Human Limits

To say that this past year has been interesting would be an understatement.  We added (well, to be fair to my husband, I added) a deaf, hyperactive, Aussie pup to the household; we moved in my mother-in-law; my own mother needs me more and I worry that there is less of me; my son started sowing his "You know I'm almost 18, don't you?" oats; my oldest daughter was in a car accident; my youngest daughter has to wonder if her husband could be called into duty in some Middle Eastern hot zone; and my husband lost his job.  Really, I could just stop there and allow you all to step in and carry the narrative . . .

And somewhere in there, I began to understand something about myself.  I have limits.  Limits to my endurance, my compassion, my empathy, my understanding, my discernment, my energy.  You name it, and it's probably on the list.  It appears that I may have been running on empty, or maybe burning through that last gallon of fuel in the tank, and been the ONLY ONE who couldn't see that.  I suppose that I've given myself this repetitive version of a self-pep-talk for too long, "You've been through much worse.  You can handle this.  People need you.  After what you've endured, nothing coming down the pike should even make a dent in your armor.  What good are the lessons of your experiences, all of that pain and suffering, learning and growing, if you don't spread the love?  Share the knowledge?  Give, give, GIVE!"  That all sounds nice, but there's a fly in the ointment.  Maybe a few flies.

Maybe the biggest buzzing fly is this: I needed to help myself a bit more.  Spread that love around my innards, my guts, the deep recesses of my big heart, the ropey yards upon yards of my bowels.  Bathe my brain, perhaps even pickle my brain, in that goopy syrupy-thick compassion that I so generously dole out to others without a second thought.  How can a person be of adequate assistance to others if they literally give everything within them away?  And I don't want to be simply 'adequate' in that department, anyway.  But if depleted reserves are already the source of my strength, then my ability to love on others the way I'm created to love is about to hit a very wide hard wall.  Not only does the giving stop: I stop.  Abruptly and painfully.  Running full-speed into immovable objects, like walls, tend to leave marks.  Or breaks.  I can even see a concussion in my future.

Within the past month, several elements of stress within our household have come to a pus-filled head.  Puerile, swollen, angry-looking, ready to burst if one so much as looked at it the wrong way.  It was inevitable, looking back, reading the signs along the roadway upon which we were all traveling together, yet apart.  Locked into behavioral patterns.  Forming opinions and judgements about one another, whether intentionally or not.  Hoping for better; bitterness setting in when better never happened.  Relationships are tough.  And the ones which live as family beneath a shared roof are oft times the toughest.

Without putting too fine a point on it, my husband and I learned that my son has been experiencing growing pains far more serious and detrimental to his well-being and safety than those which have plagued his knees and legs for years.  Hydration, a cal-mag tablet and an hour with the heating pad won't alleviate the symptoms.  Much less fix the problem.  After much heartache and intense feelings of helplessness, self-incrimination and disbelief, it became apparent that we -- mom and dad -- did not possess what our precious son needed to figure things out.  And because of my history, and the history of my siblings, what I saw in his eyes told me if we did not find a way to be on board with what was feverishly culminating within his boy-man psyche, he would leave us in the most painful tearing-away manner possible.  I know what running away looks like.  And that is what I saw in his eyes, in his spirit.  There is no fighting that with traditional parenting methods.  But, thankfully for us, though frustrating for other family members within the larger perimeter of extended loved ones, we've never been that 'traditional' family.  So, though we yearned for him to remain with us, we made the tough decision to NOT fight him in his leaving.

Almost two weeks ago, early on a Sunday morning of glorious weather after a week of less than stellar skies, we put our only boy on a plane to Colorado.  My youngest sister and her husband, versed in overcoming physical, emotional and psychological challenges that most of us will never have to face, have agreed to become secondary parents to their nephew.  I didn't cry until I was a mile from church.  What better place to lay it all at the altar, before God and man, and surrender to a picture far bigger than the small screen on which my present life was playing.  While the rest of my family returned home to sleep away the fumes of their disappointment, I wept and sang and praised and prayed with a small body of folks who have supported me and my life loves through many a dark day.  And many a bright and shining day, too.

I'm working through grief and loss.  And all of those messy stages of emotion that accompany them.  Off all my children, my son had my heart and my ear from birth.  His personality was naturally loving, easy going, good natured.  He hugged.  He kissed.  He smiled and laughed.  He was not prone to the fits of spoiled temper tantrums which marred the toddlerhood of my eldest, nor the clouds of angst which plagued my middle child through her younger years.  While my daughters and I developed our close bonds on the other side of their addled teen antics, deep emotional ties which bring me great peace and satisfaction these days, my bond with my youngest, my boy, developed before the travails and troubles of adolescence and beyond hit.  His falling away has wounded me far more deeply than I could have imagined.  Though I know he is not dead, what we thought we had in him, what I thought was between us, THAT is dead.  The structure between us all, parents and child, must be dismantled and rebuilt, however long that may take.  Once I move beyond this vale of tears, I must take hold of my hammer, fill my bucket with nails, and begin REconstruction.

I also realized that for the sake of my relationship with my husband, who was already at his emotional cap with the stress of losing his job and still searching for financial security for his family, and my relationship with my mother-in-law (the upheaval in our midst due to my son's problems had leveled her heart, too) it was time to move her from the small room upstairs into a place of her own.  While I had hoped to wait for the dust to settle as we all adjusted to the changes which seemed to have suddenly erupted in our midst with no warning -- though hindsight allows me the bitter luxury of seeing all the warning signs -- circumstances beyond my control didn't allow for such a settling.  Outside influences, meddling where it was thoroughly unwarranted and clearly deliberate in its unkindness, forced my hand.  The heated conversation on our back patio, a triangle of son, mother and daughter-in-law, was intensified by the heat of the late afternoon.  Though it was uncomfortable and barbed, the stale air of months of undercurrents was cleared, as if an enormous window had opened and and an epic wind passed through.

