My Newly Broken Heart

At first it was just a stretching, pulling, relaxing and constriction…the natural and nauseating beginning pains of child birth.  The way it is supposed to be. No child would stay in the womb forever…no mother would want it so.

This separation begins, it pulls and stretches until she slips free and with all that new beginning, there is a new breaking of my heart.

It's a good broken, a necessary broken, to cleave you must first be broken kind of broken... pieces bond together as again and again she latches on for nourishment. My soldered heart, beating stronger in this new bond.....

I stare at her grey eyes...

                        and I can't imagine how....

                                        her flesh came from my flesh, my thoughts, my actions....

How could she not be a piece of my soul?

My life put on hold, my life just begun... to hold and love and continue to create someone from this new piece of my newly broken heart.

The breaking continues, slower now, but seems so fast as one moment right after another she chooses her path, breaking and cleaving only to sever again.

She fails, and we break together. We share the pieces of our always breaking hearts and build again something different, maybe stronger.

She succeeds, and my heart bursts into a billion new pieces of joy and she scoops it up and adds it to her own. 

And that bond heart is new and sinewy and strong and it stretches and somehow is still a part of me and I can't help but hold it close. Like the newbie I am, I hold too tight and she pulls even harder until I let go too soon and she falls slipping through my clenched fingertips. We pick up and brush off and patch up and move on. Constantly recreating as we learn that whatever she is, she is still a part of me to hold with open hands.

Day after day she builds her own heart, beating strong and sure and sometimes scared. She takes pieces from here and pieces from there, some light and some dark, building and breaking, blood flowing with passion and poison.

 She doesn't give up, although sometimes I think she has, my preference for speed threatening to rush what can't be rushed. Even that speed she must have a piece of... that impatience that I'm still working out of my own heart...she takes that too, and leaps and falls maimed... but leaps again.

I feel her heart even when I can’t see her; her fears and hurts, jagged lacerations in my own heart, telling me she is breaking. I can't fix her, she rightly claimed that piece for herself, it's natural and nauseating....but assuredly, the broken pieces drum the rhythm that she came from something stronger and infinitely sure... 

and we bond through the broken
both cleaving, leaning
on the Infinite Broken Heart.

Then without warning she makes that final tug and I feel the wind sucked out of me as my whole body contracts and on its own, pushes her out. It should be familiar....

...no child would stay in womb forever, no mother would want it so...

but the pain is raw and I am left with open, empty hands as this time, she bonds with someone new.

Is this what joy is?

My heart misses her pieces everyday and breaks a little more as I try to find all the pieces to build a whole heart. It works.... mostly, and life drums on and my blood pumps through my veins and my smile is still there...but barely. 

I do smile... we share so many heart pieces....I smile because I know she is a part of me still and someday....when she feels that first stretching and pulling and inevitable first tear, 

I will feel it too...

and my heart will gladly break again for her newly broken heart.

Third Time's a Charm

I have a need for speed. Running, biking and yes, sometimes even driving; the wind in my face and the ground flying by can be an addictive rush. A rush my body craves and seeks out at some un opportune moments.

Today was one of those.

Three times in less than two hours I tried to sooth the broken hearted and failed. The sobbing infant, the defiant child and the sick boy who puked on my shoes before I could slow down enough to read their pain. 

They will all be okay. The infant had a dad, the defiant child was schooled by his mother and the sick boy is home tucked in bed. No real harm done, but a reminder none the less.

A reminder to slow down. More times than I wish, I've payed for my speed with my pride and hard earned cash. "I didn't mean to speed, Officer," has been my honest plea. But, as I drive away with that ticket tucked deep in my purse, I wish I would have headed the warnings; sometimes I'm going to fast for even those, but I know they were there. 

Today I saw the warnings. People know when they're being rushed through and checked off your list, especially the young ones. All is fine today, and as I ease up off the pedal, I am thankful for the warning.

The Strongest of Women

I am surrounded by the strongest of women.

At a time of social unrest,  when femininity is called into question by feminist themselves. When the power of united women is so great that it is used as a front for political agenda. A time where evil is dressed up, polished and sold as truth. At this time I look around where I stand and can't help but notice that I am surrounded by the strongest of women.

