canal in one tooth, and told her that she had to get her wisdom teeth out. She underwent both procedures about a year apart, and was left with TMJD - temporomandibular joint dysfunction. She still suffers from pain in her jaw (which extends into her neck and shoulder) and an inability to open her mouth wide, or chew tough meats.

However, the migraines were far less frequent - she occasionally had a regular one in her head but the debilitating vertigo was very rare. One day she just up and decided to go back to school and get her GED. She had it within 2 months. About six months later, she decided to go to college and become an executive assistant. She did, graduating at the top of her program. 

Photo "Single Blue Diamond" by
MR LIGHTMAN at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

She'd been at her job, living a relatively normal life for the first time in her life, when she stepped out of her work place after work one evening in late November 2012, crossed the sidewalk to get into her parents' vehicle, and slipped on a patch of black ice. She fell. Hard. 

She noticed a numbness in her left foot, and looked down. To her surprise, her kneecap was not in the correct place, but on the side of her leg. She reached down and wrenched it back into place. She doesn't remember feeling pain at this.

Her father helped her get into the vehicle. The pain hit on the ride home. It took her parents two days to convince her that she should get it seen to - she was that wary of doctors!

Thus began another pain journey. Over a year and a half and two surgeries later, she still walks with a crutch (or a cane on her good days) due to the surgeon making an error in the first surgery which was not detected during the second surgery. She has been on disability insurance since April 2013. Her surgeon has declared her unable to work indefinitely. She struggles with depression, loneliness and anxiety on a daily basis. Several months ago, her life was touched deeply by grief. She has symptoms of PTSD and battles panic attacks, multiple chemical sensitivities, and asthma.

I've told you all that to tell you this. This young lady is an absolute joy to know. She is deep, sensitive, thoughtful and loyal. She accepts people the way they are. ALL people. She's passionate about what she believes in. 

She is honest about how she feels if you ask her, even if she feels horrible. Yet she is not bitter and she doesn't use her disability as a tool to get a person to do what she wants. In fact, she has even used her crutch or her scar to start conversations and put people at ease; she understands people in pain and is one of the most empathetic people I know. Yet she won't snow you. If she thinks your behavior is hurting someone she loves, she will find a way to tell you in a way you'll be able to accept.

She has grown so much because of her pain, because of the things she has experienced. She's learning to look after herself, to believe that she is well worth the space she takes up in the world and in our lives. Pain - in her case - has become that constant pressure that has transformed her into someone absolutely priceless. She is indeed a diamond ... a precious gem in our lives. She always was.

I'm proud to know her. My life is richer because she is in it. 

And that's no lump of coal.

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?

Firework

Eight months ago we were getting ready to say our farewells to one of the most amazing, unpredictable, compassionate, loyal, intense people we've ever met. That she also just happened to be our daughter was a happy bonus. 

When we were talking about how we would remember her, how we would honour her, her sister came up with the perfect tribute. We'd pass out sparklers at her funeral to celebrate her life, her joy, her zest for living to the fullest, her 'go-big-or-go-home' attitude. We'd suggest that when it got dark that night, for people to go outside and light their sparklers, and hold them high in her memory. 

The night following her funeral, a few of her closest friends got together and videoed themselves doing just that. Together. Which is the way she'd want it.

 
In fact, a lot of what I and those people who remember her best have done these past several months, has been in honour of her and the way she lived her life. Full bore. Full court press. Hard forward. Brightly burning just like the firework she was (and is.) Mediocrity wasn't even in her vocabulary. If she believed in something (or someone) she showed it, no questions, no reservations, no holding back. She plunged head - no - heart-first into everything. Fiercely loyal. Generous to a fault. Passionate. 

And whole-hearted. Courageous.

If you are on Facebook, I hope you can view this video, taken by Darcy Anthony Brown on November 2, 2013 and shared on Arielle's wall. 

The idea was inspired by Katy Perry's "Firework." CARPE DIEM. Seize the day!

 https://www.facebook.com/photo.php?v=10151698891516817
 

There's only one you

It creeps up on you.

Too many sacrifices, too many times of being taken for granted, too many adjusted expectations, they all take their toll. One thing leads naturally to the next and before you know it, you're up to your eyeballs in stress and wondering how you got there. 

I know. It happens to me. Not as often as before, to be sure, but it still happens. Then something kind of shifts, one more task added to the pile and then ... you feel overwhelmed and wanting to quit everything. The trouble is, everything you committed to doing is perfectly fine and even commendable.