We are simply different people.  Different in ways we can't overcome, despite our huge efforts to try.  Almost diametrically opposed, I'd venture to say.  I love her as a person and as the mother who raised a very lovely man who has stood by my side for almost 25 years through every kind of marital tossing one could imagine.  I want to see her happy, healthy and hanging on to life with both hands full of purpose.  These are my wishes for her.  Right now, she is enjoying a change of scenery at my brother-in-law's house, where the environment is a bit more peaceful and there's a delicate, fluffy, white dog who sees my husband's mother as the center of her canine universe.  That kind of unadulterated pet affection is the ultimate healer.  A concerted effort to find just the right living situation for her needs is underway.  That does my heart good.  I brought her here, across country in that big yellow moving truck, both of us reveling in our open road independence and actually enjoying the journey, so that she could experience love on a daily basis.  I know I did that for her.  I know that she realizes this, too.  That is our common ground.  That . . . and a steaming hot bowl of green chili with homemade tortillas.  We both can agree on the subject of food!

As for the job?  We are in the middle of a two-month contract gig for a tech company in Franklin, Tennessee.  Through the maze of headhunters and online employment sites, my husband's resume has been spread far and wide.  He's casting a wide net.  Will we remain here?  Move to another state?  Sell the house?  Send me off to work?  We just don't know.  It has been day-to-day here.  Sometimes, emotionally, hour to hour.  Good days where hope springs eternal; rough days where hope has to force tiny dry tendrils up through jagged rocks.  Through it all, my man keeps on going.  Hanging in there for all of us.  I love him for that even as I hurt for the loss of his identity in the midst of the chaos.  I sincerely believe that whatever he rediscovers about himself will make it clear to him that he is a far better man than he currently realizes.  And I'll be waiting to absorb that realization with him, with a big ol' "I told you so" kiss!

Physical therapy has helped my eldest regain mobility in her neck.  Insurance settlements are ongoing.  She now has a spanking brand new Honda Civic 4-door, along with a car payment.  It figures that she'd pay off her first car and then it would be totaled in a fender-bender of someone else's contrivance.  In this instance, two teen girls texting as they pulled into a major roadway from a parking lot.  We were out of town when it happened.  In fact, one of my brothers, the ag engineer with the curly blond locks and sweet wife, had flown both me and my husband to California so I could visit Brother Gary at the psychiatric hospital and BOTH of us could take a break from the stress at the beach.  And it was actually at the compassionate behest of his wife that the trip became a reality.  Now THERE'S a peach to spite the pit!  And the uncle who helped in my raising, along with HIS dear of a wife, provided us with the funds to enjoy ourselves on the trip.  Two examples of the people who love on me with no strings attached.

My European kids, the redheaded Army man and his full-time working, college-attending wife, find themselves in the same boat as every other military family in active duty for our nation at this time.  Enough said there.  If I say anything more, they'd have to kill me!  (Joke, Uncle Sam.  JOKE!)

For my own equilibrium, I try to visit my mom's comfy couch as often as possible.  (At least I do that right.)  The best naps occur on those soft cushions.  They pull me in, smooth my brow, and lull me into hours of hardcore slumber.  My concerned mother is pleased to offer this creature comfort to her daughter.  Earlier this week, I had an overnight at her place, chauffeured her to the neurologist for that uncomfortable injection at the base of her skull, wended my way through Smithville's little Wally World store with her, and later cleaned the floor mats in her car before heading back home.  It felt good to do those things for my Earth Mama.  To chat a bit with the other older folks who live in her building.  To know that she has a safe haven for her days and nights.

The deaf pup is still deaf.  No surprise there, eh?  The kitchen walls have come under attack, as well as the table and chairs and corners of certain cabinetry.  Good Will supplied me with cheap teddy bears which I promptly threw out to our little lioness with the freaky blue eyes so that she can disembowel them at her leisure.  She's a strange little thing, our Gracie Helen.  Her behaviors definitely rank high on the oddity list.  But that's an entry for another day.  We love every frighteningly weird square-inch of her petite Aussie frame.  And she likes to lick every square-inch of us.  Eww.

And what about me?  Well, I've consumed ice cream every day for three weeks.  Ben & Jerry's.  Haagen Dazs.  Bryers.  Kroger Private Selection.  McDonald's soft serve.  Hence, I've put on a few pounds which I'm starting to battle thanks to the buddy pass to Gold's Gym Earth Diva Melissa surprised me with.  I've never considered myself a gym rat, but I definitely see the benefits of working out away from the pull of my home and the countless distractions which chip away at my exercise time.  Amazingly, the two times I've gone, that little hamster wheel in my brain quit squeaking!  Quite freeing, that.  And on the writing front, a friend of mine is creating a regional magazine.  I accepted his offer to get on board with the enterprise and have several sections to which I must contribute.  To boot, he surprised me by asking that I write the first two months-worth of cover stories on local women of interest.  I have one interview and 2/3 of that article under my belt; Earth Diva Gayla is in charge of the cover and layout photos.  The research is stimulating; the challenge of writing and learning new skills, rather satisfying.

My heart still hurts.  A little less each day.  The acids in my belly have been roiling more than is usual or welcome.  But my faith is strong.  There is an inner peace I have, and rely upon, based on the promises and grace of Jesus Christ which sustain me, though my externals continue to knock me about.

That . . . and an occasional glass of Sauvignon Blanc before bed.  I'm only human.  And, YES, I did just say that.  Hold your applause.  Send money, instead.





           

Blindsided

Most of us with more than a few years of life beneath our expanding waistlines have endured those surprises of the ill-received kind.  Not the smiling-crowd-bursting-from-behind-doors-couches-and-stairwells-to-congratulate-the aging-process-or-marital-endurance kind.  Nor the heart-shaped-balloons-with-streamers-and-colorful- cards-and-delectable-3-layer-cake-slices-beneath-a-chilly-scoop-of-vanilla-bean-ice-cream kind.  More like the sudden-burning-of-bile-which-decides-to-crawl-up-the-throat-and-sear-the-tongue- thus-letting-one-know-that-jalapenos-and-onions-will-no-longer-be-on-the-menu kind.  Or the bowel-busting-onset-of-dysentery-which-says, "Hi, there.  I hopped a ride from the Wal-Mart restroom door handle yesterday.  Decided to make myself comfortable for a few days while making YOU uncomfortable!" kind.

It's those blindsided moments I want to talk about.

If I can bring forth a bit of mental cohesion.  Don't know if I can.  Feeling rather blindsided at the moment.

For the first time in 24+ years, my husband is gainfully UNemployed.  Our insurance coverage is set to expire on the 26th.  That is also the date of our final paycheck.  Job prospects in our area and beyond within his field of expertise continue to be few and far between.  Notice the use of the word OUR?  That's because WE are two made one under the marital covenant.  The passing of decades together has melded us into a single entity in myriad ways.  What hurts him hurts me and vice-versa.  It's beyond the financials of the situation -- stressful enough though they are.  The human spirit is at stake here.  You ever seen a giant uprooted tree after a landslide or tornado?  When you picture us, picture that tree.

