Taking the heart road.

Sometimes Braden (now age 4.5) asks me how to say things in Spanish. I go to this website and we enter words and then we learn now to say them together. He especially enjoys the feature where you can actually listen to a pronunciation of the word. Unfortunately, however, he gets really frustrated when we encounter a Spanish word with an “r” in it, and he can’t say it exactly the same way. I’ve tried to help him learn how to roll his r’s, but he hasn’t been successful yet.

Today he asked how to say “tree” in Spanish. The answer is “arbol.” He became very frustrated about the sound of his r’s again. I began encouraging him to keep trying, but he just kept telling me, “NO, because I CAN’T do it.” This prompted me to launch into a long discussion with him about how you have to keep trying when you can’t do something the first time, rather than giving up, if you really want to learn it. I even gave him examples from my childhood.

(I totally went through torturous and seemingly endless trials in front of the bathroom mirror to learn how to roll my tongue. I was going to be damned if my brother could do that and I could not, and refused to believe the BS idea everyone was feeding me that it’s a genetic trait and you can’t do it unless you inherit that. IN YO FACE, FALSE POP SCIENCE.)

Braden indicated he didn’t agree with my sage advice about trying and learning. So I told him that he can take a slightly easier path and trust my advice, or he can be stubborn and take the hard road through life. He considered this for a few moments, and replied, “I think that instead, I am going to take the heart road, Mommy.”

Me: “What?”
Braden: “I’m going to take the heart road instead.”
Me: “Oh? What is that road like?”
Braden: “It has lots of heart patterns on it. Red ones and pink ones too, and I like them. And lots of heart rocks. And heart shaped trees.”
Me: “How does that make you feel?”
Braden: “It makes me feel so happy.”
Me: “And where does this road lead?”
Braden: “It leads to everywhere you want to go. And there are stars racing in the sky.”

My friends, the heart road is paved with red and pink heart patterns, strewn with heart rocks, and lined with heart shaped trees. It will make you feel happy, stars will race in the sky overhead as you travel, and it leads to “everywhere you want to go.”

I guess being happy on “the heart road” is better than being miserable while struggling to learn rolling your r’s in the long run, huh? This kid kind of totally disarms me every damn day. And he really has no idea how brilliant these things he says really are.

I’m still a firm believer in trying for the things you desire, but I’m glad to have someone in my life who reminds me it’s not always a bad idea to voluntarily take the heart road.

The first three days. #reverb10

This time of year has me in a weird place – I’m both surging with joy and childish wonder at the beauty and spirit of the season… and scraping the barrel of my emotions, coming up with fingers mired in the black tar that lies at the bottom of my heart.

When I eyeballed #reverb10 yesterday, “an annual event and online initiative to reflect on your year and manifest what’s next,” I was intrigued. I was a little iffy about signing a commitment, because, let’s face it. The very nature of depression is that it’s hard to give a flying fuck lots of days. But then I decided it’s not a legal contract, and if I want to flake out like I do on everything else I’ve ever taken on, I totally can! Yay! (?)

But seriously, and more importantly, I see these writing (thinking/exploring/creating/discovering) prompts as a chance to find inspiration and motivation to keep me going through this season, even when the anchor tethered to my heart seems the heaviest, and the chain link line the shortest.

Day One:

December 1 – One Word. Encapsulate the year 2010 in one word. Explain why you’re choosing that word. Now, imagine it’s one year from today, what would you like the word to be that captures 2011 for you? (Prompt Author: Gwen Bell)

Belong.

As in, where I do.  This has been a hell of a year for me, for my family. In both joyous and heartbreaking ways, and both literally and figuratively, I’ve come from far away back to where I belong.

I feel at home again… in my body, in my home, in the world, and in the arms of my husband (who, by the way, loves me with a depth and in a way I sometimes can’t believe possible, but for which I am grateful).

I’m not sure how I’ve really been lucky enough to make it here, but I’m so glad to not be wandering in the ether as often anymore.

I’ve refound where I truly belong this year, in so many ways.

My word for next year is…

Challenge.

