Afraid to Hope

Sterile walls met me like an unwanted antagonist and I hated their familiarity.

Carrying food to a worried family, I tried to hope for them but failed. Their father teetered close to death and my previous hopes had ended in a final farewell. I attempted prayer without faith to uphold it. Dropping bags onto the waiting room table, I hugged a tearful daughter and left with a heavy heart.

I didn't want to face death again. I didn't want to see beautiful people lose someone they loved.  Emotions I'd packed neatly away fell from their high shelves and shattered. I begged. I fought. And finally in defeat, I waited for the horrid call.

A week later I got a text. He was awake, speaking. and laughing. He'd made it. Staring at my phone in disbelief, I wept for joy.  I wept for renewed hope.

Even the Messy

When I stood at the edge of teenhood, I pined for being old enough to babysit.  Mrs. Chaney took me under her wing and instructed me in the secrets of childcare.

She knew exactly how to tend to little ones. I watched her sooth the fussiest child and put to sleep the non-sleeper. She never had favorites; they were all her favorite. She oozed love in her tender touch and lullabies.

And it didn't stop with the little ones; she loved me too.  She never raised her voice or panicked about my lack of knowledge.  She instructed gently and kindly.  She didn't humiliate me for not wanting to clean an extremely messy diaper, or wipe spit-up.  Instead, she graciously held the most difficult child and allowed me the easy ones.

Eventually, I understood what she'd shown me by example. That all children are beautiful.  All children need love.  Even the messy.  Even the difficult.  Even me.

A Win-Less Standoff

We stare wordless in a win-less standoff.

The angle of her brow reminds me of past years.  A vision of her five-year-old pout and unsuccessful attempts to cross her arms play across my mind.  I smile at the memory.

She raises an eyebrow quizzically. An unsure grin sneaks from the corner of her lips.

A snicker escapes mine.

Soon we're sharing our wounds from a cozier distance at the kitchen table. Apologies are made. She's my girl once again.

And I'm thankful disagreements can morph into forgiveness.

Imperfect Prose: The Truth

I sit here trying to write out my thoughts but all that comes to me is sporadic pieces.  So guess what you're getting?  A bullet-in post.

• I haven't painted for a week.
• I haven't written either (on the book, that is).
• Those two things make me feel like I'm doing nothing.
• But I have been doing stuff.  Traveling, visiting with family and friends, keeping and caring for my grandmother, planning meals, reading, schooling my kids, laundry, cleaning, parenting, and sorting out bills.
• Why don't I count these things?
• I have a stack of five sewing books from the library sitting on my desk and I'm not sure why I checked them out.  I don't even own a sewing machine.
• Maybe I want to have more stuff to do that I don't do so I can heap on the guilt.
• Or maybe I'm overly hopeful that I'll have time to learn.
• My grandmother's staying with me this week.  She's in the quiet stages of dementia.  She's precious and happy to sit reading her Bible, working word searches or watching Andy Griffith.  
• I'd like to be that way, happy with simple things.
• I need to be content with my beautiful life.

Imperfect Prose: Imperfect Self

This year I've undergone a journey of acknowledging my fears. Fears of being unloved or rejected. Fears of not measuring up in someone else's eyes.  And I've asked myself, each time I feel those frantic thoughts, why?  What am I fearing?

When I sift through the trail of thoughts to the deep hidden lie I've believed; I'm able to release it through awareness.  Love throws out all fear. My process has been hard. It's been painful. There are moments I want to quit asking the questions and run!  But running has never got me where I want to go, only kept me circling.

It's only when I look deep within and truthfully state what it is I fear that I'm able to let go of  fear and accept love.  The irony is that I'm able to give love now without the ropes of fear constraining me. I don't take things as personally as much anymore.  I can love for love's sake without demanding something in return. I still have a long way to go; I battle fears everyday. But I'm aware and changing.

To Tell a Story: Ron Weasley

Do you remember how I wasn't a dog lover until I found out I was? (If not, see story here)

Fast forward to June.

My daughter asked for another dog.  Again. And again.  And yet, again.  I kept saying no.  I felt too maxed, too vulnerable.  I'd lost too much.  We drove to the coffee shop and what was taped to the cash register?  A picture of free puppies.  A CUTE picture of FREE puppies.  Yes, I know they're never really free but...

My daughter gave me her puppy dog eyes.