Being uprooted happens to us all.  Intellectually I know that and accept it.  And my faith binds me to hope and acceptance and renewed mind each and every day.  But the emotional component which comprises a significant aspect of my character?  That part of Gloria needs a boost because it really does not know which way to turn as another week ends: another setting sun within a string of days our family has had free from the financial security of a sound job with decent medical coverage.  Set free by the utterance of a few simple words from one man in charge of a specific department within a certain Nashville company.  Simple words directed at my man in charge on a warm summer morning complete with bright sunshine and happy dogs.  Simple words next conveyed to me in a brief cell phone conversation while that aforementioned summer sun slanted its way through my bedroom curtains and cast lacy leafy patterns on my bedspread and carpet.  Simple words I then repeated at least a dozen times to a dozen different people while the ample sunshine of the encroaching day warmed the air and grew the trees and provided health-affirming Vitamin D to whomever it could.  Simple words which now have me searching for safe neighborhoods with reasonable housing within the parameter of Savannah, Georgia of all places.  Simple words sharpening my senses as I try to foresee any number of possible outcomes in our near future and plan for them all.  Simple words that didn't allow for the high school graduation of my son or the early summer wedding of my first child next year.  Simple words paying no nevermind to the needs of our mothers -- one a half hour away and the other recently moved in with us.  

Simple words.  Oh, the power of simple words.  How they can deliver the promise of a thousand kisses or stings with their formation.  How they hold the power to make or break within seconds.  How they alternately soothe or savage the humanity within.  Maybe that's why I prefer more interesting words of complex syllabic structure.  Or "big words" as some of my friends refer to my vocabulary predilections.

The simple act of blindsiding.  Sigh-h.  It doesn't seem to matter if we've been thus attacked before.  Our reason for relocating from Colorado to Tennessee came about in desperate response to a major blindside of tragic proportions.  One that left my younger sister in a psychiatric hospital and her two children buried in a small town cemetery.  And we survived it.  And even thrived in the ten years spent rebuilding our emotional lives and attaching ourselves to a church, neighborhood and community at large.  So, in theory, anything else making its way down the pike shouldn't have the power to painfully smack us upside our heads.  Right?  Wrong!  We're tougher.  More resilient.  We understand the unexpected.  We can endure excruciating loss.  We know how to bend in strong wind.  But bending in strong wind does NOT preclude snapping under the force of a tornado.  Because we don't quit feeling.  In fact, for me personally, I feel more deeply and strongly in all of my connections to friends and family.  Even animals.  In a way, it is this depth of feeling which has possibly lent power to this recent uprooting of self.  Though I welcome change and know my husband and I can tackle whatever comes our way,  it overwhelms me to again accept the loss of comfort and familiarity which must accompany said change.

But that's life, folks.  It always has been from the dawning of time.  Everything recorded and passed down, spoken and passed down, reflects the constancy of blindsiding and the resultant recovery.  As I've heard many a time, it IS what it IS.  And it could be much worse than it is.

I understand that, too.          

Facebook, Coffee & Faith: A Trinity

A friend recently shared a link with me on Facebook.  Sharing links on Facebook, in and of itself, is hardly a rare occurrence.  But this particular sharing by this particular person ventured beyond the typical family photo album or song-o-the-day or beautiful blog page.  My young friend, Charlie, is a married law student, quite cerebral, given to old-fashioned-martini-dry humor, the son of an Earth Diva (sounds like an oath, huh?) and contributes to the excellent existence of an online/print magazine called Fare Forward, A Christian Review of Ideas.  You'll be challenged and pleased with the content, regardless of your religious affiliation, if you enjoy philosophy, believe in the sharing of ideas and abhor stagnation of the mind.

But that's rather beside the point of this entry.  It's just that Charlie and his cohorts deserved a nod.  So, after reading me, go check them out!  'Like' them on Facebook, too, and up their head count.

Anyhow, the link was an article.  Specifically this essay, Espresso & The Meaning of Life: Embracing Reality Through Everyday Liturgies.  He had me at espresso.  But though I'd heard the word often, 'liturgy' was not a familiar concept.  And what did come to mind involved specific religions and practices not associated with anything within my personal experience.  My online dictionary hunt revealed a similar association: 1) a form of public worship; ritual./ 2) a collection of formularies for public worship./ 3) a particular arrangement of services./ 4) a particular form or type of the Eucharistic service./ and, 5) the service of the Eucharist, especially this service (Divine Liturgy) in the Eastern Church.  

The opening dealt with this view that the modern generation is bored to death, so to speak, and thus busies itself with entertainment and work and this-that-and-the-other to keep this boredom at bay.  Further, he cites a current 'collective existential crisis' which permeates so much of society at large: people 'living disconnected from and unfulfilled by reality, despite being the busiest people in history and having a limitless supply of of entertainment at our fingertips.'  I don't believe Charlie was suggesting I fell into this segment of humanity.  Boredom or lack of purpose don't figure into my life; an overload of busy, however, often does.  I do, however, agree with the overall summation.  For many, it's as if we are a people without a cause, insulated as we are from war and poverty and the need to unite beyond the comfort of our personal borders.  And a great deal of the escapes in which we immerse ourselves allow a deep disconnect from our spiritual core.  

Where the essay really picked up for me was in the filling of this meaty word sandwich.  The author introduced his concept of liturgy in the sense of worship and ritual as a means of sidestepping all of the busy, the distraction, the fluffy nonsense in so much of our days and nights.  An intentional way to infuse what could be a drab moment with bright color, resulting in the SUFfusion  of meaning.  Have I lost you yet?  Let me clarify.  His example centers around the process of making his morning cup of espresso by manual means, from start to clean-up, filling 20 minutes with purposeful activity, instead of relying on a coffee maker or Starbucks to do the job.

