Blessings on Mother's Day

I've been thinking about sharing some of my "letters" from the book I am writing- on childhood pain and wounding.  So today seemed to be a fine day to encourage some younger moms I know- pregnant, with new babies or busy toddlers- in the thick of the "new, almost new, not-quite-feeling-up to motherhood" moms.  All of us at one point or another!

In this book, But Nothing Happened", I'm writing on painful events of my own childhood and my method has been to write letters, mostly to myself. I'm making them up as a way to talk to my younger self- child, teen, young mom. Those are the seasons of my life that were most impacted by the pain of childhood. Pain I dismissed because nothing really happened.... but stuff did happen, it was abuse, it left scars.  Saying that outloud and writing this book has been the most healing work I've done and I invite you to share in my journey.

Blessings to the young moms-especially those who can relate to my story. You are a rose unfolding.

                                                                                                 1983

                                                                                                Jacksonville, North Carolina 

Dearest young mom,                                                                                                            

My older and wiser heart is so tender to you. You’re a great mom… and you always doubt yourself. You are admired by how you seem to be managing life but you’re not sure it's the real you being seen.  Remember the time the Bible study group sat in a big circle at Jan’s house? We all had to go around and state one word we thought best described ourselves.  You said, “Earthy.” That guy laughed— clearly, you were not seen as earthy.

You are so intimidated by a room full of confident Marine Corps pilots and their put-together wives. Now I understand they weren’t all that confident and most of the wives were just as insecure as you. Time can have a way of taking our focus off ourselves, we can see others in a more realistic way. Right now you don’t have your own voice yet and can’t express yourself well.  I get it, even all these years later, I’d rather write my thoughts than try to say them.  But that day you took a risk and blurted out what you felt. You spoke your truth. It wasn’t received well but likely, he didn’t know you.  Why would he?  You don’t know who you are either. 

But still—in these early days of motherhood, you do feel earthy, connected to the earth and the garden. The sweet smell of babies clings to you. Your breasts heavy with milk, you join the automatic baby sway, the ancient motherhood response.  You feel powerful in ways you’ve never experienced before. You pushed a baby out of your body and provide life-giving food! 

But the highs last only for brief moments- then you slide into self-doubt and even depression all over again.  Forgive yourself for the weeks of curling up on the floor, hugging yourself, ignoring that sweet, new baby. You were a hormonal mess and another baby so soon after his brother derailed you. Now they even have a name for postpartum depression, not that it will do you any good. This is a hard season; you are giving your best of your capacity right now. And you’ll go on to tell your story and hold the hands of other hurt and broken mothers. Nothing is wasted. Everything belongs. 

I know you will lock those sweet little boys out of the house and scrub the kitchen floor with a toothbrush to get it clean enough.  Their dad is gone a lot; you can’t control his schedule or their behavior but you can at least have clean floors.   If you can forgive yourself, it will be a big step toward loving yourself. When you mess up ask for their forgiveness and forget it, they certainly won't remember. If they do remember, it’s their wounds to work through, none of us come out of childhood unscathed. It’s not your intention to scar but you are broken and you will make mistakes. It's ok. You are a good mother—you care, you touch, you listen. You love. And they do turn out to be delightful adult people- homegrown friends for life. 

Moments come and go; a lifetime is enough to get love right.

Love, from the grandmother of your delightful children!

Cheating on blogs

I reviewed 2019 with my cousin and was reminded what a wild and stressful year it was. So here it is 2020 and... what? I'm locked in my house!  Well, not quite but I just returned from what was supposed to be two months of glorious spring and visits with old friends. Instead, I made  a mad dash for home, sleeping on a blow-up pad in my car. More to save time than avoidance of The Virus that will not be named.

Lovely lagoon by Pensacola Beach, Florida

And two days after the dash from Florida...

Spring snowfall in the Black Hills!

But when I can pull myself away from video chats my grandchildren and watching a truly entertaining Schnauzer dispense advice on Facebook, I'm writing. I'm on a roll with my book (on childhood wounding/trauma) and I'm working on the bibliography.

A sampling of books to review and quote. Except the one by https://drive.google.com/file/d/1ugqeBZfE_m43U5FS0savJcbjb2f06Yy-/view?usp=sharingAlice Miller- she's way too academic!

 But not just a boring list of books that may or may not be relevant. I'm finding quotes and offering why this was helpful reviews. It's work and it's time consuming because all books suck me in and there goes another two hours.

Ooo—there's that book I haven't actually read next to the one I was looking for... and there goes the evening.  I know—first world, non-essential worker "problem".

If it's going to be winter in April, I'm at least enjoying a fire. 

So in my research for quotes, I ran into a few cool blogs and I'm going to cheat and link them to this one! So if you want to share the fruit of my scattered inner world, I welcome you to visit the website and blog of one of my favorite authors, Macrina Weiderkehr. And her list of books could be my list of books—except she has some I've never heard of...so  I'll have to go look those up!

