The Snuggle Inn---Snuggle up OR smuggle out!

 

Long before the internet, Yelp reviews, and social media, my mom would do intense research through AAA trip planners and through the Yellow Books Mom brought home from North Carolina.  We typically stayed at the same places when we vacationed in NC, but occasionally, events would transpire where we had to pick a new accommodation.  

Mom called and made reservations for the Snuggle Inn in Maggie Valley, just west of Asheville along the western border almost into Tennessee.  We knew the location, and we anxiously anticipated our winter vacation by packing all our winter gear, hoping for snow on Christmas.  Dad and I packed the tiny VW Rabbit, filling it to the roof inside with everything the four of us might need in a week’s time.  

So much excitement filled the car.  We spent our time on the trip singing songs, playing road games, and reading The Best Christmas Pageant Ever aloud.  Kelly and I, I am sure, fought over space in the tiny back seat.  I am sure Nancy Drew accompanied me, as I rarely went anywhere without her beside me in those days.

When we opened the front door of our small studio apartment, what awaited us was nothing close to the expectations.  The bedroom with the full-sized bed Kelly and I would share was so small we had to walk sideways to get around the bed.  The room was perhaps 1 foot bigger than the bed on all 3 sides.   There was no dresser or closet.  The bathroom was only a bit bigger than an airplane bathroom, and the living room proudly hosted the location of the pull-out sofa bed and the 4-person dining room table that wobbled so badly it took wads of napkins under a leg to make it steady enough to put our belongings on it.  To open that sofa bed, the dining room table would have to be moved into the open kitchen area, making the kitchen unusable.

Worse yet, the heat had been on before we arrived, and yet, the room was so cold we could see our breath puffing out in dragon breaths before our faces.  Kelly and I sat in our winter coats with a blanket over us, and when Mom and Dad surveyed the scene before them, they asked if we were going to make it—-and with chattering teeth, Kelly and I made all efforts to say yes.  Laughing, we talked about where our suitcases would go—-and we realized it was too cold to shower in the little apartment, so we would store suitcases in the shower.

After about three hours, Mom and Dad made the executive decision that there had to be something better.   We hopped in the car and drove down the road, checking with various hotels until we found a much better accommodation that was about 3 times as big and warm as could be.  As we packed our VW Rabbit again and headed to the new place, we laughed about the Snuggle Inn where guests have to snuggle up to stay warm—or decide to smuggle out.  Snuggle Inn provided giggles for years as we passed by.

* * * * * * * * * * *

No, it is not all that exciting of a story.  It all turned out fine.  No one was hurt, and I don’t believe we even lost any money in the situation.  However, it taught me an important lesson about expectations.  

Sometimes, as Robert Burns wrote,  “The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft a-gley”----or translated into an English we understand:  “The best-laid schemes of mice and men oft go awry.”  Mom had done nothing wrong with her planning.  Life just happened.

As the year 2023 comes to a close, I can promise you that this year did not turn out as anticipated for me.  It didn’t turn out as expected for many of my friends—for the friend who was attacked in the parking lot of his apartment complex and now has vision issues and PTSD, for a  friend my age whose husband died last fall and whose mother died a few weeks ago, for the friend who left her abusive husband after 35 years, or for the friend who just got diagnosed with cancer.  

Many of us have had a Snuggle Inn year.  Big plans and dreams, big hopes and expectations, excitement and joy have all been switched out for wobbly tables and unlivable circumstances.  

What happens when we are faced with a situation so different than the one expected or planned for?  What happens if the expectations have fallen apart because of someone’s deliberate actions or inactions?  What happens when those we count on fail to “show up” and fail to provide support?  How do we live with unfulfilled expectations?

I don’t have all the answers, but Snuggle Inn taught me a few lessons, including:

• The best-laid plans do not always work out.  Realizing this keeps me from blaming myself for not predicting the future.  Life happens—and the outcome is not always fair.

• A friend of mine shared this line with me to explain how she deals with humans who don’t live up to expectations:  “Expectations are premeditated resentments.”  It doesn’t mean we can let people walk all over us or that we should have no expectations at all, but often, we expect more out of people than they ever offer to provide—-or more than they can provide.
  

• Pretending that the “Snuggle Inn” is the Ritz  does not help anyone.  It is not necessary to lie with chattering teeth and say that everything is great.  It isn’t.  Be honest with yourself.  When the kids disappoint us or the doctor’s phone call is scary, it is okay to not be okay.  When you are in a Snuggle Inn situation, one important key is to admit the truth to yourself.
  