There's just one thing missing.

You. 

Somehow, in looking after everyone else, in taking on too much at once, or in unexpected circumstances, life just gets to be so jam-packed that things start spilling over and falling to the floor. And the one getting the short end of the stick is you. 

The concept of self-care is an uncomfortable one for many people. "Nice" people put others first. "Nice" people don't ask for what they want. We are taught from our formative years that it's selfish to think of ourselves first. However, it just doesn't make sense to expend so much energy on other people that we have nothing left for ourselves, which kind of defeats the purpose because if we don't have anything to give, we can't give anything. 

And so we end up feeling weary, unappreciated, even resentful. Those are good warning signs. 

You're the only you that you have. There is only one you, and you are important... whether you believe it or not!

Imagine yourself as a container, a large glass of water, let's say. People come to you with smaller glasses and ask you to give them something to drink. There is only so much in your glass. You empty yourself out and there is nothing left to pour into anyone else's life. However, if you turn your thinking around and go to a mountain spring, and you let the spring spill into your glass, up to the brim and overflowing, people come to you and they are automatically filled ... but you are not depleted. 

Yet, it takes effort to get to the spring. You have to say no to filling up the next person's glass who comes to you with his or her need. And the next. Maybe a whole lot of next people. You need to look after your own needs so that you can have something to give to those who need it. 

This is a small thought (or is it?) that could yield great results in your life. It's at least worth thinking about. 

Photo "Waterfall In Forest" courtesy of
Witthaya Phonsawat at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Please Stay

Every morning he would kiss her goodbye and disappear through the doorway to a world where metal clanked, steel melted and shaped into oven doors, and grease and grime was a way of life. I would stare at him, silently begging him not to leave.

"Please stay," my heart whispered. But ... he didn't.

When she'd become angry and furiously fish around in the closet for his old belt, he'd quietly slip away and head outside, not being able to bear watching what came next. 

"Please stay. Help me," my heart screamed. But ... he didn't.

Mom and Dad, 1984

When we would go to town and I'd opt to go with him to visit his buddies at the cobbler shop, I basked in the warmth of their voices and the easy camaraderie that they had with each other. There was no bitterness, no malicious gossip, no one-upmanship. "I better get back to the car," he'd eventually say. "She'll be done her shopping now." He'd endure the gentle ribbing about being hen-pecked. 

"Please stay. I like it here," my heart pleaded. But ... he didn't.

When I was a teen, and got into a fight with one of my older cousins down the road, I came home and told him how mean she'd been, what she'd called me. He was so angry that he stormed out of the house to make her aware how displeased he was. 

"Please stay. You'll just make it worse," my heart cringed. But ... he didn't. He went anyway, and came back even more angry. That was the moment he put a dent in the wall with his fist. I didn't know why - until later. He wanted to protect me. And my cousin's husband just laughed at him. 

The day of my wedding, I looked at him standing beside me in his Sunday best as we were just about to head down the aisle together. He seemed so strong, so dependable, just like always. "I love you, Dad," I told him. He looked down at me. "I love you too, dear," he murmured softly in his deep bass voice. He walked me toward my bridegroom, and gave me away to him, and then he went and sat down.

Unknown to me, he pulled my 2-year-old niece onto his lap and held her close. And as his own baby willingly walked out of his care and into someone else's, almost nobody saw the tears well up in his eyes and spill over onto his cheeks. 

"Please stay. Stay my baby girl," his heart wept. But ... I left. And yet ... I stayed his baby girl in my heart. I always had.

When I stood by his bedside in the hospital, watching him writhe and groan in pain he couldn't pinpoint in spite of the morphine in his IV, hearing him call out for his mama, I knew that asking him to stay would be asking his body to endure even more suffering. So I stood there ... and let him go. 

"It's okay for you to go, Dad," my heart whispered.  

And he did, just a few days later.

It's been over 20 years since that day. Yet I still feel his presence with me when I remember some wacky thing my own baby girl used to do that reminds me so much of him, and I'm so glad that she is getting to know him now. She always missed knowing him. And now the two of them are laughing together. In a way, neither of them will ever really leave, as long as I remember them.

"Thank you for staying."

Motherhood, Monsterhood, and Mercy

I get a little testy this time of year. Mother's Day isn't a happy day for me.

Those of you who know me well know that my upbringing was one of those things that on the surface, looked really good ... unless you lived inside the four walls of my home. Motherhood sometimes looked like washing my face and hands when I was sick, making our favorite meals on our birthdays, singing together in the car, and many other meaningful memories. 