The woman who shows up, after 10 others have canceled, she shows up to her commitments. She shows up with four little ones in tow. She shows up with a newly broken heart and life lost in her womb. She shows up.

The women who listens and learns and wants to learn more. Learns so she can teach her children. Learns because there is so much to know. She learns and gives and fails and wins and learns.

The woman who does it all. Husband gone, four children on her own, full time high stress job and she does it all. She plans and balances and juggles and fights, and then chills with her pals to blow off steam.

The woman who willingly jumps in at the last minute and teaches like she breathes. Challenge accepted, and conquered....and all with sass.

The woman who lives and breathes so much like me and yet comes to such different conclusions. Willing to follow the spirit even though her mind comes highly qualified. Never does it the way I would, but does it perfectly every time.

The woman who pulls her family along, kicking and screaming and she just loves and pulls, and loves and pulls. Fixing cakes and fixing cars and going to school to get credit for what he has learned first hand.....and a smile that slays.

The woman who teaches with patience that never seems to end. Always seeming to know when to distract and when to be firm. When to ask for help and when to push on. I don't have to be young to learn from her.

The woman who comes back to what she was taught so many years ago, because that was where she was happy. Excitement and ability to see the joy in every moment. Loving life and so excited to share. Infectious joy.

The woman who takes more little ones than she can hold. Quietly and consistently she is there and with consistence, they become quiet consistently.

The woman who can't even walk tall, but walks taller than us all because she never stops serving. Who has lived a life full of so many experiences ups and downs, heartaches and sorrows. One who sees each individual and loves each individual.

The yet to be woman who bravely put herself out there only to fail. Who cried in my arms because she knew better than anyone that she failed. The one who will dry her eyes and keep moving on, because that's just what she does. I will watch her fly.

Did it really happen

I fell asleep on the couch this morning after I dropped the kids off at school. In the middle of unpacked boxes and a kitchen buried in last nights dinner and all our life's paper work that still needs to be refiled. My stomach grumbled for my missed breakfast and I slept.

I haven't shaved my legs in three weeks, a record for even me because who has time? 

Not me.

I am buried in projects that can never be finished, things that can never be organized, and of course last nights previously mentioned dinner. 

I broke last night and cried at my kids; I don't think I've done that before. Cried with them, yes. Cried for them, yes. Cried in front of them…but not at them, blaming them for my inadequate self. 

So I slept. Maybe I really needed it, maybe I should have shaved my legs instead, or maybe I just needed an escape into nothing before I go back to everything again.

How long can it take to organize a house anyway? Week three is disappearing fast and here I am still trying to figure it out. It's not just a house after all, it's a home. One great thing about moving is the opportunity to start with a clean slate. Throw out the trash, question new bills and old schedules. Maybe get it right this time. I know it's worth the time.

I think back to a month ago to life in the hotel, or three months ago to life in Colorado and it feels foggy, distant and lost in all the emotion of moving and leaving a home that I didn't know would be a home and hoping that we can find that again. Sometimes making a new home feels disloyal to the old. 

I will always love the old. 

Buried on the couch I dreamt of walking through the woods in the rain (it always rains here) with my kids. As we came through the trees the scene opened up to a fast flowing creek making it's way down from the mountain peaks that were now right before us. The rain had turned to snow and it was beautiful. We turned in circles admiring our new surroundings and I knew it was put there for me. I also  knew it was a dream. I breathed deep, sucking it all in, daring it to be real; to prove itself to me. The snow was soft and cool, my nose was even started to feel cold. I held my kids hands and we turned around one more time as the horizon went flat again. I knew it would and I was grateful anyway. Grateful for that moment and grateful for this moment.

I just want to remember that.

Time to let go

We went to the ocean this summer. It had been calling me for so long. For a girl who was raised amongst mountain tops I wonder at the deep pull that immense salty place has on my soul. In the mountains I feel at home….they keep me oriented…I know where I am and where I need to go. I love the feeling of looking up at their depth and height and the awe of looking for miles from their towering peaks.