•  Staying in the “Snuggle Inns” of life if there are alternatives should not be the expectation either.  If the job or the situation is toxic or unhealthy, “smuggle out.”  (However, don’t expect everyone to understand why you are smuggling out.  No one knows the reality better than you do.)
  

•  The Snuggle Inns of life can teach us great lessons.  Those moments provide us the fodder for great laughs later on (or sometimes much later on).  OR if no laughs are available, they provide tales that then help others later on with their own Snuggle Inn situations.

 

* * * * * * * * *

 

It is so easy after being in a Snuggle Inn situation to give up dreaming for something better.  It is hard to experience the heartbreak from such disappointment.  However, without a dream, without a continued desire for “adventure,” it would be easy to just settle with the bitter cold of the Snuggle Inn situation.   There is so much better out there—just down the road.

May we all find ways to smuggle out of our 2023 Snuggle Inns and find a new adventure awaiting us.   If you need someone to help you “smuggle out” or to at least share in the laughs or the tears, I am here.

Kim

Christmas Letter 2023--Spices of Life

 

Christmas 2023

We all know the story of the three men who came searching for the King, following a star with their precious gifts of gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Yes, gold is and was valuable, but since myrrh and frankincense were used in perfumes, they were equally valuable commodities then.

How fitting, then, that the “perfumes” of Christmas are some of the most powerful. My mom and grandma were big believers in multiple pies, cookies, treats, and desserts. The smells and flavors of cinnamon, sugar, apple, nutmeg, and vanilla fill my mind when I think of December.

This year has been a year of new flavors, of new smells, of new experiences. Not all the flavors and perfumes have been sweet or savory. Many were bitter and sour.

If you are not aware, my husband, Anthony disappeared on December 15, 2022; without any idea of where he was or how to reach him, I spent 3.5 weeks wondering what had happened. Christmas and New Year’s were spent alone, living with worry and concern and a broken heart. Police arrived on January 4 to give me notice. No cause of death has been determined.

* * * * * * * * * * *

As you can imagine, life lost much of its spice and flavor this past year. Life still moved forward, but much of this spring was spent in a blur. I taught my classes, and I worked at home going through items and figuring out life again at age 53. Trips to the grocery store---something Anthony and I did together—brought on panic attacks. Days alternated between feelings I might survive this only to be followed by days filled with wails and screams. Anger, grief, guilt, self-doubt, sadness, terror---all were some of the flavors of life in 2023.

Some of the other, less painful perfumes of life in 2023 involved the sweet enfolding arms of my oldest son, Andy, who hugged on his mom while I sobbed. He is living in Reno, Nevada, dedicating many more than 40 hours a week to his job as Director of New Projects at Tesla. He is camping beside mountain rivers, snowboarding at Tahoe, and loving the area around Reno.

Another sweet perfume of life was having Jonathan volunteer to help me with house projects that were too much for just me. Jonathan’s humor and passion for life were contagious; his tender heart was a salve to mine. He is finishing his senior year at Baylor University, majoring in environmental science. He is still passionate about the oceans and conservation.

Some flavors and spices this year were bitter---the loss of close friends of Anthony and me who abandoned me when grief was too much for them to bear. Some flavors were distasteful, such as making life decisions for my future by myself.

Some flavors were surprising---friends who stood in the gap for me, who held me up when I could not move forward, who checked on me when I had 2 weeks of COVID, who met me where I was for lunch or for driveway talks. I owe these people everything.

Some moments were challenging as I decided to accept the position of department chair of English and Foreign Languages at Temple College at a moment when I was not sure I was able. I am still teaching, but I enjoy my time mentoring and encouraging other faculty members. “My work family” is so loving and supportive.

Some sweet-flavored moments included me singing in the rain in my back yard a month ago, watching my 3 dogs chase the ball in the yard, laughing with my sister-in-law this summer as both of us were covered in blue cake icing, and cheering on my favorite teams in football and basketball. This year saw me in some of my strongest moments and some of my weakest.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *

When I met Anthony fifteen years ago, his personality was full of flavor. He was larger than life, and he lit up a room with a new energy. Each room in my house is a bit emptier without him.

Fifteen years ago, he introduced me to mixing spices to create homemade rubs. We spent hours over the years creating our own rubs, and he would use these to create treasures on the grill. The rubs and spices only enhanced the true flavors of the meat. Their purpose was not to overpower the original taste. They were to take the truth and bring it to the surface.

Right now, as I face the first of many anniversaries I never dreamed of facing at this stage in my life, I am looking for new recipes for life. I am looking for ways to mix the bitter and sour with the sweet.

I am hoping to mix, fold, and blend them into a new concoction.