I’ve been far too complacent about a lot of things for some time. (I know, how much more specific can I get, right?)  I’ve also allowed myself to fail at things (which is sometimes okay, but that’s another story) and I’m not okay with that right now.  I’ve felt left out, unconsidered, not good enough, and neglected in certain arenas.  I hate feeling that way.  I hate that I feel that way about myself, ever. I’m going to challenge myself in the coming year – to overcome those feelings, to focus on positives, and to accomplish successes that will help make those first two things easier.

I need to rise above the stopping point on my comfort level and push myself to new heights, both personally and professionally.  (And share it with all of you, whether you like it or not.)

Day Two:

December 2 – Writing. What do you do each day that doesn’t contribute to your writing — and can you eliminate it? (Prompt Author: Leo Babauta)

I do quite a lot of things that probably don’t contribute to my writing.  I don’t see that as a problem, though, so the idea of eliminating those things is somewhat puzzling and I find it unnecessary.

Writing is a deep part of me.  I do it often, share it sometimes. I write about… well, everything.  When I think about this, in fact, I’d have to say that, because of that very truth, everything I do and think while I’m not actually writing *does* eventually contribute to my writing. (Which is making this feel like a moot point, but I’m going to continue with the beating of the dead horse, for s&g.)

I write about my experiences, things I think, how I feel, etc.  As such, all things I do affect my writing in some way.  Writing and living the rest of your life = mutually exclusive? Nah.  Is life full of distractions?  Sure.  But I’m going to lean towards saying that time management, rather than elimination of life stuff, is the key to writing and still doing.

I’m never going to regret that I didn’t spend that hour writing, for deadline or for pleasure, rather than building an epic train track with my son or sharing some wine and my heart with my husband.

What I would regret is if I let everything in my life get in the way of ever writing.  So “balance,” once again, is the word of the day.

When I’m not wrapped up in my son, my husband, photography, cooking, gardening, Twitter/Facebook, fart jokes, Dexter, wine, or menial chores/errands/tasks that make me want to stab a pencil in my eye (clearly a favorite)… I’m writing.

Where the most time is devoted ebbs and flows, and I’m totally okay with that.

Day Three:

December 3 – Moment. Pick one moment during which you felt most alive this year. Describe it in vivid detail (texture, smells, voices, noises, colors). (Prompt Author: Ali Edwards)

This makes smoke float out of my ears as my brain fries to a crisp.  It takes me eons to choose from the menu at a restaurant, deciding what to wear has the potential to cook up Angst Soup with a side of ARGH Salad, and any Bio or Profile where I’m required to list 3ish favorite books/movies/songs throws me into a mindlock of epic proportions.

I might be a little indecisive.

This task was difficult for me.  Really difficult. REEE-HEEEAAALY.

And I’m going to bend the rules, here, and tell you that this is ONE OF THE moments when I felt most alive this past year.  Seriously, I FEEEEEL way too much, far too often.  There is no way ONE moment can be the MOST of anything in a whole year.

In any case, right up there hovering damn near the top moments when I felt most alive? When John, Braden, and I walked through this house for the first time, in the middle of the night, after having traveled nearly 1000 miles to get here.

Something pleasantly electric ran through me.

During those first moments in this house, my heart was so full it seemed it might push its way up  through my throat and out my mouth, finally floating away. I took a photograph of myself, reflected in the back patio door… I think you can tell how I felt?

It was a dark, quiet night outside, and inside there was an air of neglect and loneliness, like the house had been alone for too long, waiting for someone to love.  Our voices rang out as we passed through together, seeking the room we’d put our air mattress in for the night.

I felt alive because this (this town, this neighborhood, this house) is where I belong, where we belong, and I knew it, felt it.  Maybe the house did, too.  When I woke up the next morning, it didn’t feel alone any more.

And hopefully, it never will again.

And then he was 4.

braden,

once upon a time on Valentines day I got a wonderful present

confirmation that you existed

the world has looked different every day since then

sometimes more fierce, sometimes softer, in spite of itself

because of you

the days have flown faster than I ever knew they could

and despite what I say about wanting you to slow down

i am also eager to see who you will be tomorrow

and the day after that

and the days and months and years after that

i know that before long

in fact
it will seem
like the blink
of an eye

i will have my answer

so many of these flying days will stack up against one another

that you will be a man

a man!

but for now I still get to be your hand holder and your scare chaser

your cheek kisser and your hair smoother

the one who you wake up in the morning and who puts you to sleep at night

and I get to sit by you at the table and watch you

as you flex your muscles while eating a carrot

your eyes lighting up with imagination and magic as you say

i will eat my vegables and then i will grow to be a strong, big daddy!

and then i will be a growned up!

right, mommy?

yes, baby
one day

but not yet today.