In his words, "

liturgical practices are performed not for some external end, but simply for the good of the practice itself, they remind us that human activity is inherently meaningful, that our lives have value over and above the values we choose to assign to them. I take twenty minutes to make espresso not because it kills time or distracts me, and not even because it keeps me awake for my morning meetings. I make espresso because I love it, because it is my way of engaging with and celebrating the goodness of God’s created reality in the here and now. By involving ourselves in liturgy, we realize and express the richness of the present moment. We say no to boredom, and no to nihilism, through our engagement with the ritual before us."  (I intentionally left out his many references to nihilism in this essay to streamline and simplify for my purposes.  Feel free to read and research as you wish.)

That there is beautiful stuff.  Solid writing.  Rife with meaning for me.  Though I don't exhort my faith in my blogs -- my writing reflects my ongoing desire to build on my faith and practice my Christian beliefs but the blogs themselves are not specifically tailored to expand on the subject of Christianity -- I am a practicing, growing, stumbling follower of Christ.  There are plenty of better examples of His grace, strength and oneness with His Holy Father than me, for sure.  I'm not a schooled theologian.  I'm no expert.  I don't profess to offer sound religious advice.  But I love my Lord.  And I don't believe that higher learning and intelligence negate a belief in a higher power.  Nor do they preclude an acceptance of Christ as the son of God.  But that's neither here nor there.

What is here, and out there, is a belief that everything of this world is known by my God.  Created and allowed to exist by God.  Thought, feeling, nature, technology, architecture, humanity, the animal kingdom at large, including spiders (which I admire but many fear), and definitely espresso (I totally admire).  Further, my existence in the midst of all of this is intentional: I have been placed.  Therefore, battle of good and evil aside, one of my directives must be to acknowledge this 'everything' with all of my senses, within the time constraints set upon me by this physical body, within this physical world.  My senses are to be engaged.  My mind contemplative.  My heart feeling.  My spirit open.  And as small as I am in the grand scheme of things, tackling such a directive is easier done in bites as opposed to swallowing it all whole.  

Television, the Internet, phone calls, loads of laundry, countless mundane tasks I perform without clear memory of what I wholly completed in a given day, it can all crowd in and push out that directive.  I'd be lying if I claimed that didn't happen with me.  But I consciously try to rally hard against that force of busy and distraction.  And it's quite nice to now have a nifty language label for that rallying: 'everyday liturgy.'  

I tried the espresso-at-home thing, especially after watching my mom in her morning ritual of black gold brewing, but quickly realized it stressed me more than soothed.  The noise.  The heat.  The trouble I always end up having with kitchen machines.  I do, however, enjoy the drawn-out process of making my low-acid, twenty-four-hour, Rwandan-origin coffee concentrate.  The silken texture of pulverized beans against my fingertips; the rich swirl of aroma as the purified water hits the grounds in my French Press; the soft sound of the plunger separating the depleted solids from the dense liquid; the rich amber beauty of the oil-slicked brew settled invitingly within the clear confines of a quart-sized Mason jar; and, the bright notes of soil and citrus which excite my palate each and every morning.  Just one example of how I practice fully living, and thus totally appreciating, the simplest of things in my daily life.  And how many of us drink coffee, or even tea, every single day?  More than once a day?  Opportunity abounds to amplify the idea that we can 100% engage in reality, and thus celebrate all aspects of creation while fully existing in the moment. 

Plenty of other examples come to mind.  My intentional habit of taking pictures during my walks, thereby admonishing myself not to just hurry along, missing all that surrounds me, in my efforts to stay fit .  My proclivity for recipes which require steps and consideration, thus ensuring I am reminded of what goes into a crunchy bite of biscotti or a mouthful of roasted vegetable salad.  My enjoyment in cleaning the dog's ears, brushing his teeth and coat, trimming his nails, bathing his reluctant self, rubbing his belly, each action tying me to continued care for the living even as my children hurry up and grow up.  My meticulous packing of lunch for the man who has blessed my life with his work ethic, humor and willingness to let me be all me, allowing me the honor of recognizing his everyday life of minutes and hours.  Some days I'm more in the moment than others with these basic liturgies, but I perpetuate their practice, and move along in the motions, knowing they validate the minutes they inhabit.  Minutes which add up to a life of Holy validation, minutiae in the mass of life, but incredibly important all the same.  And I could go on, but must I pound you over the head with the hammer I now hold up for inspection?  Unless you are one of the fruit of my womb and yet in high school, I think not.

You see?  How many times must I point out how useful Facebook is?!  Three degrees of separation from posted link to professed faith.   

Suicidal Ideation, Realized and Otherwise

When I was sixteen, I briefly inhabited a mindset that had me contemplating suicide.  Besides the typical teenage hormones, my life existed in an unstable bubble.  I felt isolated from society.  I detested myself.  I hated my mother.  God ticked me off: surely He had abandoned me long ago.  And I had reached a point where I felt I would never lead my own life, free from the emotional and spiritual chains that were weighing me down, both physically and mentally.

Yet my outer demeanor remained bright and friendly at school, and in the rare social situations in which I was allowed to partake I was often the center of attention.  I could laugh and joke with the best of 'em.  There were aspects of life, of humanity, of nature, and of music for which I held a deep appreciation.  A strong fondness.  But all of that didn't seem enough, as it was more a taste of what I could have than what I actually had.  A reminder of all that thrived and hurried and honked outside of the bubble of my family life.  I had friends.  I was deep in the throes of young love.  The school I attended, it would now be called a magnet school I imagine, allowed me personal and intellectual freedom in my studies and my schedule.  I found it stimulating.  But I couldn't live there 24/7.  And I couldn't escape what was a toxic percolation of anger, fear, frustration and desperation inside me.  That followed me everywhere.

It came to a head one night in the privacy of my bedroom in the converted double-apartment in which me and my three siblings and my mother lived in Anchorage, Alaska.  The physicality of jumping from a bridge into traffic seemed to steep a price to exact on whatever poor driver, or drivers, might hit me or witness it.  We didn't keep a stash of medicines in a cabinet.  I didn't know anyone who used razor blades aside from those in an actual shaver.  Most of my dangerous dalliance with suicide existed as intense thought and scenarios.  All of which were intended to make my mother miss me and realize how much she had hurt me over the years.  I wanted to hurt myself in order to hurt my mom.  Not all that uncommon in a desperate teenage girl with serious unresolved issues.  Our mother's are the world, be it a world of sunlight or a world of darkness.