I am searching just as the Magi did. I am searching for a new path, a new direction, and a new way to face this new life.

Much as the Magi, I am on new territory, and no one can really give me directions.


May you join me on my journey in 2024 to discover the new flavors available in life, the new ways you can be used to spread flavor among those around you. May your days be filled with smells and tastes of cinnamon and sugar, nutmeg, vanilla---or tastes of hickory, smoke, onion and garlic powder, salt and pepper. 

Merry Christmas! 

Three Little Words

 

Three Little Words.
These three little words say everything all of us ache to hear.


Perhaps every parent should say these 3 little words over every babe in their arms.
Perhaps every boss should take a vow to say this to each of their employees (oh, what a difference this would make in the workplace!)
Perhaps these three little words should be a part of every wedding vow.

“I got you.”

A parent patiently stands in the water, hands and arms upraised, saying “I got you” to the child with toes tightened around the lip of the pool edge.  The clear message for this little girl is that this parent will be there to catch her, to keep harm from happening, to keep her close and safe.

“I got you.”

A parent squats next to the child crying on the road’s pavement, blood trickling down her leg.  The parent consoles, knowing that pain cannot be taken away, but “I got you” says that the parent sees, feels the pain, and aches in every fiber to take that pain away.  The child will not face this trauma alone.  Hand in hand, both face it together.

“I got you.”

A boss faces an employee whose fear is apparent, whose fingers twitch, and whose body jumps.  “I got you,” the boss consoles.  The employee knows that the boss will stand up for her, even if the situation is due to her oversight.  The boss will stand in the fire for her.  The boss will protect her.  The boss will work for the best for her employee.

“I got you.”

Two individuals promise “for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.”  When we repeat these words, we honestly have no idea what we are really agreeing to.  We don’t know what the future holds, but these vows are a promise to be there for the other regardless—--these vows really express the truth of “I got you”---regardless of circumstances or time, I will be there beside you, walking through the challenges of life, no matter what.

* * * * * * * * * * * * *
 

“I got you” often is a much bigger commitment than “I love you.”
We throw around “I love you” much too flippantly.  
 

As a person with a big heart, I love a whole lot of people and a whole lot of things.
I love ice cream.
I love books.
I love teaching.
I love the Baylor men’s basketball team.

However, “I got you” is not something I will say to every person I care about.
This is a much deeper commitment.

I promised each of my sons over and over, “I got you.”
And I tried to keep this promise throughout the years,
Whether they were lovable or not,
Whether their actions hurt me or their words tore little holes in my heart,
If they were here right now, I would make sure to remind them, “I got you.”

I would come running across the continent the second my oldest called.
I would drop everything the second my youngest asked for my help.
They have my support no matter what.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I had these three little words figured out when it came to being a parent.
However, I have spent my life being a complete and utter failure at saying those three little words to myself.
Until this past year, I tried to personify those 3 little words to almost anybody BUT me.
I tried to be all things to all people—except to myself.

However, a year ago, I started making promises to myself that are really summarized by three little words:
“I . . . got . . . you.”

For me, those three words mean so much.
It means that I see my hurt.
I hear what my gut says, and now that I actually listen, it speaks even louder than before.
I acknowledge my heart's passions.
I listen to the little voice that speaks to me about inner truths.
I block out the external expectations and focus on what Kim says—and If she says she is tired, I honor that.
I bear witness to my own struggles, to my own day-to-day victories, and to the little joys of life.
I reach out for help when I know I need it.
It means accepting challenges and honoring boundaries at the same time.
It means speaking up when someone has hurt me or mistreated me.
It means when life is too much, I put away the grading and sit beside the propane fire pit in my backyard with a glass of wine, a snoring dog, and a book beside me.
It means that no matter what the clock says, I honor my fatigue and go to sleep.
It means seeing my strengths and giving room for them to grow and stretch me.
It means that I make magical spaces inside my home that bring me joy.
It means that if my mind says, “Enough,” I honor that and stop whatever I am doing.
It means that I say “no” more often to things that tear me down—and “yes” much more often to the activities that remind me of the passions of life.
It means I don’t always examine all the possible consequences—and sometimes just jump when it feels right—including signing up for a writing retreat.
It means acknowledging the little girl inside this woman’s body by buying a kid’s messed-up birthday cake on huge clearance and laughing hysterically with blue icing coating my lips.
It means having my own back and protecting myself no matter the cost,
but it also means allowing myself to love—-and love big—no matter the cost because that is what my heart still wants to do.