But motherhood so easily morphed into monsterhood. And I never knew when I might push that switch that made mother into monster. Because I knew, as sure as I knew my own name, that it must be my fault. Because she told me it was while she was beating me. And then she'd show me the bruises on her hands and blame me for hurting her with my misbehaviour. It was sick and twisted and yet, I thought everyone went through this. So I never bothered questioning it. And I deluded myself into thinking I had it pretty good.

Drawing "Sketch Of Woman Crying" courtesy of
luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

For quite a few years, once I actually admitted to myself that it all happened (denial can be an idyllic place sometimes) I was very angry. I firmly believed that Mother's Day was a farce, a cruel joke played on those who had monsters for mothers. And quite frankly, for years I robbed my children of the joy of honouring me as their mother because ... because I couldn't honour mine. That part of me was too hurt, too wounded. I got to the place where I WANTED to forgive her. But I couldn't. It just wasn't in me. 

I thought (because I was raised to think this) that forgiveness was sweeping it all under the rug, saying, "Oh that's all right." That it was making excuses, like what happened wasn't really all that bad. And I couldn't bring myself to believe that it wasn't "all that bad." Because it WAS. Nobody would believe me - and many people still don't - but living life in a war zone on constant air-raid status and never knowing when a physical ambush was going to happen, or when an emotional atom bomb was going to drop ... is considered a "type A stressor" - one of the chief elements in the development of  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). And yes, I do have some symptoms of that illness.

And then, 5 years ago, I got into therapy. That was the beginning. Through the course of the next several months, I learned what forgiveness was, what it wasn't, and how to do it. (Mind you, DOING it took some time and in some areas, it's still going on!) I learned that forgiveness is a process. That it is okay to say something is wrong even after you forgive the act, because forgiveness is meaningless unless the act it forgives was wrong in the first place! I learned that it is okay to not put yourself in a position to be hurt by that person in that way again ... because forgiveness does not require the person being forgiven to change or even to be sorry!! The hardest forgiveness to grant is when the person doesn't change, will never change, and calls you a liar for suggesting he or she even did something wrong. And other people believe that person because ... because they don't want to believe that he or she could do something that heinous. It would change the way they think about that person, and they aren't willing to "go there." So instead, they judge you.

Mercy, according to a popular definition, is not treating someone the nasty way they deserve to be treated, but rather, being kind to that person. 

Mercy is the end result of forgiveness. Notice I said the END result. The beginning - for humans - isn't quite so pretty. And neither is the middle. Nobody wants to talk about those parts because they're messy. There are a lot of unresolved emotions and unpleasant feelings. But they are necessary feelings. Everyone wants to hear about the end result, the kindness you are able to show to someone who has made it their life's work to screw you up, all the time believing she was "raising you right." It's hard to be in the middle of dealing with that and tell someone you are going through a "forgiveness process" and having that person look at you like you have three heads. "Just forgive her," is the unspoken attitude. "Just make the decision and do it." But - like I said - the decision is only the first step. The feelings are still there and they need to be validated, experienced (not suppressed), processed, and then let go. The whole process is long and laborious - yes, hard work.

But it is possible. And it takes time.

Last year, as Mother's Day dawned, I pretty much "shut down." I isolated: I holed up at home and didn't go out all day. It was a horrible feeling, watching others (on Facebook) lauding their mothers and knowing that I never could ... not in that way ... and I was thoroughly miserable. My kids and my husband figuratively tiptoed around and barely even dared mentioning to me that it was Mother's Day. I'd gotten to forgiveness, but ... I hadn't gotten to a place of mercy. I wasn't trying to make her pay me back anymore. But I wasn't actively being kind either.

And then ... my youngest daughter died about five months after that. Perspectives changed; a LOT of perspectives changed. Miracles happened - in relationships, mostly. And I got to do a lot of thinking about that next step: mercy. I'd been so stuck on proving that there was monsterhood ... that I didn't realize that the way back to celebrating motherhood again was through mercy. 

So this year, I'm planning a little trip to visit an old woman who has forgotten most of what she put me through, and who feels justified in all of it. And I'll take a little gift for her to remember her (now deceased) mother and her grandmother by: a little corsage of two white carnations to wear in their honour (a tradition where I grew up) to Sunday morning church on the second Sunday of May. 

And oh yes. I'm also having a corsage made for me - with a white carnation and a red one - the first to honour my grandmother and the second ... my mother.

It's a start.