On that night, deeply distraught, furious with my mother -- she may have found my journal and had words with me over what was written on its voluminous angst-ridden pages -- my deepest desire was to be as far away from her and my crappy life as was humanly possible.  Death seemed the best fit for that.  All I had was Midol for my period discomfort and a bottle of Sea Breeze facial astringent.  I ingested what was left of the menstrual medication; I took several difficult swigs of the bitter cleanser.  There was yet half a bottle to polish off.  But waves of nausea wracked my body, as did waves of regret, and the meager contents of my attempt poured out into the toilet.  What if my brothers or sister found me?  They would be devastated.  And I realized I feared the pain of dying or the possible long-term effects of failure.  As an adult, I am most grateful for that fear and its ability to override my irrational feelings.  Though I continued to stew in my misery for quite some time, never again did I entertain self-inflicted death as the way out of my dilemmas.  As with my failure as a successful bulimic, I was also a failure at suicide.  If one is going to be a failure at something in their life, this would be in the top ten.

Unlike me, there are others for whom suicide eclipses any fear, love, beauty, any human appetite for which we are designed, and seek its finality through all failures until success is attained.  My brother, Gary, is one who has struggled throughout his childhood and adulthood with this.  Especially during his decade-plus long stay in the California penal system.  The worst episode entailed guards finding him on the brink of death, wrists slit, on the floor of his cell.  In and out of consciousness, he could hear the orderlies who lifted him up and away to the institution's hospital wing as they bemoaned his survival.  "Let the losers dies, man."  It wasn't until his body had battled the damage and won that his family learned of what had transpired: he called me after the fact, still weakened, but alive and deeply depressed.  Unless he had actually died, we would not have been notified.  Thus, no cards or letters to encourage him or steel him for what he would face on the other side.  Of all the horrific moments in his incarceration, this chapter was particularly scarring to us both.  Never to be forgotten.  As it stands now, suicidal tendencies are low on his list of issues in need of attention, but his illness and situation, plus the ease with which he'll abuse his body if he needs to do so because his danger parameters are widely stretched, keep it on the radar.  It is something that I've had to accept.  Reluctantly.

Two nights ago, the college roommate of a young friend of mine (a son to one of my Earth Divas) committed suicide after leaving a note on the pillow of my young friend.  "I'm going somewhere quiet to kill myself."  He also left one for his girlfriend of two-plus years.  He was well-mannered, likable, not prone to drama, and exhibited no outward signs of whatever inner turmoil had evidently been plaguing him.  This bothered my Earth Diva pal, as she worried how her son would accept and deal with this unfolding tragedy, because there was nothing to foretell this terrible life-ending decision.  But it is this very facade of 'all is well' that is often employed to mask the agony of the internal.  Whatever had taken root in this boy's mind, his very soul, whatever chemical processes may have occurred (I don't know all of the story at this point and I wonder about certain medications for acne or anxiety or studying that he may have taken which can cause suicidal ideation in otherwise emotionally healthy individuals) he wasn't seeking attention by acting out or looking for help.  He simply wanted to die.  And was quite determined to see it through.  No amount of frantic late-night searching for his whereabouts by police or friends was going to deter him.  He wanted someone to know he would soon be dead.  He did not merely set out to evoke feelings of sorrow or regret or pain and be rescued from his demons in the end.  He desired the end.

I think all of us attached to this, however three-degrees-of-separation that might be, wish to know the absolutes.  We want answers.  We want to see a definite progression, a cause and effect, which brings some degree of sense to the story.  The loose-ends, the unknown, the suddenness, the total and complete shock of it, the awareness of the widening ripples in the pond as the grief and acceptance wash over friends and family and local MTSU fellow students, the kids he helped at his local church, is all way too much in such a jumbled combination.  If the strands could be separated and identified, maybe reconfigured into a neatly braided timeline, a body of explanation with a clear beginning and middle to balance out the untimely agonizing end, maybe then it would be easier to swallow.  I doubt it.  I also doubt that any of us can will clarity into the situation for our own sake.  As much as my young friend will be hurting for some time, those stages of grief through which he will wallow, along with the girlfriend and the family members left to cope, all of us who bear witness and empathize, there is not a one who hurts more than the young man who felt so completely sure that separating himself from his mortality was the clear path down which to trod.

I mourn for society's loss of one who had yet to realize that his absence WOULD be a loss.  

Telling The Truth On Time

Today I took part in a telephone conference.  I was there.  Of course.  My brother, Gary, was also present.  As were his social worker, one of the unit psychologists and a regular staff member from the ward; his psychiatrist is out of town for two weeks or our ranks would have swelled by one.  It was probably the most successful meeting of this sort that we've had since he's been a ward of the California State mental health facilities.  Due in large part to the fact that this past weekend was probably the WORST weekend that he's experienced there in quite awhile.

His social worker called me last Friday to introduce himself as Gary's new one-on-one therapist and to ask if I wanted to start being in on their regular team meetings.  He's a recovering alcoholic with a rough childhood in his own background . . . I liked him immediately.  His sense of humor is also quite generously developed and made for an easy-flowing call.  Most social workers seem a bit retracted or hesitant, maybe reserved is what I'm shooting for.  I tend to feel that I'm being somewhat 'worked' or treated carefully with a tiptoeing around the truth with them.  Not one iota of that existed with Mr. Smart (we could call him Maxwell for fun thought it really isn't his first name).  I welcomed that as a rather nice change of scenery in the story of Gary's life.  "Next Tuesday, say-y around 3 or 3:30?  Will that work for you?"  Would that WORK for me?!  He could bet his sweet bippy it would.  I've been waiting to see this game move forward.  And maybe there would be some actual insight from the participants.  I scribbled the info on my Emdeon note cube.  Something to which I looked forward with curiosity and interest.  I'm generally underwhelmed with these types of get-togethers.  Gary often doesn't interact, or at least not in-depth where the sharks are swimming and feeding on his guts.  The
-ists and -ologists folks often speak as if we are all 6 year-olds.  Or they simply orate the entire time without any apparent regard for what Gary or I might add to invaluable words they are offering up like sweet incense to the head of the great psychiatric ward in the sky.  I guess it's fair to say that the few I've actually sat in on with Gary over the past two years or so bore no respectable fruit from where I sat and listened.