Happy Birthday, my beloved!
The world may sometimes seem fierce

but it will never be quite as fierce as you.

Love, Mommy

In the rain.

I like rain.  I am opposed to the idea that it means you can’t still enjoy being outside.

I wrote a poem about it last year.

Braden loves to play in the rain.

He always has, and I’ve always allowed it.

I recently enjoyed running in the rain during a tropical storm for a couple of days. In Texas, any run without the hot, beating hell of the sun is pretty much awesome, though.

Last night we chose to eat at a Tex-Mex place for dinner – Chuy’s.  They have good food and margaritas, and there’s a fun patio with room for kids to run around in the grass and play.  We love sitting on the patio there.

Apparently, we’ll even do it in the rain.

There was only one other family out there. They were laughing at the whole thing, having a good time, too. I kind of think we should have gotten their number.

What do you like to do in the rain?

Don’t let the man get you down.

And if you must submit, make sure you let them (the powers that be) know you’re going to do it your way.
Especially if your way is like a cocky little bastard.

Gah, I love that little troublemaker.

Pain and joy mingle.

We purchased this year’s tree on a Sunday while John was home for a day.  That night, I put the lights on it.  The smell of a real Christmas tree is something I love so much that I don’t exactly know how to put it into words.  The olfactory sense can trigger some of the strongest sense memories we have, and I think this smell is linked into the magic and joy that laces my memories of Christmas as a child.  We never had a fake tree, so when I smelled this smell – a real pine, cedar, or fir – it meant Christmas was coming.  And that meant magic, love, and light.  It meant my soul would lift and float for awhile.

This year, before we bought our tree, I went in search of something I’ve had in a cabinet all year long.  It is a glass spice bottle with a black plastic lid.  The glass is very heavy, and the plastic is thick and sturdy.  It appeals to me in some way, and so I saved it to use for something when the spice ran out.  I had no idea when I put it aside that later I’d be gathering fallen needles to place inside.

Last year, I lost a baby (Davin) right at three months into the pregnancy.  It was my second miscarriage of the year and, for many reasons, it throttled me in different and harder ways than had the first one (in April).

I found out on December 9th during a prenatal appointment that he had died.  A D&C to remove Davin from my womb was scheduled for December 16th.

I had carried him for a week, knowing he was no longer alive.  It was both maddening and oddly comforting.  On the one hand, I felt insane knowing he was inside of me and he was not alive; my body was incapable of doing anything to help him.  On the other hand, I got to be with him and say goodbye, come to terms with him being removed.

On December 15th, the day before the surgery, I asked John to go get a tree.  I didn’t tell him, but I wanted that tree in the house with all 4 of us.  That’s how it was supposed to be, and in my fractured state of being, I was going to have it that way, regardless.

When last year’s tree came into our home with all of its wonderful smelling glory my child was still inside of me.  The next day, he was all the way gone.  I was sedated for some time after that.  When the pills ran out there was still wine and liquor.  I got tipsy regularly; I ate crappy food.  No matter what I ingested, I was empty.

I was empty in more ways than the one that made my uterus ache as it healed.

That tree sat in the living room with me.  I watched those lights flash and dance through my bleary eyes.  I sat here, numb, with that happy smell.  Each day rolled by and I tried whenever I could to enjoy them, even if it was an altered, forced experience.

I cried a lot.  I was angry and sad.  A lot of days I was just nothing.

The tree was there.

At some time way past Christmas there came a point when I had to admit that the tree was dried out and needed to be taken away.  I cried about that, too.

When that tree came into my house, I still had my baby inside of me.  Now the tree was about to leave, and I had to keep a part of it, because somehow, it was the last thing I could hold onto about Davin.  Is that crazy?

I got down on my hands and knees with that damn spice bottle and I gathered up fallen needles until it was full.  Then I put it in one of my kitchen cabinets.