When we lived in the south and there wasn't a hill in sight I often felt desultory….like a stranger roaming and lost. The only comfort was at the ocean, feeling the salt on my skin and the wind on my face. It wasn't the same as my mountains that beg me to climb, to conquer, to be in them…feel the rugged path under my feet and grit under my nails.  I can't swim…not really, and the uncontrolled impulsive power of the waves scares me. Yet there I stand, as long as I can, watching the waves roll and crash; only my feet brave enough to withstand the teasing waves. It soothes my soul, clarifies my thoughts and orients my perspective. Even now as I sit here in my mountain home I feel the pull of the rolling tides.

"The Lord still moves mountains, and still calms the raging seas." I heard in church today.

It made me wonder (but not really wonder) why I find comfort in the things that only God can control.

2013

Enough.

Enough food.

Enough time.

Enough money.

Enough love.

I have enough.

I am enough.

You are enough.

He is enough.

Enough.

There are so many loud voices in the world and so many pressures and so much negative feedback. Our children are constantly being told that they are not enough. They are not good enough, or smart enough, or thin enough or rich enough. When they walk through the doors of our homes, and they must feel that they are enough. They must feel peace. Our homes must not be places of additional stress and pressure. They must be havens where each of our children can be valued and loved for just being themselves. As mothers, our role is to love and lead our children. In the words of Sheri Dew, “If we don’t show them there is joy in living this way, where else can they possibly expect to see it!”

~Elaine S. Dalton, A Return to Virtue

Random Acts of Kindness...Year 5

I'm often surprised at how real, deep and even overwhelming the grief can still be. It's been five years. Five years to get used to not calling her when silly things happen. Five years to get used to not seeing her at family gatherings. Five years to get used to not sharing my life with her. I've done a lot in the last five years, but getting used to having my sister gone is not one of them.

However, I do have a better understanding of where she is and what she's doing. A better understanding of Heavenly Father's love for all his children. A better understanding of the comfort given by the Savior's atonement. A better understanding of how all life's mess can make me a better person....and that is why I love Random Acts of Kindness.

Random Act of Kindness began as a way to remember Ruth, Nick and Audrey, because that's how they lived, because that's how we were blessed during our initial loss, and because now that's how we choose to live our lives.

Now, when I feel that gaping hole threatening to rip me clear through, I can think kindness instead of pain.  Sometimes it comes on fast, when I need a quick save....hurry, smile at the next person you see.... make eye contact....say hello...ask and listen about how they are, what they need. And sometimes it is a little more deliberate, following through on a phone call or an invitation I've put off way too long. Little by little neurons are trained to be kind instead of hurt, to look out instead of in.

As the kindness habits grow it is impossible to not see the kindness I receive. A good friend taking my kids overnight, not just feeding and housing them, but caring and comforting....even taking my son to soccer practice. Ten total kids and she still manages to take mine to soccer. She is kind, I am grateful.

I notice the kindness that comes even when there wasn't a need.  The kind that comes for no other reason but that you are loved. I was up early, so happy to be spending time with my husband, but wishing just a little I could be with my family as well. We were on a morning run in a strange and beautiful park. We ran up and around huge red rocks and reached the top in time to see the sunrise. It was red from all the smoke from summer fires, and made for an amazing view. Who knew this was what my sisters were doing at the same moment...waiting for that sunrise...it wasn't planned to all be there together miles apart, but there we were. Even God couldn't resist getting in on a day of Random Acts of Kindness.

How Gentle God's Commands

It rained again this week and all is right in the world. The clouds moved in low and slow all Wednesday, easing the panic pace of life. For the first time in weeks is seems, we had time to just sit together and listen to the rain.

It came down in small steady drops,

not

one

was

 wasted.

 It rained all night and a day leaving the ground wet trice as long. The entirety of Friday was used for the storm to clear. Watching the sky as "that hand which bears all nature up" lifts, parts and swirls the clouds, left me in awe....

nothing doubting.

How gentle God's commands!

How kind his precepts are!

Come, cast your burdens on the Lord

And trust his constant care.

Beneath his watchful eye,

His Saints securely dwell;

That hand which bears all nature up

Shall guard his children well.

Why should this anxious load

Press down your weary mind?

Haste to your Heavenly Father's throne

And sweet refreshment find.

His goodness stands approved,

Unchanged from day to day;

I'll drop my burden at his feet

And bear a song away.

This for That

Remember that old poem about the footprints in the sand and the guy looking back on his life and realizing he'd been carried through the hardest parts of his life?