I said no.  But I contemplated it. I thought how I'd never given the first dog, Tally, a chance.  I didn't willingly embrace her or try to care; it just sort of happened.  I thought about my sweet friend who I missed already with a dreaded hole in my heart.  She loved dogs.  LOVED them.  She would've told me to get one.

I informed my daughter I'd go with her to look but not to expect anything.

Who was I kidding?

We drove out in the far country and up a dirt road to a sweet lady trying to save puppies.  The puppies were gray, silver and brown.  Except one.  He was red.

My daughter picked him up and cradled him in her arms the way I cradle every baby I'm allowed to hold.  She kissed him and petted him.  She handed him to me.

He looked up in my face.  He didn't cry or wriggle.  He just sank against my chest like he belonged there.  I didn't want to love him.  I didn't want to need him.

But I did. Tears sprang to my eyes.

"I'm naming him Ron Weasley," my daughter said with a twinkle in her eye. She knew I'd like that.

She was right.

He's five months old.  And I love him.

I'm joining Storytellers today.  See more stories through the button below:

A Shine of Rainbows

 photo from: onemoviefiveviews.wordpress.com

I watched A Shine of Rainbows last weekend and I must say, I want to BE her. She pounces in rain puddles.  I wanna pounce in rain puddles.  She wears layers of color--the vivid kind; and sweaters with shawls. This may make me sound really old, but I LOVE shawls. And boots.  And galoshes. She dares to do what others don't.  In my life, I've been more of the safe-cautious sort, but the older I get the more I see the lack in that.  I want my kids to remember me playing with them, laughing and doing crazy things.  Memorable things. Simple things.  Amazing things. I want the main character in my story to jump off the page.

Now off to the thrift store to find a red shawl.

Good at Hiding

On the day I was born, no one knew I was in the womb. I've always been good at hiding.

My twin sister's heartbeat and my own were in such sync, I wasn't expected.  There were no ultrasounds and Mom wasn't awake for the ordeal.  I've been told when she came to and found herself responsible for TWO babies, she cried.  My grandmother screamed for joy.  My father received word over radio in Vietnam and had to ask twice if the man said "daughters" plural.

I can't really blame being hidden in the womb for how the next decades played out, but it does seem conspicuous.  If I sense disappointing someone--I run for cover.  I play dumb or do my best to keep the uncomfortable subject from surfacing. Hiding is a destructive relationship killer.

Truth is always better.  Though not always fun.

I've hidden in the worst ways--lies, false pretense, blame, self-contempt. And although playing a game of Hide-and-Seek can be thrilling; life plays that game differently.  So I'm trying to come clean: attempting not to run when faced with a scary situation; admitting the lie before it festers; sharing truth before pretense gets center stage; and refusing to blame or engage in self-contempt.

It's terrifying.  Like when your stomach lurches because you know IT is close enough to find you.  After awhile you start longing to be found so you can crawl out of your cramped hiding spot.  When IT eventually finds you there's a sense of relief; you're free to laugh and help search for others.

I hope I won't always be good at hiding. I think I'd like to be IT.

Dear Future Self

Dear Future Self,

Remember me?  You're young, naive self?

I hope our dreams have now become reality-- a published children's book, a successful art business, a speaker for the unheard and a traveler of the world. I still love you if you haven't achieved these things, but keep persevering.

I hope you know at any age you can aspire to great things--so keep dreaming.  Each day is a gift of beautiful proportions to drink in and savor. I know this because I'm losing our dear friend.  Perhaps you now look back on these days with a positive perspective.  I wish you were here to tell me.

But I won't let sorrow stop me.  I promise I won't give up on living, loving and growing if you'll do the same.  I'll leave you with the quote I keep circling back to from Natalie Babbitt's Tuck Everlasting. 

"Do not fear death . . . . only the unlived life.  You don't have to live forever; you just have to live." 

Live to the fullest,
Catherine

P.S. I'm still on a blogging break but already had this post scheduled. Wishing you all the best!

Invisible

My daughter didn't want me aboard the party bus.  The one rented for her sixteenth birthday party.  We had other chaperons so it shouldn't have bothered me.

But it did.

"Are you sure you don't want me on?" I asked her.

"Yes I'm sure, Mom!"

I stood outside the group of boisterous teenagers congregated at the corner ready for loading.  My daughter was laughing and chattering in the midst of them.  And there I stood, the onlooker.  No thought given to the eight hours of labor; no one wanting to hear that story.

I felt invisible.