Only a couple of times during the year, when my heart ached the very most for Davin, I went and opened that bottle.  I held it, smooth, cool and heavy, in my hand.  In my fingers, it felt strong when I felt weak.  I stared at the needles.  I opened the bottle and smelled.

Pain and joy mingle together in that smell for me now.

Not long before we got our tree this year, I went for that bottle for the first time in quite a while.  When I smelled it, I wept for my lost son.  The smell was still very strong and crisp.  It wrapped me up; it sang to me of both sorrow and delight.  Afterwards, I felt a sort of peace.

I put the bottle out as the very first Christmas decoration in our home this year.

I will think of them both every Christmas: the baby who we thought would be born in December 08 as well as the baby who died in December 08.  I don’t think I’ll ever smell that happy smell or watch those dancing lights again without a twinge of sorrow.  But I believe I will always still smile at them, as well.

Pain and joy mingle together, and that is not such a bad thing to experience, or acknowledge.

It is far better than pain sitting in the heart by itself.

The rhythm of our lives.

He shifts his weight
And moves on

From miles away
He says he loves me
I say it back
Then he moves on

It’s quiet at night
So much emptiness to fill
With nothing

For a spell
He returns

I stand in the kitchen
Like a cliche
I balance on heels, making dinner

Laughter floats in waves
Through the house
Echoing off the walls
Like bouncing balloons

It swells and ebbs
It rolls back and forth
Like tickle fights

There’s football on TV
My feet find comfort
His hands find my back

Our bed is warm again, briefly

Then he shifts his weight
Says he loves me
And moves on again

Takes his music and goes

Alone, in the quiet night
I can remember the melody
And hum it myself

We stay behind
Hold it down
Occupy our time

Here and there

We shift
and wait.

Love & Help for Anissa

*For updates on Anissa, you can visit her CaringBridge Page.

~~~~~~~~~~

I was going to tell you about how great it is to have my laptop back and tell you a little about what I went through to get it fixed, but being on Twitter more again today led me to learn some awful news about a wonderful lady who is a friend and fellow blogger.

Anissa, of Free Anissa and Aiming Low, had a stroke this afternoon.

(This is her second. You can read about her first one in 2005 here.)

Often when you hear bad news about someone, the first thing you think of is that last time you talked to them or saw them in person.  In October, Anissa, Mishelle, and I spoke at a seminar and we got to share laughs and drinks together the night before.  It was a fabulous time because of the amazing company.

photo credit: Mishelle Lane, © all rights reserved

Anissa is such a fireball and, at the same time, just the most lovable sweetheart you’ve ever met.

This post, at Aiming Low, tells how you can help her and her family – especially if you are in the Atlanta area.  Please visit Aiming Low for this post as well as new updates on her condition and how you can continue to help.

(If that page won’t load for you, it may be getting hit with a lot of traffic, and you can go here for the information it holds, as well.)

If you have a chance, send Anissa love on Twitter – (her handle is @AnissaMayhew) When you tweet, you can use the #hashtag #prayersforanissa so that your messages join together with those of many others thinking about and supporting her and her family.

You can also show your support by changing your Twitter Avatar to a photo of you and Anissa together, if you have one.  If you don’t, you can still show support with your Twitter Avatar by adding a Twibbon to it.  There are currently two available:

For updates on her condition and to leave her and her family supportive messages on the guestbook, please visit Anissa’s CaringBridge Page.

You can also send her messages on or her Facebook page if you’re a friend of hers there.  And by all means, pray, if that is your way.  Remember, if you are in Atlanta, you may be able to help her family in a more practical way (see link above).

We are all used to seeing Anissa’s smiling face online and being entertained by her quick wit, her fabulous humor… and her magnificent rack. (She was First Runner Up in Bewb Fest 09, remember?)

Tonight, many of us are shedding tears and wringing our hands in worry.  She is being showered with love, lifted in prayer, and thought of all across the world.  There is hope, boundless.  There are jokes and stories being told in her honor.  We wait for updates and continue to push our strength out to her and her loved ones.

Anissa, there’s tons of love for you from all of your friends, all over.  We are sending you everything we can, and we won’t give up!  We all know you’d do the same for any of us.

Now get your ass out of that hospital and back here where you’re supposed to be making us laugh, woman.

We love you.