Now, about the weekend.  As I mentioned in the previous entry here, Gary's girlfriend had a scheduled court date this week.  They've both known for weeks that it was coming.  Back and forth, back and forth, they lobbed that ball around, but he felt like he had a grasp on her impending departure.  And then the surety that she would be gone by Monday (yesterday, though she actually left this morning) set in for Gary.  Goodbye might as well be like death for him.  He handles them poorly, so sure that it signals the end of the friendship.  In fact, WE never utter the word goodbye to one another, always finding some other phrasing with which to end our chats.  We've settled upon the lighter version of goodbye as expressed by the Italians, 'ciao.'  I actually used it today with his team when I clicked off on my iPhone because it's so ingrained.  Hah!

Anyway, that niggling tickle of anxiety began to exert pressure that became something far more overt a presence.  It was more emotion than he had the tools to handle.  So, he reverted to finding an outlet for the pressure through more familiar ways.  In this case, he stole liquid hand soap from the supply room.  Added a large quantity of salt to it, which separates the cleaning grade alcohol from the solids.  And then he downed the potent chemical which many in his situation lean on when they can't find real alcohol.  It's incredibly dangerous.  In fact, last year his girlfriend has a very serious binge on the stuff and found herself in a coma and close to death on the medical ward.  This was before they became something more than friends.  That episode happened on the heels of Gary's use of the substance which bought him an entire weekend in the hospital with an IV and meds and absolutely no memory of what he had done while under its influence.

Gary called me this morning.  As he often does, he relayed his weekend wobble after the fact, but sparing no detail under my gentle cross-examination.  He tells me the truth, he's fond of saying, he just isn't always 'telling the truth on time.' We rehashed his episode, his voice revealing the physical toll he was suffering from effects of his abuse.  I listened.  Going over my own feelings and thoughts as they marched alongside his recitation.  Examining them.  Absorbing them.  Lining them up with that I know of myself and who I know Gary to be.  I checked my initial frustration and sense that he had  done this to me -- because he didn't -- and reminded him that he would have setbacks despite his recent successes.  Often, those bad days come right on the heels of exceptional weeks.  He should expect it.  Address the elephant in the room so that it wouldn't grow larger.  And continue on his path.  Don't let the slip-up be anything other than a a momentary lapse.  Learn from it.  Realize that it's normal, in his case, in my case, in anyone's case, to stumble under the weight of incredibly stressful and emotional happenings.  My disappointment wasn't going to help a thing: he carried enough of it for all of us.  Me, him, his girl, etc.  Guilt is his strong suit.

When we reconvened by phone with his team on board, I tried to spend my first minutes just getting a feel for the room and its players.  It didn't take long to realize they this team of people actually a) care about him; b) know him to a certain extent; and c) are not putting on airs or loading up the back of the truck with a pile of steaming stinky brown stuff.  They are the real deal.  After two years, my brother's circumstances have finally placed him on a ward where there's a much higher than average chance of him receiving the help he NEEDS and WANTS to get him where he must be, internally, before he can ever hope to get where he would like to be, externally.  And for the first time, Gary uttered a beautiful string of sentences which basically expressed his desire to be better as a goal ABOVE that of getting out.  He put the cart BEHIND the horse.  That there is progress, people.  Real progress.

We hung up with a promise that they would meet with him EVERY DAY next week to see him over the hump of his withdrawal from the daily comforting contact he so came to rely upon with his girlfriend.  A scarred woman for whom he holds very strong affection and deep abiding concern.  Our goal is to help him discover a safe alternative avenue for his need to divert emotions and stress.  He can't lean on her.  Not all the time.  No person is that for another: a 100% source of distraction/cure/healing/etc.  He must possess his own inner resource for dealing daily with the ongoing challenges of being a human being with a disposition for addiction.

It's been the goal all along.  But it took a bit of doing to cut back the briars which had overtaken that particular path.  After today, I feel certain that Gary can actually see where he needs to next place his feet.  I raise my coffee mug to that progress.  Salud.

Like-Minded

On a morning when a bedtime of after 2AM has left me with less than quality sleep, I feel better, more mentally sharp, more on task, than I have since returning home from my recent trip to Colorado.  And there's a reason for that.  I finally blogged last night.  An entry on Push-Ups.  And though it wasn't the exact entry I had in mind, and I nodded off into instant deep sleep for several long minutes at a time right there at the keyboard -- it's a minor miracle I didn't inadvertently delete the entire post -- I satisfied that persistent itch which has plagued my fingertips and brain cells for almost two weeks.  That itch which settles in with aching familiarity on a highly regular basis whenever a subject leaps into my consciousness.  That itch which longs to block out the every-day rotation of chores and responsibilities which is presently my life and chain me to a desk and keyboard for infinity  That itch which maintains a running inner dialogue regardless of what my physical self may be doing.

For those individuals with a driving passion, a talent, a gifting of specific ability, whether that passion bears fruit for anyone outside of oneself, be it music or painting or running, WHATever it is, as human beings the driven among us are never completely fulfilled unless we find and use valid outlets for that passion.  To varying degrees, ignoring these inclinations or putting them off can just about drive one mad.  Historically speaking, I believe there are examples of some who WERE driven mad.  (Though I suppose a handful of those actually allowed their passion TOO much reign over their existence.  I've witnessed enough madness to know it makes a lousy house guest.)

Because my night-writing reflects the dregs of mental energy remaining within me by the end of generally very full days, I thought I would forgo my morning walk and channel that supply of fresh internal sunshine into my blog.  Specifically, an addendum, or perhaps more of a sister-entry, to the Push-Ups blog entry of last night.  Because that brain-bouncing ball has yet to stop rebounding within the tight confines of my cranium.

*********

There's a word I use with regularity that I find to be under-utilized in our culture of instant messaging and sound-byte conversations.  Every time I say it, I feel good.  I feel as if I have hit a big ol' nail RIGHT on its head and driven it home, thus securing some vital part of an ever-growing framework in my life.  That word: simpatico.  

Dictionary.com defines it thus:

sim·pa·ti·co

   [sim-pah-ti-koh, -pat-i-]  Show IPA

adjective

congenial or like-minded; likable: I find our new neighbor simpatico in every respect.

Origin: 
1860–65;  < Italian:  literally, sympathetic, equivalent to simpat (ia ) sympathy  + -ico -ic.  Compare Spanish simpático, Frenchsympathique, German sympatisch

That will do quite nicely for my purposes here.  I'm even tickled with the etymology given my affection for the romance languages AND my German ancestry (not to mention the country presently hosting my middle child and her spouse). 