I can now say those 3 little words to the reflection in the mirror.
I can promise myself now, “I got you” and really mean it.
Those three little words were the three words I have ached to hear from myself for half a century.
Now I promise myself daily, whispering it, and sometimes even yelling it,
 

"I got you.”

The Undertow

 

Visiting Anna Maria Island on the Gulf Coast of Florida as a child, my mother who spent her high school years in the area warned Kelly and me of the dangers of an undertow.

As a regular at that beach, she was used to the beach’s secret dangers.  Yet, she found herself surprised by the undertow that can suddenly overwhelm.

One day on a raft in her late teens, she was relaxing, and she raised her head a short while later and found herself far from shore and moving farther and farther away as the seconds passed.  Mom was headed out to sea.  After much desperate paddling, she and the raft got back to the sandbar and she was able to swim to shore.

Needless to say, her horror story was terrifying for us.  

For those unfamiliar with undertow, it is a current that flows under the surface of the ocean, often going in the opposite direction of anything else.

It is subtle.
It is unseen.  
It is also dangerous for these reasons.

You only know of an undertow if you are warned.
And even if you know of the undertow, until you feel the pull on your ankle or
Suddenly find yourself a football field down the beach from your spot on the shore,
Or lift your head and find the shore in the distance,
You honestly don’t believe it truly exists---or has the power it does.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Depression is much like the undertow.
Depression is not visible externally much of the time—it does not morph someone’s appearance so it is easily visible.
Depression might manifest in tears, but for many skilled at battling depression,  it also might manifest itself in a smile and laughter.
Depression is a current below the surface, drawing, grabbing, dragging one under.

Depression grabs and claws during sleep,
Its power is strongest in the quiet and in the dark.
It crawls from beneath the bed and whispers in the ears of anyone prone to hearing these sounds.
It suggests all the worst-case scenarios,
It highlights all the possible fears,
It isolates and exaggerates and makes the listeners believe the worst about themselves.

Depression draws and pulls from the moment the feet hit the floor in the morning.
Its continual whispers,
Its constant suggestions—
All are meant to darken the world,
To darken the sun, to silence the sounds of birds, to muffle the laughter of friends.
All senses are dulled.

Depression means that the songs you hear only remind you of your hurt,
Depression means that you desire to be left alone only to desire to be loved and surrounded by people who love you.
Depression means that you believe all the worst things ever said to you.
Depression means that you focus on the worst moments of your life and believe this reflects who you are.
Depression means that the very things that make your heart beat harder and faster and happier are the same things you cannot even make yourself  want to participate in.
Depression means that the very people who make your heart beat harder and faster and happier are the same people who you sometimes pull away from.
Depression means that you doubt their love and their acceptance.

Depression means that you don’t share your feelings because
You are so afraid of seeing their faces when the truth is shared.
You are so afraid of seeing them turn and run off, seeing the backs of their heads as they escape you—the true horror of you.
You are so afraid that you keep silent . . . .
You are so afraid that you wear the mask of a smile.
You convince yourself that you will be fine.
Or not.
But even if you aren’t, there is no one who will understand.

Like the undertow, depression is subtle.
It is unseen.  
It is also dangerous for these reasons.
It is not understood until you realize how far from the safety of the shore you are.

Depression means doggy paddling all day, every day, every month, and every year.
It means pulling against the current dragging you down,
The current grabbing at your ankles,
Nibbling at your toes,
Raiding your heart and spirit,
Silently wearing you down until you quit doggy paddling and just give in.

For those who don’t know depression,
It is exhausting.
It is the hardest battle there is.

 * * * * * * * * * * *

The only solution for this battle I know of . . . .
(And I am one who has complained to myself recently of the weariness of the doggy paddle),
Is to find a raft, a safety float, a rescue boat, or a fellow swimmer.

No one may be able to rescue you completely from the undertow,
But if you find the right safe person, perhaps someone who knows the secrets of the undertow from doggy paddling themselves,
Or perhaps a professional who can provide a solid surface for a few minutes,
You might find a respite from the pull, from the grab—
A respite that might allow you to quit paddling and pushing and moving
And allow you to find rest.

Have Tent, Will Travel---A New Tailgating Experience

 

In 2009, just after our marriage began,  Anthony said he wanted to support the local team and buy season football tickets.  He also wanted to tailgate.  I absolutely love college football, but in Texas heat in the early fall, I had never considered why in the world I would possibly want to spend extra hours in the heat rather than watching the game in my air-conditioned living room.

However, he wanted to, and I joined in.  We bought the food, set up the tent, and sweated.  At first, it was just the two of us tailgating, or when the boys were with us, the four of us tailgating.  The boys played in the creek behind our spot, and Jonathan fell in at least twice.  Look at how little they were in our very first year!  

