At the Edge of It

Today as I write, my dear friend, Gina, lays on an operating table with her brain exposed. We are all praying that the surgeons find scar tissue and not a new tumor. As her family sits in a cold sterile waiting room, we are at home entertaining the neighbor boy and preparing to paint our bedroom. My life continues status quo and theirs comes to a halt.

And then there's my neighbor, Anna. She lost her sister in a ski accident in January. Anna and I have been friends for almost eight years. We met after the birth of our first sons. We announced our second pregnancies to each other on the same day. We live in identical homes, except flipped - her kitchen is on the right and mine is on the left. Our husbands each drive Honda Accords and work for HIV organizations. We both teach and are a consistent source of sanity during our long summer breaks. We make time for play dates and mommy dates. When Shooter, with Mark Wahlberg came out, we were first in line to see it. Anna and I live similar lives, except now her sister is gone and mine are not.

Anna's story is unique because there are thousands of people grieving the loss of her sister, Sarah Burke, the athlete and Olympic hopeful. But, I did not know Sarah - I know Anna. I grieve for Anna and her loss. A life that will no longer be lived with a sister in this world. The world grieves for Sarah, the skier; Anna grieves the loss of a beloved sister. Her pain is private. The knowledge of others grieving does not change her process. Grief is hers and hers alone.

Living at the center of grief is very different than sitting at the edge of it. The pain is there, but on the edge you can move closer to it or step away. Life can go on as normal, painting and play dates, without being overwhelmed and immersed in it. At the center, the grief is ever present. Gina's family cannot escape the pain and fear of her surgery. It surrounds them. I sit at the park, birds singing, a cool breeze diffusing the bright sunshine - I am aware of the ache in my heart but can be distracted by the carefree imaginative play of my children.

Grief. It seems that life should stop for all. And yet, it does not. I suppose this fact is a blessing, but today it doesn't feel like it - even out here at the edge of it.

Slippery Slope

First I was too emotionally spent
Then I was plain old tired
After that I decided that writing in my head was practically as good as putting pen to paper
Saturday I forgot about my writing challenge all together
Yesterday I  headed up to the mountains to relax and get away from my responsibilities
Finally I realized that I had gone five days without typing a single word
So, I am now officially back on the "writing" horse
Each day
For the next five days (at least)

Where is Perfect?

“We are not perfect. Perfection is not expected in the Divine plan. But we are expected to take our experiences and grow from them, to move beyond the shame of them to celebrate what they have taught us.” – Anonymous

Life is a confusing mystery. Some days we are comfortable living in the adventure of the mystery. And other days we sit in the mire of this reality. Some days we are filled with wonder and delight at all the possibilities that life holds. And other days we become paralyzed by imperfection. Our imperfect selves, imperfect relationships, imperfect lives… There is a part of us that longs for perfection. But, as we look around it is nowhere to be found.

Daughters lose mothers and fathers.

           What’s perfect about that?

Relationships are painful.

How did this happen?

Friends find out they have brain cancer.

           Why?

Sisters lose sisters.

           How will life go on?

Marriages fail.

           Was that the plan?

Dreams of youth are unfulfilled.

            When will mine come true?

And the crazy part is that it's usually the small stuff that more regularly sends us to this dark and painful place. The difficult conversation. The less than perfect evaluation. The nasty self- talk. The dirty dishes. The day filled with unmet expectations. The unkind word that came out without thinking.

                                                                                                                

Today, I sit in this space.

Fortunately, I have lived enough life to know that tomorrow may be different.

Stubborn

Sometimes I can be stubborn. It usually rears its head at odd times. When Mike wants to turn up the heat and don't want to, or when my boss tells me we might need to move rooms and I don't want to. I can feel it deep within me, this small little girl stomping her feet and screaming, "NO! I don't want to! You can't make me!!" That's how I feel tonight. I don't want to write and nobody's going to make me. I want to sit here and watch Dancing With The Stars, eat food I shouldn't eat and do nothing but judge them for wearing scantily clad clothes on a family show. "See, I was writing and I missed Melissa Gilbert!" I told you I did not want to write. I have nothing of any real value to say. I feel cranky and probably tired and I do not want to write. The great thing is, I'm an adult and I can choose not to write. So, I am making a very adult decision - I am NOT writing. The End.

Distracted Growth

I’ve noticed, that since starting the writing challenge, I am quite distracted by all the writing I am doing in my head. The other night I was leaving my writing group and almost took a wrong turn and ended up in Loveland instead of Arvada because I was busy thinking about how I might end my latest post. As I swerved across traffic to right my wrong, I wondered if I was too mentally impaired  to drive. Today, as I was coming home from the grocery store, I became lost in processing how I might craft this percolating topic into a blog post. I’m not really sure how long I sat in my car before remembering that my chicken might be thawing in the back end.