Often, my insertion of this word into a conversation has to do with food -- i.e. "I'm totally simpatico with this coconut cream pie" -- or a casual reference to a friendly feeling or instant between me and another person -- i.e. "You and me . . . we're simpatico today."  But it is the second half of the initial definition which interests me.  Like-minded.   

My life is replete with people.  People rich in personality, abounding in love, rife with wisdom, abundant with generosity.  Family, friends, neighbors.  Stating that I am truly blessed is NOT a trite comment nor is it an understatement.  If at all possible, I prefer to be realistic in my description of a thing.  Good people don't require hyperbole.  (Hey!  I sense a Gloria-ism there!)  **Please be advised that I'm in now way eschewing hyperbole as an effective writing tool!**

A significant number of these relationships developed over time.  A slow unfolding of personal histories and beliefs, of similarities and differences.  A delayed unwrapping of an unexpected present.  Untying the ribbon and setting it neatly aside.  Peeling back the colorful paper.  Folding the layers of tissue paper.  Until the final big reveal.  And then there's the appreciation and continued use of the gift in the months and years to come.  Those are most wonderful and life-affirming.

But every now and again a truly incredible meeting happens across my path.  One which seems to mesh perfectly with the elements of my life in that very present circumstance.  To me, given my very real Christian faith (of which I do not specifically highlight in my blogs but guides me around the bases in every entry), these are anything but chance.  Behind these lightning flashes of familiarity is a divine orchestration intended to encourage and mobilize both me and the other party.  And regardless of how often we actually engage in one another's life in the future, the life-changing aspect of that meeting of simpatico forever alters my spirit for eternity.  Whatever that turns out to be.  I must be very specific here and emphasize that I do not intentionally seek nor choose these relationships.  They have been made-to-order at some point in the past, every seam expertly stitched, each hem of exacting length, cut to enhance every contour and feature, and they rest upon a padded hanger awaiting the the specified minute that they will be fitted to my life.  Until they are given to me, I didn't realize I even needed them.  But once they are in my possession, I can't imagine what my days and nights were before them.  And this in now way detracts from my developed friendships in any way.  There are many holes within to be filled and fitted with lovelies who come to me in forms and ways as varied as the stars in the black velvet of the night sky.

Recently, a moment of simpatico occurred at my husband's multi-class high school reunion of all places. My mind wasn't even focused on the event, excited and distracted as I was to surprise family and friends with my unexpected presence for a family reunion taking place over the same weekend.  An introduction to a group of siblings led me to a dazzling smile so unassuming in nature, so naturally placed and fully lacking any guise or guile, that it stayed with me without need of any photographic reminder (though I did, indeed, have ONE, just ONE) every day after that.  In the ranks of these siblings were a brother and sister duo, Carrie and Chris.  In high school, they were fellow musicians with my husband and played in a band with actual talent and not one simply fueled by dreams and ambition.  I'd heard a good many positive stories about them.  Never had I met them though I shared space in their small town of La Veta for a summer.  (That's when me and my hot pink shorts, but fully decent, unwittingly garnered my husband's initial attention all those many years ago.)  They knew nothing of my dead-snake-slinging episode, an intimidating moment for my husband-to-be in which he watched with horrified fascination as I swung an impressively large bull snake carcass around my head for some unknown but entertaining reason.  They knew nothing of my 23 years with their high school chum.  Nothing about our trials or our children or our travels from state to state in search of employment and peace.  I left La Veta.  End of story.  

But what was clear from the onset, and was only brought into sharper focus during dinner conversation, was that we knew the same God.  We had endured separation from Him and restoration to Him.  And that created a simpatico, a like-mindedness, that can't be replicated with human efforts, no matter how empathetic or brilliant one might be.  Our character was evident in the short span of time we were given together.  That we were all completely unique individuals could not be discounted, but the connection had little to do with such concrete elements as traits and habits.  It was clearly one of those defining Jesus-moments which can't be fully described, or understood, unless that particular thunderbolt has knocked you flat on your spiritual behind!  On one hand, before these two -- TWO in one fell swoop -- I can count the specific people who have entered my life in this manner.  I won't be do that here but they know who they are.

From that moment on, after breaking literal, and spiritual, bread over a crowded table in a non-air-conditioned gymnasium, with rivulets of sweat running the length of my legs and belly beneath a pretty darned knockout of a bargain dress (if I do say so myself), I found myself close to tears whenever thoughts of these two came to me.  I found myself praying for them out of the blue.  An amalgam of gratitude, humility and awe had settled over me . . . and was there to stay.  A constant rendition of a blog entry ran through my head, hour to hour, day to day.  I wanted to take note, record it, share it, explore it.  I went to great lengths to explain it to my husband.  Because he figured largely in this happenstance.  Knowing that these two were his friends at a hugely important time of personal shaping and influence in his life moved me beyond the power of my beloved words.  I felt such joy in realizing he had made a choice to gather them in his circle.  And that they had all exerted influence over one another during those critical high school years.  Meeting them closed the gap of understanding about who this precious man of mine is and how he came to be who he is.  I knew of his family.  I am a part of his family for life.  I dearly love his family, both nuclear and extended.  But aside from a few guy friends that he hung out with regularly, I hadn't met anyone who shared his passion for music from way back in the day.  And as I started out this entry with a rundown on the drive of passion, it is only fitting to close it out in like manner.

There lies a deep well of passion within me.  I've used that phrase several times in this entry, "within me."  Though I often become entangled in my residual battles with self-image via the body, it is the 'within' which most concerns me.  And it is there that my COMpassion resides, spilling over into my desire for a deeper understanding of, and relationship with, Christ and the people He sets in my path (and not all of them sharing the same faith or set of beliefs).  A compassion which completely covers and nudges my desire to relay through word and sentence and paragraph the warp and weft of the ever-growing fabric that is my life, my experiences, my lessons.  

Writers are to write what they know.  I . . . know . . . me.  In the most completely non-narcissistic way possible because my desire is to be stretched and pulled and reshaped for a glory beyond and above my simple, though often quite wonderful, human existence.  There's nothing very glamorous or flattering in that sort of personal knowledge because it is a mirror I hold up to myself and NOT rose-colored glasses.  That's probably why I hold those stylish Ross dresses in such high regard!

Are we simpatico in that?           