As the years progressed, however, the tailgating crew grew.  We met people from the neighboring sites.  We invited people from our lives to join us.  Those from an additional 5 groups/sites joined us.  We even made open invitations to people passing by, and we made a point to welcome people who were from the opposing team.  Our crew ran an average of 30-40 each game and sometimes closer to 60.

* * * * * * * * * *

This once-reluctant tailgater grew to love tailgating,
not because of the heat and cold,
not because of the football team or the game of football,
not because of the food and the cold drinks,
but only because of the people.  
 

Our spot became hallowed ground for me.
Our tent became a place that taught me what I wanted to be—-what I was meant to be to others and to myself.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
 

This year marks the first year in 14 years that I am not going to be tailgating outside of the stadium.  
The story is complicated and multi-faceted.   And much too much to share here.

The tailgate trailer Anthony and I bought, along with tables, chairs, televisions, coolers, grills, and much more have been sold or given away.  I will once again be watching football in the air conditioning at home this coming Saturday when it is 101 degrees outside.
 

Regardless that I will not be in that spot—-and under that tent—-I am carrying the figurative tent with me.
Have tent, will travel.

I am so thankful for the past 13 years—and for all of you who joined me under that white fabric.
I am so thankful for Anthony who exposed me to the secret of the tent.

 

These are some of the secrets of the tent I learned about myself:

• I need a chance to just sit.  I never learned this growing up.  My parents were always busy multi-tasking.  I finally learned to set aside a whole day just to be Kim, to socialize, to eat and drink, and to just be.

• I love to be around people.  As someone who heard most of her early adult life that I was impossible to be around and that people couldn’t stand me, what a joy and a surprise to discover I could talk to anyone.  I could become friends with lots of people.  I didn’t have to agree with their beliefs, but I could laugh and talk and share life stories.

• I would give my right arm—or left—for a whole lot of people.  I loved big.  I loved the people who were under that tent.  Loving big means losing big when they disappear from your life.  However, even that loss does not mean that I regret any of my moments.

• I want to live with my arms wide open.  I have lost 3 tailgating family members in the past 10 months—Kerry, Anthony, and Jill.  They were the life of the party.  Each of them exposed me to life with arms wide open.  They experienced every moment that life gave them—and all three were taken too soon.  I want to be like them.

• I want to be a safe space for others.  There is nothing more brutal than a full day of exposure in the Texas weather some days—brutally hot, frigidly cold, or torrentially rainy or windy.  The tent provided some safety from the heat, the cold, and the rain.  The tent sheltered us from the elements.  The tent also was a space where life stories could be shared without judgment.  

        I want to be that same type of space where everyone knows they are welcome.  

        Where everyone is loved.  

        Where the feast is set out for others.  

My new tent will be like the old tent.

• I will share with anyone in need.
• I will ask for help from others when the winds of life threaten to blow down my tent.
• My table and grill are always open.
• Appearances and team jersey colors and personal beliefs and lifestyle choices—-none of them matter.
• I will invite others to join my table.  And add tables if I need to.  And chairs.
• I will wave my flag high to let others know there is a place they can call “home.”
• I will love others like Kerry, Anthony, and Jill spent their lives doing.
• I will be a huge cheerleader, whooping and hollering for my people. 

* * * * * * * * * *
 

So, tomorrow, I will sit in front of several screens, pull out some snacks, load up a cooler, and tailgate by myself.  
 

What I now know is that I will continue to tailgate.  But now my motto will be:  “have tent, will travel.”  
I can tailgate wherever I go.
I can pull out the figurative tent in my classroom, in the store, in my office at work.
I can be that tent to those who work beside me, to those I encounter, to my students, to my family and friends.
 

So, as the invitation has been wide open for 13 years,
And as I have posted in previous blog posts,

Join me under the tent.  The grill is heated up, and the table is always full of food.
You have a standing invitation—and a seat ready for you!

The Fairy Godmother

     

I never dressed up like a Disney princess.
I never even pictured myself a princess.

However, as I think back over my life, I realize that, like Cinderella, I had a fairy godmother.
Daley Love didn’t look anything like the fairy godmother in Disney’s Cinderella movie.

However, she did care for me and my sister as if we were her own children, and she loved my children as her own.  

And she would have turned a pumpkin into a coach for me if she could have.
She would have provided birds as companions to remind me I was loved.

After all, anyone named Daley Love has to be a special person,
Someone whose name exemplifies her.