They arrived back home as loudly as they'd left. When it came time for cake, she lit the candles without waiting for me.  In that moment, I realized what was bothering me.  She didn't need me anymore.  She had planned, decorated, invited and even baked her own cake. Without me.  And the more I thought about it, it became clear that it wasn't just about the party or feeling invisible--I was losing her.  The little girl who wanted me to play dolls, snuggle and fix her hair, didn't need me now.  It was the beginning of the end.

A week later, she and I were chatting with one of her friends.  My daughter shared something deeply personal.  Her friend nudged her, signaling her to shut up.

"Oh my Mom knows," my daughter said, "we have that kind of relationship."

And like the Grinch, my heart grew two sizes that day and melted into a giant puddle of happiness.  Maybe she doesn't need me to fix her cake or choose her clothes anymore; but we have that kind of relationship. One that, I hope, wraps her in unconditional love.

And in the length of one sentence, I felt visible again.

A Year Without Regrets?

I think I lost my innocence last year.  I know, that's an odd thing to say at the age of 43.

It started when my boisterous Julia-Child-length-friend found out her cancer had returned.  She was only three weeks out from finishing her treatment.  Really?  And this time it was in her lungs.  Both of them.  I stood over her hospital bed as she told me and wept on her two inches of hair.  We clung to each other as only two mothers can do both consoling the other and yet having no words to help.  I didn't sleep much that night.  A dry depression sunk over me like that hurtful swallowing you do to stop tears.

Then a few days later we found out Tally, our dog, had Cushings disease.  It was treatable but not curable and the Vet said she wouldn't live out the year even if we proceeded to do the expensive treatments. You might think I'm about to wax on about how much I love this dog.  You're wrong.  I hated her.  Well, it wasn't her so much as just the whole dog thing.  I never was a pet-lover and dogs just gross me out, all slobbery and fartsy.  A friend had offered the already aging dog to us one summer five years ago.  My three kids squealed and my husband gave me the pitiful you-can-say-no-if-you-want-to-but-what-a-meanie-you'd-be look.  And in a moment of vacation weakness, I said yes.

A few weeks later we had a thunderstorm.  Tally was terrified of them and jumped on my bed about four hundred times that night.  I literally growled at my husband who, not surprisingly, slept through the whole thing.  We bought tranquilizers for the dog since we live in Tornado Ally. The friend who gave her to us said Tally had never done that before.  Uh-huh.

Beware, even if your children swear on their life to care for said dog, YOU will be the one doing it. Every morning Tally would wake me up all eager and jumpy.  She'd sometimes have to wait on me to pee before she could.  I didn't love her or pet her or even talk sweetsy to her; but I did have compassion.  I fed her.

It was the eve of Christmas Eve when we told the kids we were going to have to put Tally down.  They said their goodbyes, gave her treats, cried.  I took her outside to brush her one last time.  I'm not sure why, I just felt she needed it. We put her in the car then Steve and I left the kids at home and headed to the vet.  On the way I felt restless and angry.  I snapped at every question Steve directed to me.  He let me and Tally off at the door and parked.

I took Tally in.  She sniffed along the floor and in every crevice possible.  I made her sit.  Her paws slid out from under her.  I realized for the first time how decrepit she had become.  I avoided looking at her and slid more treats into her mouth.  Her eyes caught mine.  They were big.  She was a quiet dog, never barked much. I could tell when she needed to go outside by the panic look in her eyes.  Her eyes were happy now and her tail wagged.

Behind me a gruff old woman attempting to whisper but failing said, "That dog's tail is wagging now but I'll bet it won't be wagging in an hour."

I wanted to shout that I could hear her.  Tears threatened to slide down my cheeks.  I tried to choke them back and remind myself I was NOT one of those people--the ones that think dogs are humans.  I was a dog hater and crying over one was not okay for me.  But my tears didn't listen.  By the time I reached the counter, I was sobbing.  The receptionist spoke carefully as if one wrong move might make the lunatic in front of her blow the place up.  She led a wagging Tally back to a room and said they'd call me when they got her ready.

Steve came in and tried to talk but I continued to snap.  He quieted and left me in my weird don't-love-dogs grief.  Finally we were called back.  The Vet treated me like someone who'd loved this dog from birth and was now saying good-bye to their best friend.  I felt like a liar.  The vet gave us a few minutes alone.  I told Tally things that people who loved her had asked me to say.  Then I told her I was sorry I hadn't loved her. I petted her like a child getting a immunization shot.  The vet came back in and told us what to expect; he gave her the medicine and she was gone.