Meanwhle, enjoy. And do check out her dead blog cemetary post. I can competely relate!

http://macrinawiederkehr.com/dead-blog-cemetery-again/2401

I love finding kindred spirits and when you can pass on their wisdom and writings to others, it's a win-win day!  If we're all stuck alone, the internet can be a complete waste of time or a source of refreshment and community.  Hope you enjoy!

WTH- Life isn't supposed to go this way!

Similar to other long, dark winters, I planned a lovely meander to sunshine and warm weather.  This year my trip included friends and their condo on the Gulf of Mexico. Blithly, I dismissed the idea of a simple virus interferring with my life and headed south.

I love live oaks. 

And now I'm social distancing in place and my trip will only include a quick dash home. No dogwood blossoms in NC, no anticipated chats with dear friends, no garden visits in Savannah or Charleston, no Easter Vigil in D.C.   And if I had to be stuck somehwere, this is about perfect. 

Except it's not. These dear friends are in the middle of a personal family crisis. No details are needed because similar events are happening in many homes, throughout America and around the world. Familes are awaiting the birth of babies, women and men are nervously watching their bank statements or hoping for phone calls to return to work. Family disfunction still simmers, maybe to boil over in the heightened stress. Health workers are working hard and you know some of them are dealing with crap at home. Life continues- with or without social distancing and the threat of a little known virus.

I have a habit of reading whatever I find by my guest bed when I travel.  It's an interesting way to expand my reading selection and occasionally I find a great new author.  This trip?  There was Victor Frankel's Man's Search for Meaning, written in nine days after he survived four concentration camps in WWll.  Not light reading but it has been such a juxtaposition with Covid19. Yes, we are in the midst of a very scary situation with many vulnerable people.  But most of us have so much agency over our lives.

I could quote Frankel all day but one thought especially stands out-

“The way in which a man accepts his fate and all the suffering it entails, the way in which he takes up his cross, gives him ample opportunity — even under the most difficult circumstances — to add a deeper meaning to his life. It may remain brave, dignified and unselfish. Or in the bitter fight for self preservation he may forget his human dignity and become no more than an animal.” 
― Viktor Emil Frankl, Man's Search for Meaning

In the lowest, most degrading time of his life, Frankel came to realize that how we chose to react to life is the measure of what it means to be fully human.  And this can be a time for us to chose our reactions as well. 

One of my wise sons sent out a great list of things to do- laugh, read the Psalms, create something beautiful...

"Whatever your capacity and circumstances may be, 

be pro-active with your love and energy!"    

Such good words- so I'm limiting screen time, taking long walks with six feet between me and my friend (sometimes- after all, we are all in one condo together) and taking pictures. Seeking or recording or reating beauty revives me. Find what revives you and do it with your full capacity.  Then take a nap! 

The Hopes and Fears of all the Years

Dearest readers- however few and however far,

This blog has been a wonderful place to vent and muse and develop ideas and tell even silly stories. Each year I commit to writing more and most times I fail. I perfectly realize that without consistent writing, there is not consistent readership and someday when (not if!) I publish my book, I may regret my sporatice nature.

But it was after my last post that I realized how much I need to write and put my words out to the world. The lovely notes and cards and texts after Rain, Rain, Go Away reminded me of the immesurable value of community and sharing.  I was raw and overwhlemed and so many responded with kindness. And those who didn't must have sent my words on because many people read them. And if I was comforted, I trust my words comforted some as well- if nothing else but with the knowledge we are not alone in this life. Our sorrow is the sorrow of being human and the price of Love. But shared sorrow is a gift to the soul.

I'm glad to see 2019 go. It's been a year of great highs and great lows. But it ended on a beautiful high note of shared joy with the marriage of my most beloved sister to a wonderful and kind man. A few of us spent New Year's Eve in front of a roaring fire at my cabin.  My niece and I toasted in the new year with ginger beer in a moment of black skies awash with diamonds. We stood by the porch rail, wrapped in blankets,  with the darkened house behind us. I reminisced about the night her father and I stood in the same spot and gazed at a similar sky.  He had called Janet and I out to see the stars and the wonder in his voice is a sweet memory.  The seasons pass, he rests in eternity and years go by. The stars shoot out their beauty and we are small beneath them.

The next day after they left, I rose and climbed to meet that starlight, hidden by the light of the sun but nevertheless, shining on me.  After our merry band stuffed ourselves on a potluck breakfast, we hiked to the top of the highest peak between the Rockies and the Pyreenes. We tromped in a broken path of snow and over bare rocks, in glorous sunshine to a stiff breeze on the top. I haven't hiked as much as I'd like since my trek to Spain and it felt so good to stretch myself and dig in to accomplish the summit. Single women all, we celebrated our strengths and camaraderie.  We waited for each other and chased a confused dog who bolted back up the trail in search of his mistress. I just met three of the women but as we shared stories and pushed ourselves, we made community.