Daley Love was a fairy godmother of sorts—
She had a magical touch.
She could make a house a home,
a picnic meal a feast,
or an ordinary event a memory to remember long after.

Much as the fairy godmother turned the pumpkin into a magical coach drawn by
mice-turned horses,
Any space in which Daley Love lived in or inhabited became something special—-

A fireplace became a hearth,
A playroom became a magical land of imagination,
A group of children who didn’t sing well became a heavenly choir she directed,
A Caravan camping trip became glamping,
And even a trip to Adventure Island in the pouring rain with roaches pouring out of the shelter we huddled beneath became a memory to forever remember.

Her hospitality,
Her warmth,
Her love . . .

Through my childhood,
Through the awkward teen years,
Through young motherhood, as she greeted each of my children with all the joy a biological mother would,
Through marriage and divorce and remarriage,
Through the deaths of my grandparents, my mother, my father,
Daley Love stood witness and supported me.
Cards would arrive in the mail with love sprinkled inside the envelope.

As one of my mother’s closest friends,
She was the reference book of all things people,
And when Mom could not remember someone’s name or something pertinent,
Daley Love was on speed dial.
For her, people mattered.
People deserved to be seen and deserved to be cared for.

Quietly working weekly at the church counting money,
Doing the books for Freight Sales, supporting her husband,
Cooking food for others,
Volunteering at the church,
Daley Love exemplified love.

How fortunate I am to have memories of times with her
Sledding down snow-covered hills,
Riding in the back of the Freight Sales mattress-filled semi-truck with Lori, Joey, and Kelly,
Singing in the choir she and Carol Mihlfeld led with Psalty the Songbook (AKA Dad) beside me,
Singing beside her in Jim Lacy’s choir when I became older,
Seeing her smile as I married a second time,
Seeing her rocking my youngest in a rocking chair in Texas,
And providing me the warmest welcome when I was able to come back home to Florida.

I will miss knowing that she is only a phone call away,
Or a trip away.
I will miss her tender ability to create that magical sense of love.

I have to believe that she would agree with the Fairy Godmother who says to Cinderella,
“If you’d lost all your faith, I couldn’t be here. And here I am!”

And with just a bit of faith, I think she would want to tell me
She is here.  Still with me.  Just a memory away,
Turning the ordinary into love-touched memories.
Telling me that the ugliness of the world and of evil "stepsisters" can be something of the past.
Reminding me that I am more than some ash-covered unseen being.

With just a bit of faith, she is here telling me that I am more than that.
I am loved.
And my challenge now is to go out and share this truth with others.  

My challenge is to exemplify daily love for
Daley Love.

The Accompanist

 

It is much easier to be the loud voice,
The one who voices an opinion and others follow,
The one who is allowed to be a diva with all the volatile roller-coaster emotions attached.

It is much easier to be the soloist,
The one who gets to lead the music,
The one who decides the speed, and
The one who gets the appreciation.

It is much harder to be the accompanist.
It is much harder to let the soloist lead,
To slow down when the soloist does, to match the rhythms,
To be heard—-but not be heard too much.

It takes so much effort to support the melody,
To fit in and squeeze around the main attention,
To be beside and around and under the voice that is heard.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Elaine Brock was The Accompanist.

As early as I remember, she was a literal accompanist,
Playing organ and piano in church,
Accompanying both my dad and me when we sang solos in church.
She sat patiently beside Kelly and me as we learned to play all the basic notes on the piano.
She took her seat in the alto section of the choir, harmonizing and supporting the melody.

She was much more than a musical accompanist.
She was a figurative accompanist to the lives of many.
She was the silent work partner to my dad for several decades, his silent Accompanist.
She supported his larger-than-life personality and actions,
Quietly moving in the shadows,
But ALWAYS supporting, harmonizing, noticing the gaps, and filling in as needed.

She was The Accompanist to my mother as well.
She was a friend who listened, a friend who had raised her children and was willing to support a young mother with two young girls.
She was tickled with these two girls who played at her house with her antique stamps and with the Billy Goat Gruff bridge over the little creek,
She altered their clothing,
She listened to their stories,
And she loved.

She became a fixture in my life, my godmother just in case my parents died early.

I probably have a hundred pictures with the Brocks amongst my family—-at garage sales, in the VW van going to Daytona Beach, picnicking beside the interstate on the way to North Carolina eating sloppy joes with Joe (oh how funny my sister and I found this!), cleaning nasty refrigerators in rental houses, eating Biltmore ice cream, swinging on the swing at Lake Junaluska, and even putting up with my mom’s crazy idea to sled down the road in the snow.
She helped with canning, pickling peaches, fixing the trout for dinner, and puzzling over the pieces on the dining room table.