That afternoon my nose looked like a Christmas Rudolph impression and my eyes like snowballs.  I knew it was probably delayed grief over my beautiful friend and her cancer.  But the next morning I got out of bed ready to take Tally outside and it hit me--hard.  I melted back into my covers and sobbed.  Plastering my face into the feather pillow, I wailed.  I felt regret.  No one else in my family was sobbing, they'd all loved her and had no regrets.  I never once said I love you to that stupid dog.  And now, I regretted it.  Because, gulp, I did love her.  She had sunk into my heart without my knowing it.

Loss is terrible.  Loss with regret is worse.

My friend with cancer will probably get sick of me now because I don't want any more regrets.  I know regrets lurk nearby like those little dust pieces floating in a sunbeam from the window, but I can try to keep them at bay.

For my Julia and Tally, tell someone (or some dumb dog) that you love them today.

Three Twins

I feel lucky in life; I have two best girlfriends.  One who's known me since birth.  Literally.  And the other who calls herself "the third twin".  (Yes I know it should be triplet but she prefers her title)  With them I can be myself.  A brat at times.  Hyper at others.  Silly, thoughtful, optimistic, and morose--it doesn't matter.  They stick around. Even when I make them mad.  They love me and I love them.

Who are your closest friends?

*Art inspired by Kelly Rae Roberts.

Geometric Girl

I'm one of those people who draws furniture on graph paper before I move it.  I write a million schedules of my day--to be followed tomorrow. I like to know what's happening, where we're going, and who's on the phone.

I like control.

But I'm having to let go.

Now from the above statements, you might assume I'm an organized person.  I'm not!  I like "order" in weird places.  Like the coat closet.  It's neat while the living room coffee table has dishes covering it.  *Looks over shoulder to see if dishes are still there.  Happily, they are gone.*

Lately my control is cracking.  Which is a good thing because I don't want to be a controlling person. But it's hard to change.  So, since I'm having to let go in real life, I decided to draw a girl who is completely predictable--geometric. Even her eyes are square.  I love her.  She's me on paper. Even Steven.

*Awkward silence.*

So, *Ahem* now that I've bared my soul I'm curious; do you like to control?  Or do you tend to be controlled?

Inspire Me Thursday: Hope

The word Hope keeps running through my mind.

Yesterday was tough.  First the news about Haiti.  So much loss and tragedy; it's hard to comprehend it.  Then came news from my friend.  She has cancer.

I grieved about both.  I felt helpless.

But I'm not helpless.  There are things we can do for the people of Haiti.  And I can walk beside my friend through whatever she must endure.

This picture (above) is from my art journal.  It's childlike (inspired by Suzi Blu) but I like it that way because children are the best bearers of hope.

My Friend

Update:  Her biopsy went well and wasn't painful.  She won't know anything for 24-48 hours.

My friend found a lump in her breast last week.  She has a biopsy today.  If you believe in prayer, please pray for her.  Her family's been through countless struggles already, even without this.  It doesn't seem fair.  I guess it never does.

Merging from a Caterpillar

Sometimes I dream of a clutter-free, vibrant-colored house. Clear of junk. But homey. Paint brushes standing in adorable little cans. A tiny laptop I can carry without twisting my spine out of place. Dainty decorated boxes full of luscious pictures/papers waiting to be cut and glued any way I wish onto thick journals. Pens from PenPlace neatly lined on my bookshelf. Flowers and vegetables blooming in the backyard without a single weed in sight. Comfy couches on the front porch sitting beside a flaming chiminea.

Doesn't it sound cozy?

I want it.
 
But, I'm the last person to attempt it. I'm the girl who withOUT kids had a messy house. Granted, I've come a long way--thank you Flylady. There are clear paths in all the rooms of the my house (except maybe the girl's bathroom) but at least I've improved.
 
Unfortunately I've hit a wall. My clean only goes so far and then it's done. I can't seem to get past the managing line to the zowie! line.

I've decided (upon the advice of a wonderful friend) to combine something I love (writing) with something I hate (cleaning). And I'm going to blog about my progress. Be it small or large. I'll work to release the artist within. I'll let her be free in my stories, my body, and my home.

So if you have any tips on how to get cobwebs permanently off ceiling fans, weeds out of a rock garden or any other juicy tidbits...please share!