No camera at the top, but the view, even without know is wonderful. 

 So I sit and muse and try to craft this small story, reminding myself of the joys of new beginnings and new stories to be lived and told. I pray you have a new start toward the light of the stars that always shine down, sending us delight, seen and unseen. 

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep 

The silent stars go by

Yet in thy darkness shineth

The everlasting light

The hopes and fears of all the years

Are met in Thee tonight

 That Light is always shing, deepest sorrows and highest joys. In valleys and on summits, hopes and fears are met with his Light.  Blessings on 2020 as we live in the Light of Love- together. 

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.

Water, water everywhere...on the Camino and home

I loved the water in Spain. All along the Camino de Santiago, small town and large cities had fountains, most with drinkable water. It gushed from dragons and pipes, ran through the cities in rivers and drainage ditches and dribbled along mountain paths. I took a picture of water every single day!

Stone sink at a hostel.

Just pipes this time, no dragon heads.

It's water so it counts.

I even created my own water site!

I'm home and it has rained and rained here in the Black Hills. We are lush and green and the wildflowers continue to amaze me. I'm perched at my kitchen counter and looking out at a verdant prairie- this never happens in August. 

So this morning, I took some water pictures.

Life is full of water and green is beautiful. I'm so grateful to live in this lovely place and be able to soak it all in.

And between starting this blog post and  sending it, I helped my brother-in-law and his wife clean out his sister's storage unit. Years of stuff and more stuff-moldy boxes of linens from their family- books and old checks, correspondence and kitchen stuff.  JoAnne is differently abled as we say- she is also tenacious, stubborn, independent and yet now she needs to be in a nursing care facitily. As I sorted her papers and numerous afghans, I found reminders of a rich and productive life.  Her candy business, metals for special Olympics and letters from organizations, a governor and even a president commenting on her contribution to the disabled community.  The stream of her life ran broad but invisible to many people.

As I finished up that week, my daughter-in-law called and spoke in a broken voice, "The baby died."  In an instant, our world turned unside down and our dreams for this unborn child flowed away.  She never took a breath, we never heard her cry but her time with us was a flood- of love and pain, sweetness and bitterness, sorrow and joy for her eternal life.

Water is life, life is water- flowing and carving its mark on the world.  JoAnne's life is rich and I am grateful  Teresa Irene's life is in heaven, my tears water the earth beneath my feet. 

Bridge over troubled water

I drove the six hours to Bismarck, North Dakota this week.  The landscape was lush and unseasonably green, the summer that we never thought would come is stretching into fall. But an occasional yellow leaf reminds me- the seasons turn,  winter always comes, life goes on.

We want life to look like this.

Wide, well marked with easy curves. Yes, there is a horizon but it stretches comfortably in the distance.

Instead the journey of life dips and disappears and our stomach lurches with the rough ride.  We hit potholes that threaten our comfort and suspension. The curves come fast and we can find outselves smashed at the side of the road. Alone.

This week, the spirit of my much prayed for and eagerly anticipated sixth grandchild, Teresa Irene, returned to the full presence of her Heavenly Father.  I love the image of her holding hands with her grandfather who loved babies but has yet to meet any of his grandchildren.  For us left on earth, we still deal with the reality of her lifeless body delivered by a grieving mother into the hands of a distraught father.  The hospital has been wonderful, the community outpour of prayers and help has be comforting...

but this grandmother just wants to breathe life into that tiny, perfect body and into this sad and broken family.

Her life on this earth was short and distant and not in our hands.



This tiny bridge is not easily accessible. It's not on a wide path. I'm not even sure of its purpose.  But it caught my eye, it spoke to my soul's longing for beauty, it is there.  A tiny bridge to nowhere must have a function I don't know. Someone carefully constructed posts and railing and added sturdy metal roofing. They placed it in this quiet spot and they know why.

Ducks paddle on this calm water and find food for their ducklings.  Life  happens here in the quiet, off the busy road.

Teresa is our bridge- inaccesible to our hands but forever perfect and complete in our hearts. Her brief life reminds us of the brevity of our days and heaven awaiting us- she is our bridge to eternity.  But I don't want to leave this little, fragile structure out here in the elements; winter is coming. The ducks will fly and she'll be alone.  But this  earth is all merely a shell, a structure with a function I don't fully realize.  Teresa has shed her fragile  body and is rejoicing in timeless heaven where we are already together. I am left to remember her rosebud lips, to hug the sad children and parents, to pray for comfort and... to anticipate life on earth as it continues on, waiting for the renewal of an inevitable spring.