Once again, as I look at these pictures, 

The Accompanist cannot be seen in the forefront of the pictures,
But she is always there,
Moving amongst the melody,
Harmonizing, supporting, and lifting the melody to new heights.

As I grew older, and my life took unexpected twists,
I always knew that this woman would support me no matter what.
She may not have always understood my situation,
But when no one else seemed to be in my corner, she stood in a parking lot beside I-35 in Waco, Texas, and hugged me as I cried.
She arranged her spring vacation to witness my second chance at marriage—

And for decades, she has quietly changed out the flowers at my dad’s burial site—-and then again, at my mother’s.  She has spent more time at the cemetery quietly accompanying my family than I have been able to since 1993.

Although I did not know The Accompanist early in her life, I know she served as a
Beautiful accompaniment to her husband,
Supporting, listening, and being a part of his pursuits,
Whether it was stamping books at Bartow High, visiting people in the hospitals, listening to his Sunday School lessons, and playing hymns for the services.

* * * * * * * * * * *

I will miss her.
I will miss her accompaniment to my life’s journey.

She so effortlessly supported my melody,
She fit in and squeezed around,
She was beside me, around me, and lifted me up when I could not hear my own melody.

Beautiful Accompanist, your harmonies will forever be in my heart.
I long to accompany those I love the way you did to those around you.

Boo Radley meets Casper the Friendly Ghost

   

“A house is made of walls and beams; a home is built with love and dreams.” — Unknown

Once upon a time architect pens hovered over floorplans,
Electricians strung the wires between the studs,
The roofers hammered the shingles,
And every last paint color and brick shade was selected.

Anticipation and promise and the possibilities of the future hung in the air,
Calendar days were counted for the completion of the construction.
Title papers were signed,
The key was handed over,
And a new life began.

The new owners had an idea of what their lives would be like,
The dreams of connectedness,
The hopes of happiness and joy,
The thoughts of future years planned out.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Something happened.
I don’t know what.
All I know is that when I moved into this neighborhood seventeen years ago,
The dream for life in that house  had died,
This hope was abandoned.

As far as I remember, this house has always been abandoned.
Seventeen years of echoes within the rooms.
Seventeen years of neglect and abandonment,
Seventeen years on display for all who pass by to see.

I may not live in Maycomb, Alabama, but I think Harper Lee would agree that this house has the feel of the Radley home—
The decay,
The mystery,
The sadness of lives not lived as anticipated.

Thanks to a lack of housing restrictions in the country,
This home has fallen
And fallen
And fallen into disrepair and neglect.

That house has haunted me for years.
I don’t think an evil spirit or even Casper the Friendly Ghost  hovers.
However, there is a sense of grief and loss associated with this house each time I drive by.
Lost now—-
All the love and attention,
All the time and energy,
All the anticipation and hopes  and passion—-

And now the weeds hide the front of the house,
The front door that once hosted a wreath for Christmas
 is now hidden from view.
The tree that may have hosted the play of children among its limbs
Now stands with dead branches, drooping and falling on the once-shingled roof,
The yard that once was green and new
Is now strewn with weeds and dead grass.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

How can a building have such a loud voice?
How can it speak to my heart of the disappointments in life,
To the desperation silently felt by so many?

It seems to  stand as a monument to the many shattered dreams and
The grief of lost possibilities.

Grief is not just a loss of a physical presence.
It is the loss of future dreams and future possibilities.

This house speaks to me of the choices available to me at this time of change in my life—
When my husband no longer is beside me,
And when my children are physically or emotionally distant.

This house speaks to me of the individuals who have given up,
Those whose massive potential screamed to the world,
And yet those same individuals whose self-view became so distorted that giving up and giving in were the only options.
This house speaks to me of those whose mental illnesses have warped the possibilities,
Those whose grief, depression, and anxieties have grown up to shut out the sunshine.
Those whose dark secrets have blocked the entrance or exit from their inner self-imposed exile.


This house haunts me with questions:
Will I be the house I currently live in?
Willing to undergo a new vision, a new remodeling, a new purpose?

Or will I silently give in to time,
Watching it pass me by as the bushes cover the front windows, back windows, and doors,
As the glass darkens,
As the exits to the house are blocked?


* * * * * * * * * *
This house haunts me in its sadness.
The possibilities dreamed of are now dead.
There is no hope for these four walls other than demolition.

I am not ready for this.
I am destined for more than demolition or self-immolation.

It is hard to see the beauty of this new life with its changed possibilities.