The Fairness of Baggage

Probably one of the most painful lessons I've learned in my own life, and in observing the lives of those closest to me, is that of dealing with serious personal issues LATER.  Which means, in general, that those serious personal issues are NOT being dealt with right NOW.  I ran away from the remains of my childhood while in Israel -- a long story -- and thought I took control of my life.  I thought that right up until problems with my marriage and my mothering of my firstborn in her elementary school years pulled me up by the short hairs.

That's because in my late teens and through most of my twenties, I reveled in my supposed freedom from the emotional baggage of my youth.  Things I heard and witnessed and endured.  The pain of feelings suppressed; the fear of no safety net; the disconnect from society; a deep spiritual abyss of confusion.  What I couldn't see clearly was that all of that baggage accompanied me through my perceived escape from an oppressive existence . . . and it rolled right alongside me as I took my marital vows, labored through childbirth, struggled to understand the nuances of 'real life', careened through parenting and exhausted both my husband and myself in those early years.

Though my gifts for compassion and discernment ran deep, they were tainted by a skewed perspective and a surprising naivete concerning the nature of people around me.  My sense of right and wrong was very acute and intensely black and white in situations where I really should have loosened up a bit.  And as I pushed headlong through my budding adulthood, a greenhorn in so many areas of the mundane day-to-day duties, my anger grew.  It erupted in the face of intense emotional situations which became so because I didn't have the internal tools to effectively and quietly deal with bumps and spills in relationships without taking it far too personally.  My sense of righteousness and my way with words made me a force with which to be reckoned.  Not to everyone.  Only to some.  And most often to myself.

I was afraid at the root of it all.  Afraid of loss.  Afraid of failure.  Afraid of being wrong.  Afraid to have the rug pulled out from beneath me yet again.  I craved regularity for so long, stability and security, and yet when they arrived their features were so unfamiliar that I turned from them.  I turned to the familiar unhealthy thought patterns.  I turned and embraced the very pain from which I had been running.  And in doing do, though I remained worthy of love and affection, though I could present as intelligent and amusing, I became ineffective in very vital ways.

For years, I ran into walls with my children, sure I was inadequate, afraid to introduce them to the God in which I was sure I still believed, and positive they would eventually be as screwed up as I felt.  Instead of finding the good in my husband, in our relationship, I allowed for the eventuality of divorce, the inevitability of a split, the finality of an end to us in the not-so-distant future.  My problems with my body image, with bulimia, with Gloria, created terrible moments of private paralysis -- a pair of snug jeans or a serving of corn chips could be, and often was, my emotional undoing.  Not the best of foundations for success in my chosen lines of work, so to speak.

Though I do believe that with the passing of each year a piece of me returned to the whole and was knitted back into place, that process didn't happen quickly enough to spare those around me from the damage I inflicted in my broken state.  Not that it was intentional.  In some cases, I didn't know any better.  My boundaries were stretched.  My mindset far from center.  If ever I could change one thing about my life after my childhood (because that would be the obvious Genie-in-a-bottle wish) it would be the rate at which I realized that eschewing my hurts only caused further hurts.  By not dealing with my wounds early on, I created a far more difficult scenario from which to extricate myself AND my loved ones later in life.  I could have been a better parent and wife and sister and daughter.  A better friend.  More effective.  My life could have been lived with far more purpose and much less getting by.  That whole survive or thrive thing.  It's not that I live in that regret.  No, not at all.  I love my life here and now.  Enough healing has occurred for me to feel reset and restored . . . and purposeful.  But I live with the awareness of that fact.  An awareness which makes me more sensitive to others caught in similar webs.

That my powers of persuasion and assistance are limited is now excruciatingly obvious to me.  Excruciating because outside of prayer and love, there is often nothing I can do to change the life circumstances of people for whom I care very deeply.  When my sister suffered her post-partum psychotic episode and took her children's lives, I couldn't spare her the resulting agony nor could I walk the dark path back to life on which she had to journey.  Nor could I absorb the pain of the other families or my own.  Such an all-encompassing helplessness, beyond anything I had felt previously . . . and that's saying something.  When I turned my baby brother into the police, and he was sentenced to over a decade in prison, a flame in some deep chamber of my heart was tamped into darkness for what seemed several decades.  Though I imagined what his life must have been, it was his life to endure and not mine.  When my other brother, husband and father to three, discovered a cancerous mass had invaded his fit body, the shock rippled like a sonic boom through me.  I couldn't love it or joke it away.  The hours of chemo and resulting illness and weakness broached no sisterly stand-in: it was all his to take in and in and in.  Poisoning himself to combat a deadlier poison.  I could not comprehend how my siblings deserved any of it after what they lived through in our shared early years.

But it's not a world where fairness is dished out with any sort of regularity and justice, is it?  Otherwise, in some burst of  wise epiphany, those of us on the outside looking in on people with problems like the ones I just outlined would swoop in and offer assistance in just the right way: disaster would be averted.  Broken hearts, destroyed lives, unfairness in truckloads . . . would cease to exist.  Someone would have caught my brother's need for counseling to combat mental illness before drugs became a complication and led to a life of petty crime and terrible decision-making.  Someone would have recognized the signs of post-partum depression and dragged my sister to a doctor, whether she wanted it or not, and Grace and Gabriel would be playing with my son in Colorado right now.  Someone would have caught my brother's back pain early on and diagnosed him before the lymphoma jumped up in stages; better yet, he would never have developed a liking for Diet Pepsi and thus exposed himself daily to the artificial sweetener directly linked to his cancer.

My experiences have increased my sensitivity to possible unfolding tragedy.  I don't seek such things out.  But my radar is a bit more attuned.  So, I don't hold back if I see a situation where a word or action might defuse a moment or create a buffer or educate, educate, educate.  But even then, some will be helped and some won't.  There are those individuals who are able to see their shortcomings and weaknesses and wish to be restored.  But it seems that there are far more who are shortsighted and too weak to accept a leg up onto the dry shore from the shipwreck banging about in the dirty waters around them.  They're the ones who still have the power to scare me to my very human core.  They're the ones who keep me tethered to prayers of gratitude and beseeching.

Often, they're the ones you love for who they are, even the ugly.  They are the closest to your bared and beating heart.  And thus they have the power to cause great damage in their wounded state.  Exploding shrapnel.  Far-reaching.  Long-range.  Enduring.  Scarring.

At times like that, all you or I can do is don our battle gear, secure our helmets and assume a protective position.  And I also cry.