I get that.

But it seems a shame to wait for the end of your life to recognize that He has been there all along. Jesus says, "For my yoke is easy and my burden is light," if we will come unto Him. But I still  heft my way down the trail, thinking that it isn't until I reach the destination that I will find relief.

But that's not what He said.

It's not "my yoke will be easy, and my burden will be light." It's right now, in the middle of the muck, and sinking fear that He says,

Take this, I've got that.

The "this" offered for our "that" is to follow His example of love and meekness, and find rest. I'll admit, that I have been strengthed when I thought I couldn't haldle anymore, that impressions and peace have been felt when fear circled all around....but to actually feel the easy rest of his yoke compared to occasionally stopping to catch my breath and then continuing on my own, that has been a new experience.

So I take this, unconditional love and He takes that, my selfish desires. I take complete trust and He takes my fear. I take an ability to serve with my whole heart and He takes my pride and stubbern grudges. I take complete obedience and He takes my every failure.

This for that...

I know I don't deserve it, and sometimes I want to trade back, slip into the comfortable, instead of learning the new way, but I know there is no other way.

Prone to wander, Lord I feel it,
prone to leave the God I love:
here's my heart, O take and seal it,
seal it for thy courts above.

This, my whole heart, for that, all that He has.

Some Things Never Change, But Some Things...

We run in the afternoon heat, soft rubber under foot, lap after lap and even 12 years later the smell, the taste of the heat reflecting from the track is like yesterday, and I am the same. The same person who loves to run, to push past tired legs, to compete and finish stronger than planned, and I am different. My mind is more sure of who I am and what I want. Solid confidence not defeated by the coming and goings of others.

Home with just one and loving the funny conversations and his dependence on my friendship, I am the same. The same as when the oldest was the only one at home and we were best friends all day and had all the time in the world, and I am different. When not careful, I can easily fill the hours and never have enough time to push him on the swings or read with him curled and heavy on my lap for hours.

I feel a little stir of excitement as I guide my niece through the algebra unknowns and I feel in awe at the truth of it all, and I am the same. The same person who discovered this math love through pure accident and reveled in learning the language of it all, and I am different. Still excited, I read the foreign text that has been unused for a decade, I fight fear and wonder if it will ever be preferred tongue again.

I hold the chubby babe of my friend and smell that smell; I swear I can feel milk in my breasts, I am the same. The same one who sat for hours and months, staring...still staring at the wonder that was created inside me, and I long for more of this divine role and soft cooing sounds, and I am different. Understanding the evolution of my divine roll and acceptance settling in as a young girls dreams collide with reality, and I begin to feel that it's ok.

I want more

"Why a true Christmas may be painful" ..That was the title of a blog post I saw in cyberspace this week. Unfortunately, 'tis the season for not having enough time to read (let alone write) blog posts. But that phrase has stuck in my mind. I suppose Christmas could be painful for a lot of reasons here among the have and have nots.

I love Christmas...all of it...even the hassle of gifts and the tipsy balance between commercial craze and simple joy of giving. But I have to admit that Christmas makes me a little greedy, and every year I want more. I want more of the music that sets the mood, I want more of the traditions and time spent with family, I want more of the babe in Bethlehem, and I want more to understand what He wants of me.

But painful?

This is the season of giving and anyone who has given knows that giving is the best gift received. But it can hurt. If giving means that you lose something or someone that you love with your whole heart. If giving means that you see how much you have but how little you have to give. If giving means that you just hurt because no matter what fantastic Christmas scheme you come up it doesn't even come close to what is really needed. If giving means to mourn with those that mourn, not just to offer sympathy, but truly mourn with them. It can hurt.

Painful....and usually humbling.

I think of Simon's words, "Master, we have toiled all the night, and have taken nothing: nevertheless at thy word I will let down the net." and I know there is more that can be done. Miracles happen every day, and with a little faith and guidance I let down the net, and stand in complete awe as it begins to break under the load.

Taking Pictures

It was just two of us.

Winding down through the canyon the day the metal brackets came off her teeth and she couldn't stop making funny faces, letting her mouth enjoy movement again. She leaned back against the window and the breeze caught her crimped locks and pulled them straight up.

