And there is hope....

Usually I like my words to paint the picture, but today I'm feeling pretty low.  I thought this picture I took the other day kind of shows what I hope will be at the end of my day...

Autumnal Musings

This morning, autumn started her foray into the world where I live.  The air was crisp, the sky overcast, and a breeze flirted with my summer skirt.  I have mixed emotions with the changing of the seasons.  I look forward to the days where rain and fallen leaves mix in the gutter, causing enormous puddles of water, calling to my children and the nights where chili and homemade bread are on the menu. I also see the ending of summer’s carefree and lawless antics.  Of course, the structure is a bane and a blessing to my existence, hence my mixed emotions.

The sky has become more and more dark, and I can hear the thunder in the distance over my soft Norah Jones playing in the background.  It’s an appropriate choice for such a mellow, rainy day.  The clouds are reminiscent of a charcoal colored pair of trousers I once wore.  They were soft and comfortable, and so I tend to look at the storm that way….as long as I’m inside.

I enjoy the days where a cozy sweater and argyle socks, worn with penny loafers, are the uniform I prefer.  Yes, you can tell my age from that statement, but none the less, I still dream of the chic cable knits of my youth.  Now I look forward to days when a good book, sits open on my lap, as the rain pelts the glass of my sliding glass door and the blanket I’ve had since I was just a little girl covers my legs.  The smell of a heater, long dormant, roaring to life, with its mustiness blowing into the room, brings a smile to my face.  Fall is coming and she is making her presence known on so many levels.

There are times when I like to watch the storm fronts move across the valley, where a little to the north, there is a patch of blue, while to the south, the sky is an inky black, with an eerie light.  I love the smell of rain, as it hits the dry dust of summer, almost washing it away and into the new season.  If I’m lucky, a lightening show will streak across the black, almost as if it is trying to capture the essence of the world in a picture with its flash.  For a brief moment, all is illuminated, the good and the bad, and then, darkness quickly overcomes, shielding what, for a split second was stark reality.

I enjoy the feeling of tights on my bare legs, nicely opaque, covering a multitude of sins as well as the black boots, coming out of the abyss known as my closet, to see the light after the hiatus of summer.  Apple cider, glazed doughnuts, and pumpkin chocolate chip cookies, seem to only herald the return of autumn with a finality that trick or treat candy and aisles of Halloween costumes can’t.  A trip up the canyon turns into an explosion of color.  A vibrant show of nature’s way with a paintbrush greets the senses, and I welcome her with open arms and open heart.

What are your favorite things about autumn?
*Thanks to Google for the image....*

People Watching...a Voyeuristic Pleasure

Have you ever seen this person? You know the one I’m talking about. She is standing across the room from you. You’ve never met her, but you just know……Everything about them screams. From the big hair, loud clothes, tacky jewelry, and super long fingernails, it’s clearly apparent. She is LOUD. No, she hasn’t started talking yet, but the feeling doesn’t escape you as her aura or essence washes towards you in waves and you are in for an obnoxious, ear drum bursting ride.

Today this person was running around my building. She was hurting the eyes as well as the ear drums, but, all I could think about was how I could use her as a character somewhere, someday. I mentally drew a picture of her, gave her name and occupation. Oh, I know it wasn’t the most flattering image, and I profusely apologize, because I’m sure that she is a genuinely nice person in real life. That being said, I still couldn’t wait to put her in a situation, where she is gum smacking, standing with one hip thrust out, yelling into a micro-mini cell phone, that is swallowed up in the massive perm curls surrounding her head. I know you are wondering if her hair is that skunk motif with the roots all dark and the ends fried from too many attempts to bleach and perm said mop, but amazingly no. Her hair was a normal color that seemed to belie the rest of her appearance. So, perhaps for my own benefit as well as hers, I will not make her into the stereotypical, big busted, blonde airhead, because she's smart….and LOUD!

I love to people watch. I come up with stories or situations for those that I see, and sometimes the characteristic that I love about them, that makes them bigger than life, or noticeable makes its way into something I’m weaving together in my head. I usually don’t know where I would even begin to use this person, but still the same, I jot notes in my notebook, trying to capture the essence of who they are, to me, and continue mulling over the general plot line I want to put on paper.

There are days where I wish that I could draw and be able to do justice to the look that I’m afraid my words don’t do. Then I have to remind myself that is what I love about reading. I take what the author has written and make it my own. I envision a very different look to Hogwarts from the Harry Potter books than any of the movies portray, and Colin Firth does not do justice to my own Mr. Darcy, although, to be honest, he comes mightily close! (Hence the picture, with my post, a little eye candy for a few of us.) Perhaps that is why so many people prefer the book to the movie….they create the scene in their head with the words the author has given them. I wonder if my words about the LOUD creature in my building gave you the image that is in my head. I doubt it. I’m sure that yours was much more creative and fun to look at than mine.

