Rain, rain, go away...

This has been the hardest September for thirteen years. Well, maybe the first anniversaray of Bill's September death was the worst DAY. Then I had decided to not stay home and be alone. So I went out into an indifferent world and almost had an accident in a parking lot, locked my keys in my car THREE times in that one day and cried in public.  Why didn't I find a friend to share the day? Still acting independent while falling apart.

So it's been thirteen years and I'm totally about sharing life and burdens. But some burdens, even shared ones, just weigh heavy.  The month started with the "train wreck into my chest" of the death of unborn grandbaby, Teresa Irene. Our precious litle girl, so anticpated, so longed for, went straight into the arms of Jesus and left us straining to hold her alive. Aching to hold life. Devasted at loss.
I held my grief for her death as well as the pain of my own beloved children as they mourned.



The waters of sorrow felt high and threatening, from the skies the rain was unrelenting.  We buried Teresa on a hilltop in Bismarck, ND as the wind whipped umbrellas inside out and I wrapped a grieving grandchild in a blanket to keep her as dry as possible. The heavens wept.



I returned home and prepared for company, beloved old friends. But their life is sad, a mother is passing and in that wake, the family cracks are splitting wide open. We hold our arks together as long as we can but life's waters can batter and stress and pull apart a frail craft.   Our visit was full of long discussions and urgent phone calls. I'm glad to be a sounding board but it just keeps raining on my soul.

Then a much, much beloved child, another grandmother's biological child but a child of my heart held his sore belly and it's not a virus, it's not stress- it's a fast growing, agressive tumor. Cancer.. invading his little tummy and filling their world with horror, confusion, terror and great resolve. It's a deluge of pain and helplessness. I'm so far way. I have more guests and obligations. Others respond and the wagons circle around the child but I can only pray from afar and encourage without eye contact or arms. I'm out in the rain and lost my umbrella.

Meanwhile, life happens. I have committments from months ago. I host wonderful, life giving artists for a art workshop and we all try to ignore yet more rain- this late in September it's cold and rain threatens to become our first snow. It's just wet and dark.

 I also have to oversee the construction on my long drawn out "she shed/ guest quarters" project to get it enclosed for the winter. I shop for doors, find lumber- which ends up involving unexpected drives to neighboring towns. I return with a load and the stress hits- I lose my mind and back my big 3/4 ton dually pick-up truck right through the newly constructed wall and patio door. No one is hurt but I am shocked. I'm embarassed. I'm horrified. I wonder, "Could I have a brain tumor- why didn't my foot obey my brain?"

All the rain of water and sorrow flowing mingled down. I've had enough. Will this month ever end? Will I live through the gloom and the heavy skies?

Turns out I take very few pictures of gray gloom and rainy days.
And the rain has given us a magnificent green summer and fall. 

Yes, of course, I will live. Baby Teresa is fully herself and alive with Jesus and her grandfather. The elderly will pass and in their wake, families will be redefined and go on, cracks and all.  All the children with cancer and their families will continue their battle and doctors will do their best. Soon I'll be able to go visit and lend my piece of support in person. My small project will be completed and guests will enjoy the exposed beams and rebuilt patio door.  Life will go on.  But September may always remind me of the storms that buffet our lives and leave us bruised and sore. So many people struggle with sorrow and pain. This is part of the human condition in a broken world.

Today is overcast and we expect snow tomorrow. Winter is coming and I intend to hibernate and sleep. But today I have time with a friend and there's dinner tonight with my prayer sisters. We will gather and hug and support one another. We need each other, we need to know we are not alone in the rain.

Find your people. Love them. Lift up the dying and the "can't die yet" with prayers and blessings and words of life and healing.  Find a hand and hold on tight. Don't let the rain of one season define the year, or a life.

Bike ride with the Clouds

Yesterday I rode on my bike route, the Mickelson Trail.  I've been busy with projects in the house and the garage and I had also decided to whack at my driveway weeds with a scythe in the morning.  I needed some play time!  

So after yoga (core yoga... I may have taken on a bit that evening),  I drove south toward Custer to access the trail.  There are trailheads along the roads- some a bit less accessible than others- this "road" was a gravel for almost a mile and then it became dirt and went over a steep edge to get to the path.  I was grateful for my all wheel drive vehicle! 

But once I got on the trail- what a great ride!

Look at those clouds!
I thought about a hat or a visor but it was late, I wouldn't get sunburned....

This cannot capture how white that cloud was against the blue sky.
I love South Dakota!

I cruised along and in about 20 minutes, arrived in the town of Custer.  I zipped through the back alleys avoiding "traffic"- mostly tourists who might not be watching for a bike.  Oops- forgot my bike lock back at the car so I left my bike right by the door, rushed in for a banana and protein bar.  And some GORP- good old raisins and peanuts.... or in this case- raisins, peanuts and M&M's.  Dinner and some energy for the trip back.


Good idea, it turns out.

Any time you cruise along a bike path in "21"- three on the left gear handle and seven on the right, means... you are in gear twenty-one. You are going DOWNHILL!  Duh... I thought about it only as I got into Custer and the path took  a sharp dip down onto the street.

But I had ridden partway to Custer before. A friend and I left Hill City and rode UP about six miles toward Custer before we turned around.  So... I have ridden UP toward Custer... skipped the summit, obviously, and ridden DOWN toward Custer for the the next four miles.

So the trip back north to Hill City, at the end of a rather long day, was ALL UPHILL.
In gear five, not twenty-one.

And into the setting sun.
A visor would have been handy.

That's not a white sky- it's the sunshine in the camera.

So I had to stop- frequently... for pictures.  And a handful of peanuts.

Beavers create a pond for reflection. 

The clouds continue their magic.

More magic

A barn just past the sunset- I'll have to come back to watch that light again. 

And a bit of history. Whew- I needed a break anyway.

Custer was here. 

These contrasting photos are fascinating. 

And Cleveland was here!
I resisted the urge to carve my initials into a tree.

And that field is full of deer- stealth, invisible deer.  They'd pop up on the trail, look at me and jump off into the meadow. Never close enough to photograph. 

One last rest- and another gaze at the clouds.  And my trusty bike.

The clouds reflecting the colors of the sunset as I look toward  the highway to Custer.
A great ride- even uphill.