We both giggled and tied to get my camera phone to work. No luck, and instantly my mind switched to camera mode and my heart caught in my throat. Early evening sunlight, the kind that lets you know summer is almost done, caught her freckles as if boasting of it's own work...

and while watching the road, I couldn't take my heart eyes off her.

She is so beautiful, and although I carried her inside myself every minute of the nine months plus three days, I still wonder how she could be mine and how she could be so grown.

She knew she had my attention and she laughed again, eyes sparkling gray-green and I know she loves her "freaky runner mom", and I think for now she is mine, but hold my breath anyway, not wanting this to change..

at least for a minute,

and I take a picture.

Oh Honey...

Last week I scraped the bottom of the honey bucket.

No, this isn't a life metaphor with deep meaning, I really scraped the bottom of my honey bucket...and then licked the spoon...and fingers. The last of the honey may be an ordinary occurrence for some, but this time, for me...it hurt. This wasn't just any honey bucket, this was the last of the good stuff. The stuff family drove hundreds of miles for, the stuff I grew up on...a sweet taste of heaven right here in my kitchen. I would make the drive myself, just to refill my bucket, but the honey man has retired and I have found nothing that competes. My brother still has a stash that he guards very heavily. I guess deep down I thought he would soften and share, being family and all, but no...honestly I don't blame him, he's only looking after  himself his own little family.

The fact is, I don't have the resources to be a honey snob anymore, so last night I took the plunge and bought some different honey. The price was right, at $120 for a 5 gallon bucket, I've seen  it sold for more than twice that. It was recommended by a friend and it's local, which helps with allergies. It's raw, which means it still has live enzymes and a few bee parts. AND it's pretty tasty...after all, it is honey.  I've yet to open the bucket...in fact, this post is a way of delaying the inevitable...but the bread must be made, and my kids want goodies in their lunches tomorrow...so humbled, here it goes....

Story Time

One of the major reasons I blog is to keep a record. I'm never the same person two days in a row, yet morphing by such small degrees I would hardly notice unless I had a written record of my previous self.

This blog is probably the closest to a journal I have ever come, but I have always thought that there are several different ways to leave a record of your life.

We live in an old house...not just an old house but an old house with character; keep in mind here, not all character is good. Many people have lived on this property before us and they have all left little stories about themselves built into this house, piled in the dirt, and even a few...a very few, planted in the soil. Mostly tales about horses, cattle, and chickens. Little narratives of how to make do with what you have are nailed in the barns and strung on the fence posts. Written in the fenced front yard with lawn, (a rarity it these parts) is the possibility of childhood adventures. The one lone lilac in the back, though weak and unpruned when we found it, is a small chapter of someone, at sometime that desired more than livestock.

This week my fingers have been distant from my computer keys and etched with dirt, but I have left little blog posts all over. These are some of my favorites.

A new row of lilacs from a neighbor who had too many.

Three tomato patches...with 5 different kinds of tomatoes, most from seed. No doubt these are a short story, but sometimes those are the best kind.

Day lilies....for free.

Nine grape vines, eight for only the price of digging the holes.

Honeylocust tree, so pretty and NOT an elm, and I had better mention...for free.

So even if my posts are far and few between this summer, I continue to tell my stories. Maybe this winter I will actually get some in print.

*I have a great friend who is redoing her yard...resulting in a lot of  free transplants and a lot of happy work for me :)

Morning Breath

The lilacs alone were worth facing the day at 5 am.

271/1000

Hiccups

Scissors in hand I run,
across slick muck and fresh snow.
Risky, I know, but I can’t risk losing
tender asparagus to a Spring hiccup.

Back inside, I crank the heater up
in protest,
and eat chilled spears for breakfast
as little Sunshine looks out…

 

past forgotten bubbles on the sill…

so unimpressed.

“I don’t like this kind of spring…snow is pretty when everything is dead, not when it’s already pretty…spring pretty.”

My own eyes try to look past
drooping fruit blossoms
to a summer of rest for the growing trees.



But in the end I concur
and offer her some asparagus.

Power Tools

He hit the nail square and hard, three swings and it was in. I was amazed. He moved on to the next nail as I stared with mouth open.