Someday I hope to have a place for all these crazy characters that have made their home in my head and notebook. I hope to give them the freedom to do all those things that I’ve been too scared to do in my life, or make them into something I’d like to be, but don’t quite have it together to make it successful. Or perhaps they will remain story fodder that may come into play with a story I leave for no one but my children. Or maybe, if I’m really lucky, I’ll write a book….and their story, along with mine will be told.

*Thanks, Google for the image of the delectable Mr. Darcy!*

Where were you???

Where were you?  I remember that I was sitting in the rocking chair of my parent's basement, watching the morning news with my daughter on my lap.  I had no idea that the world as we all knew it would change in just a matter of moments.  A previous bishop of mine lost his mother and sister on the second plane.  I was amazed at how close it was to someone I knew.

Are the flags flying in your yard?  They are in mine.  There are black balloons lining the walkways of campus today, yet I'm not so sure that there is a somber tone here.  Life is still moving on, and things must still be accomplished.

What makes today an even more surreal experience is the interview my husband has with C.I.D. in regards to his brother's death.  His parents and two sisters spent five hours with them yesterday......we'll see if he will be able to accomplish anything else today after something like that.

So, may we all take a moment and think of those that have lost their lives, those that fight for freedom, and be ever grateful for what we have.

Old as Dirt

I think I’m getting old.  In fact, I know I am.  Today I’ve watched the many students file past my office window, making their way from one building to another, bags slung across their shoulders and skinny jeans paired with flip flops and tunic shirts that look very reminiscent to the ones I wore in high school.  What I find so interesting is that almost every single person walking along is either on a cell phone or has ear buds dangling from their ears, tethered to an iPod or anther such device.  Very few are walking with their heads up, most looking down at their feet, almost like they can’t bear to connect with another human being.

I wonder why so many of these people would rather gaze at the sidewalk instead of holding up their heads, walking confidently forward.  Is that a sign of what this generation holds in store for us?  Are they missing out on the social interactions that can come their way?  It seems to be just one more wall to shun the society of others.  Heaven forbid they should smile and say hello.

That is why I am old.  I don’t understand the need for skinny jeans, because who would look good in a pair of jeans like that at my age?  I don’t understand the constant connectivity.  Even though I am a digital fanatic, and love my devices, I also realize how the real world can get shut out.   I don’t understand the loss of human connection.  With so many avenues, Facebook, Twitter, MySpace, e-mail, texting, we should be more connected to those around us, right?

What about the lost art of handwriting a note?  I saw an article in a magazine yesterday that touted the virtues of a well made stationary and fountain pens.  Have I gone so far down the path of digital madness that I wouldn’t be able to pen a letter to a friend or loved one?  I do enjoy spending time at the Moleskine stand in Barnes and Noble, so I can’t be all that far gone can I?  One is always in my purse, right next to my iPhone.

Why am I old?  I guess I’m starting to sound like my mother.   I often start a conversation with my children, “When I was your age…” I hated when my mother did that.  If anything, I’ve begun to appreciate those words of wisdom and the nostalgia that she provided for me during my own youth.  I will continue to think about the events that changed the world during young life, such as the fall of the Berlin Wall, the Space Shuttle falling from the sky, and the invention of the World Wide Web (which is funny story in and of itself.)  I realize that most of the students walking outside my window never lived in a home where a microwave wasn’t always sitting on the counter, or had a car that took gas that was “regular” versus “unleaded”.    I look at my own children and they will never experience doing a research paper without the help of the internet or use a typewriter to finish it off.

So today I will feel old, and that is okay.  I am entering into a new period in my life, where I will be the eccentric one that shakes her head at the skinny jeans and secretly wish she had the body to pull it off.

*Thanks Google, for the image*

Coming out of the Dark

It’s a story I haven’t really told, one that not many people know about. It isn’t like I wear a badge on my chest or a ribbon to show support for a cause close to my heart. Those like me suffer in silence, our faces shielding the pain that has run deep in our hearts.

In ways, I like the term ‘miscarriage’. It evokes the image of a wrongful action, the life cut short, before it even has a chance to begin. Of course, the many reasons for the loss of a baby have been well documented medically, but not one, not even the most graphic and worst case scenario situations eases the pain.