This weekend I went to Barnes and Noble and purchased Bird by Bird by Anne Lamott, the subtitle is Some Instructions on Writing and Life. My intention in visiting this wonderful oasis was just to have some one-on-one time with a friend. I had no intention of buying anything. I was in denial. I left with $45.00 worth of books and somehow my friend escaped with spending barely $5.00. It was her idea in the first place. Just not right! But, I couldn’t not buy this book. I have heard so many great things about this writer, and I read just enough that putting it back on the shelf was out of the question. So - now I can fill my head with more ideas about writing. Good thing spring break is coming; I may be in a walking writer’s coma by then. I’ll need the vacation to either lose myself in writing, or recover and find balance again. My problem is usually starting the process, the blank page scares me. Either way, I am noticing that my ability to sit down and get to writing is improving. Yay me!

Now, I’m off to write another letter of recommendation. Not my favorite writing, but writing none-the-less.

Alone

It’s been an unusually busy week. I’ve seen friends almost every night this week. Oh so fun! But, I can only take that pace for so long, and then I need to be home. Tonight, I was given the gift of an evening, alone, in my house. God bless my mate! He took the kids and headed off to spend the night with a group of our friends. When I told him I would love to stay home, he said, “Go for it!” It took me a few minutes to decide that being home, alone, would be good for my soul. It’s amazing all that one can accomplish and enjoy without children clamoring for attention!

Natalie’s Night - Alone

1)      Took a nap

2)      Straightened the entry way

3)      Made dinner – for oneJ

4)      Watched “Worst Cooks in America” and ate dinner

5)      Cleaned my kitchen

6)      Threw in a load of laundry

7)      Went for a walk

8)      Put clothes in dryer

9)      Vacuumed

10)  Folded boys’ laundry

11)  Put laundry away

12)  Wrote a blog

God bless my husband!! I hope his evening was as enjoyable as mineJ

The Life of A Hallway

I am conflicted. As I walk up the short flight of steps to our small condo, nestled between two other little abodes, I am conflicted. I long for more space, for a yard to call our own, for a bathroom that does not double as a bike rack, for children’s bedrooms that aren’t constantly explode with toys when the door is opened.

And yet, it is our home.

It’s the place where my mate and I painted, hung light fixtures and purchased items to make it our own. The place where we started and completed our family.  The place that has been accumulated memories for many years. Eventually, when we pack our belongings and move to a new house, it will be bitter sweet.

One of the spaces that I will miss is our hallway. It’s a short hallway that connects our living room to our bedrooms. On one wall there is an 8x10 photo of my baby and toddler, their cute little toes peeking out at me. As the children have grown we’ve added a simple wood-framed bulletin board that overflows with art work and special papers from school. At Christmas we take down all the clutter and transform the board into a construction paper nativity scene. Each day we add a laminated figure to the setting, impatiently counting down the days until December 25^th. When I remember, there is a little treat, in the present box hanging next to Bethlehem. More often than not the boys have to remind me to add the surprise, thus losing the mystery of how these gifts arrive each morning.

At the end of the hall is a mirror, a kind and loving mirror. When we moved it from our last home, something happened, and now it has a slight bow that causes the image (me) to look thinner than reality. It’s a beautiful gift to my ego. Everyone should have such a mirror. Now-a-days the bottom half is forever covered in small handprints, as it is a common place of entertainment.

Most nights, as I travel to bed, I stop to pick up random toys that never quite made it anywhere. Masks that have been discarded for a better costume, Nerf darts that were used for the impromptu attack, teeny-tiny Legos that hide in the corners of the carpet, and socks that lost their way on the trip to the hamper.




 

 When Greyden was a baby the hallway was a bedroom. Each night we would wheel his little bassinet from our room to the hall. His baby noises kept me from sleep, and I just couldn’t bring myself to put my fragile infant in the ginormous crib in his bedroom. Last summer it became a climbing wall, as Zak learned he could shimmy himself to the ceiling and back. Over the weekend (instead of playing in the warm sunshine) we threw an orange and black foam football up and down the hallway. Our time together was marked by shouts of congratulation for the perfect spiral or effortless catch. Daddy “horse” has galloped many miles, down this hall, with young cowboys on his back.

 It’s amazing how memories can settle into the most mundane spaces, like a hallway. Even with these precious memories, I still dream of more space. I wonder what memories our new hallway will hold. Will my boys plunk themselves down on the floor as they nervously call and ask a sweetheart for a date? How often will our teenagers sneak out after curfew, paying close attention to the squeak on the third floorboard?  Will they stop to adjust their tie in the mirror before venturing off to their first prom? How many tears will I cry as I watch them pack for college and take their final box to the car?

And so, I am conflicted. I dream of more space, but wonder if I’m truly ready to say good-bye.