Wasn’t it just yesterday that I first handed him a hammer, sacrificing my own fingers to hold his nails straight? Didn’t I just wipe the tears of frustration and help pull out crooked nails? All that I was told said he was too young; too young for real tools…they have some nice pretend sets you know…but we were both desperate for more.
And now I watched with pride that was instantly humbled.

This was his deal, I merely gave him the tools. How many nails had he hammered on his own…and missed and pulled out and straightened…and hammered again?  How many sore thumbs and slivers? All this shaping him beyond what I could keep up with…

…and now he was holding nails for his little brother; sacrificing his own fingers to hold nails straight, and helping his little sister put her ideas together.

Showing how, quiet and kind; with just a hammer and a nail.

Can you hear me now?

I haven't seen my sister in a long time and I miss her. I don't know if I can remember what it was like just to pick up the phone and call her. But sometimes, she comes and whispers something in my ear or even hangs out for a while. Sometimes I'm too busy to even realize she was here until I think back and hear her laughter and encouraging spunk mingled throughout my ordinary day; as real as the laundry, and I gratefully fold and tuck those memories away with the others.

I'm different now. I suppose loss changes anyone, you see things differently, appreciate things you never noticed, and cherish more what is really important.

But it's more than that.

I'm a different person without her here. Bad or good...probably a little of both, but definitely different. I see more of myself, I'm more responsible for my decisions and more accepting of my shortcomings. I feel more united with all kinds of people and more confident on my own.

She stopped by last week and stuck around a while, reminding me of funny songs to teach my kids, helped me do a spring cleaning on my list of priorities, and celebrated new found grit.

I'll always miss her...she left an un-fillable hole. She made me a better person when she was here and when she left. In some ways I like this form of communication better. Simple and uncluttered. Better than any phone plan available.

Chickens

The idea of keeping chickens always sounded like a good one. Such a down to earth, home grown, provident living kind of thing. But I'll admit, I resisted until the end...and with good reason. Some days are so crazy and full that I lose track of my own kids...what chance would a chicken have around here?

So I held out with my excuses of where and how and how much, until sweet neighbors offered a few for free...free is my weakness. The kids were excited, and so was the dog, but still it was me who went out in the cold to feed and water and bring in no eggs.

Little by little they came out of their huddled corner to greet me, and I caught myself staring as they pecked and fluffed and strutted around the yard. Then, on the coldest day, when I was thinking chicken broth would be a good idea, they gave me an egg...and I was hooked.

Have You Heard?

Is it so strange to feel connected to a tree? Scraggly, hanging bark, mere sticks in the ground..."just part of the yard"...could it be more?

Farmer payers answered with weighty blessings...too much of a good thing? "No, never...but oh, we will miss that tree."

Circled rings, shaded rest, horses, huts and high places. Even before coming alive with giggling grand kids, it was ours.

We stood on branches too thin to grin at the whole world from it's very top, rode it's horse branches and shelled pea mountains in it's shade. We mowed under it's branches as it scratched at bare arms, dozed, laughed and could hardly wait to share it with our kids...adding one more circled ring.

Good times, good memories, and if that was all it would be enough...but I've always felt more...heard more...maybe I'm just feeling sentimental, or waxing poetic, but how do you explain a language to one who has never heard? And if you have, then my words are inadequate.

I have heard whispered peace as I walked under pine boughs...a homesick college girl. I have heard branches beseeching to be climbed every time I ran by, until I finally succumbed, to the surprise of my fiance. I have quietly conversed with willowy treetops as I nursed my babies. I heard live oaks gently awakening my hibernating soul.

Spiritual connection with nature is not a new thought, as Eliza R. Snow wrote of the sacrifice of the Savior, she included the human reactions of the elements.

"The sun in shame withdrew it light!

Earth trembled, and all nature sighed

In dread response, "A God has died!"

~Eliza R. Snow, Behold the Great Redeemer Die

I remember a family grieving for a mountain on fire; more than just fear of lost crops, but the knowledge that a dear friend would never be the same again.

I hear trees, they speak to me, but I believe all nature can encourage, comfort and lift our eyes heavenward; visual symbols of reaching branches and elevated mountain peaks or simple words of praise only our hearts can understand, it is all a simple conversation of gratitude, dependence and love...just waiting to be had.

". . . as long as there are movement and harmony, there are words."~Shannon Hale