When Daniel and I first married, my idea was to wait a year before we attempted to have children. We were both in school, and I was extremely close to having my degree. With that goal within reach, I didn’t want to jeopardize that opportunity to see it to completion. Looking back, I see that it may have been somewhat selfish to think that I could control the situation like that. But I realize now, that while it works for some to wait, it wasn’t in the cards for me. After about a month of marriage I had these very, very strong promptings that I should revisit my desire to wait to have a baby and start trying right away. Daniel and I talked about this desire and prompting and while he had supported my desire to wait, he was more than thrilled with the idea we start trying right away. He had felt that we should be trying for a baby right away. It was a spiritual experience for me and I knew without a doubt that things would work out for me to finish school and still follow the inspiration I had been given. One month later, I was pregnant and filled with joy and longing for my baby.

My first miscarriage took place at a wedding. I’m sure that somewhere that can be seen as a bad omen. We were only seven to eight weeks into this pregnancy, but enough to know that it made a huge impact on my body. Never nauseous, but constantly running to the restroom was my biggest indication of the change going on inside me. It started as something light, a bit of spotting. By evening, it was in full swing and I was scared. The news there, was not good, although the nurses tried to console me with talk of losing a twin, and that I could still have a baby. The blood work came back as the final nail in the coffin of my dream. I was indeed losing the life inside of me. I sobbed.

The next few months were difficult to say the least. A doctor’s visit where the nurse brushed off the experience as “normal” and nature’s way of dealing with “bad DNA” wasn’t as consoling as perhaps it was intended. I grieved silently, and occasionally with someone close to me. I don’t know if I have recovered from it to this day. My mother had never had a miscarriage and didn’t understand, although her heart broke for me being in pain. Her arms were never far away and her tears flowed with mine. My mother in law had lost a child at four or five months, carried cradled in her womb for some time before her body rejected it. She wept with me too, for her own experience as well as mine.

I did get to a point where the tears didn’t shed as easily and I was able to function. Imagine my joy when I found myself pregnant, a year later, after graduating from college. I was estatic, thinking that the odds were in my favor, not many women had multiple miscarriages. I was thrilled when I made it past the ten week mark, almost breathing a sigh of relief. Just mere days before my first appointment at 13 weeks, I started spotting. Rushing to the office, and meeting Daniel there, we faced the horrific reality of no heartbeat. A procedure was scheduled to “take care” of the problem, and I went home numb and unfocused. A week later I went into labor. I didn’t know it at the time, but as the waves of pain washed over me, and I lay on the couch, alone, my heart was ripped from my chest. I remember biting my hand until it bruised, trying to stop the shaking and stem the flood of tears.

A few months later, another positive pregnancy test was taken with much reservation. There was no joy, or anticipation. A lead weight rested on my chest and I wasn’t ready for the disappointment that came just mere weeks after my discovery. I would sit on the floor of the shower and cry until the water ran cold.

Another attempt ended before it began. I remember my mother asking me why I was running to the bathroom so often. She thought I should see someone. My throat almost closed up as I told her that I knew perfectly well why I was running to and from the bathroom, but there was no hope, and calling the doctor wouldn’t matter. It was over….I now knew the signs. I could see the tears in her eyes and I knew her heart ached for me, much like my own ached for the child that would not be.

By now, I wasn’t sure if my heart would ever recover from the pain and loss. My arms were empty, they ached. I wanted to hold my child, to look on the gift from God that was so precious. I was angry. I yelled, I cried, and I prayed. I wasn’t comforted, although the comfort was there for my taking if I had only recognized it. I sat behind a dark curtain, unwilling to see the sunlight on the other side.

My next pregnancy was difficult to deal with, as were all the others. I remember being about seven or eight weeks and calling the new doctor I had to see due to changes in insurance and telling them I was bleeding. They told me they could get me in six weeks later, and asked if morning or afternoon was more convenient. I think I hung up the phone before answering and sinking to the floor. I rocked back and forth, lost to think that I knew my baby wouldn’t be there in six weeks. It was leaving now.

I remember that I almost watched myself from a distance. It was almost if someone else were moving me and making me pick up the phone to call my mother. I don’t remember what I said, or even what she said for that matter. I was still a million miles away, where shields were laying shattered on the ground and a small heart writhed in pain. I know now that the Lord took over then. Perhaps He knew I had been through enough and it was time for me to find the answers I needed.

Five times...Five times I grieved, and with each new loss, it ripped the scab open that had formed over my heart. The gouges were deeper with each baby that I lost. Five times I cried, and often cried alone because my husband didn’t know what to do for me. He grieved in his own way, because his loss was just a real as mine, but we didn’t quite see it that way at the time. Too many times, I would hear the well intentioned words “It’s for the best”, or for those who had no idea of our trials, “When are you going to have a baby?” and it would cause a sharp pain to shoot from my chest to my soul.

Perhaps there are some who say that losing a baby shouldn’t affect me the way it did. I wasn’t very far along, and it really wasn’t “real”. Oh how I beg to differ. You just don’t know until you have been there! I suppose that twelve years later, and with the joy of two blessed children in my life, the pain would have gone away, but it hasn’t. I don’t think it ever really does. It may dull to an ache that sits at the back of your soul, handled but still there.

I’m sure that my story isn’t necessarily unique in the fact I lost a number of babies. Nor am I alone in my grief and sense of loss, because others have lost as well. Perhaps I don’t like to dwell on what I have been through because I have been blessed with children now. As I said, the Lord had his hand in the birth of my two children. It wasn’t easy getting them here, and I don’t regret the journey one bit. I suppose the fact that I experienced pain has made the sheer fact that I became a mother all the more sweet and satisfying.

I don’t share my story often. Occasionally, I will whisper it to a mother who has lost her child, to let her know we are kindred souls….I have lost too and know her grief. But mostly I hold it in, next to my heart, the only way I can cocoon my lost ones because they didn’t have a chance to be held in my arms. What good does it do to hide my story anymore? Maybe I was afraid of the judgment or the pity that was sure to come my way. I’m sure I didn’t handle myself with aplomb and dignity and my husband saw far more swollen red noses and puffy eyes than he thought he had signed up for. I argued with the Lord and was angry for a long time. This doesn’t bode well when sharing what I feel was one of the darkest moments in my life. There isn’t anything especially inspiring, or a lesson learned to tie up nicely in a pretty bow.

The fact is, twelve long wonderful years later, I still grieve. It’s okay. The fact is never going to change that I was pregnant seven times. The fact is never going to change that of those seven, only two made it to birth and beyond; and it isn’t going to change that one of the biggest fears in my life is going through that anguish again. But I have been blessed, and so will those mothers going through similar things. I came out of the dark, with a purer appreciation of the light; light which is bright and healing. They will too.

*Thanks Google, for the image!*

Life is Sweet

Last night I had the AMAZING opportunity to visit my dear friends the Nefs. If you want to know a little about what they are going through right now, see my sidebar with a link to one of their blogs. They are an amazing family and we are lucky to live just two doors away from them!

Last week, they welcomed their little bundle of joy, Will, to the world. He is so small, currently weighing in at his birth weight of 4 lbs, 14 oz. I got to hold this miracle for a little while and marvel at the perfection of God’s creations. Although extremely small, his hands, nose, and lips made me stand in awe of the grace and utter glory of birth and life. His face would contort into a plethora of expressions, furrowing his little brow, looking like his dad, just in miniature. This small angel was cocooned in the love of his family as his older sisters showed him off with pride bursting in their little chests. I was humbled to witness and be a part of this familial bond, and to know that in some small way, we get to participate in the celebration of this miracle birth.

The juxtaposition of this event and that of the death in our family recently was enough to bring the heavy topic of mortality to my mind and the gift that is life itself. On the one hand, a life, almost ended before it began, but hanging on, for the very fact that life is worth living. On the other, one cut short, far earlier than anyone could imagine, but lived none the less.

I wondered as I held Will, his very tiny frame, cradled in just one of my arms, what type of fight he would have in this life. Would he struggle just to live, struggle with health like his sister, or would he defy everything and everyone by being a tough little guy and surpass the odds? I looked at my own children, now so much older and bigger and the same thoughts passed through my mind. We have been so lucky up to this point. What are they going to see, and what are they going to face? I know that they too are cocooned in a bond of love from my husband, me, extended family, and friends. It will cushion some of the hardest blows that will strike against them.

My heart was happy last night as we walked home, just two doors away. My kids skipped, jumped and ran in front of me and their laughter was a boon. The bickering didn’t bother me as they competed for the coveted position of first for evening baths. Sweet smelling, freshly washed, kissing them goodnight was a salve for any wounds that were real or imaginary. I was lucky and knew it. Sometimes, it just takes a little moment like holding a tiny baby to make one slow down and realize just how good it is in life. It reminded me of my own blessings in my children; the trials and sacrifices to get them here. (That is another post entirely.) Time moves so fast. They were once small, cradled in my arms, now running crazily and shouting at the tops of their lungs. Life is sweet.
*Thanks to Google for the image*