However, it is a good thing that this woman who has undergone several traumas in life
is good with yard work and hard work.

I am picking up the pruners to trim back the bushes,
Kneeling, weeding my beds,
Standing with my hose, watering my plants,
Searching for bees feeding from the blossoms.
I am picking up my window cleaner, making sure that the vision from my windows is clear.
Day by day, step by step, inch by inch,
I am clearing out the mental and emotional debris,
Determined to make my physical and symbolic house
a testament,
a monument of
resiliency, of strength, and of hope.

Maybe if I can make my “house” that sort of testament
Others with no hope will perhaps dare to speak to me,
Dare to perhaps clean their own windows and let me help them with their yard work.

I'm not Chip or Jo: A Look at Remodeling

 

The fixer-upper type shows make it look so enjoyable,
The sledgehammer plunges through the drywall,
The kitchen counters are torn out,
The wires and studs are exposed,
The endless possibilities of the undone . . . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

This will disappoint some of you, but Chip and Jo will never touch my walls.

They live 2-3 miles away from me, but even if they chose me for their show, I would say no.
I am tired of remodeling.

Honestly, my current house project is my second true literal remodeling.
Items from one room fill the spaces in four rooms.
Then, items from that one room are put in place while another room is emptied out.
The crew of guys work in a coordinated dance, in synchronized movements,
Ripping the paneling from the glue,
Gathering and tossing the insulation fragile from the years,
Tugging the carpet from its stapled moorings,
Snaking electrical wire between studs.

Drywall dust coats all.
White dogprints on a red rug are a testament of the sweat and effort in the next room.

Remodeling exposes secrets—-
Holes in the window sealing,
Fire hazards,
An old wooden door secreted behind drywall and brick
(Hey, Poe, was my room your inspiration for “The Cask of Amontillado”?),
Broken tiles, remnants of termite tunnels, and a
Brick wall marred with S’s drawn in glue.
Electrical nightmares.
Chaos.

Despite this, as each day proceeds,
Little tendrils of light and new life arise,
Clean and white, transitions made smooth,
Gaps closed up, keeping out the bugs that contaminate,
Shiny plugs appear where extension cords once crept,
Dangers lessened,
Clean, whole, healed.
A new perspective, a new plan, a new map . . . .

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am tired of remodeling.
But actually it is not the literal remodeling that has created this fatigue.
Literal remodeling is much quicker and less exhausting in comparison.

I am tired of figurative remodeling, the type that has exhausted me for the past 20 years,
The type that has happened again and again and again.
Just when I had things all put back in place, the dust swept, and the “ahh” released from my lips,
A marriage was ripped apart, a reputation was sullied, a parent died, a job was lost, a child made choices, a life/death health scare happened, a spouse died,
And everything had to be remodeled again.  And again.  And again.

I am sick of life’s sledgehammers that have crashed through established routines,
That have crashed through assumptions and anchored beliefs,
Suddenly, without warning,
The surface of life was torn from its moorings,
The sources of energy ripped out,
The damage,
The footprint signs of a former life,
The chaos.

Those previously-held established routines and assumptions were comfortable, even if not safe.
They provided simplicity of faith—of God, of others, of family, of self.

Each time my life has undergone remodeling,
My reserve, my outward organized persona has been torn and removed.
What may have been a flawed status quo is now smashed and stripped,
The reality beneath is revealed for all and is judged.
The flaws, the possible danger potential, the gaps
Are there for all to see.
The certainties of life are ripped away,
And all that is left are studs and worn-out wires.

It takes time to rebuild.
It takes time to see potential in the wreckage.

The reality of the damage is all too real.
Just because sledgehammers tore out a hole in one section
does not mean the rest is not affected in some way.
Dust covers all.
Furniture from one is crammed into others.
The sledgehammers left nothing untouched.
Decisions must be made.
Changes are a must.
Every item is re-examined before it is replaced.


When life changes in a moment’s time,
Despite the remains of dust, ashes, and fragments,
I have to believe that there is hope.
No timeline completion yet, but it is coming.
This does not mean that the tears do not wet my pillows at night.
It does not mean that sobs do not escape my lips when a song or a TV show or a restaurant or an item at home brings back memories.
Desperation still suddenly grabs me and isolates me.

However, with time, and a whole lot of effort,
I believe (and hope)
I can pull out my hammers and screwdrivers,
Pile up all my construction materials,
And board by board, brush stroke by brush stroke,
The source of energy can be restored,
The broken holes and gaps can be filled,
The dust of my former life can be swept up and rubbed off,
And all that will remain is my new remodeled life.

"It is Good."

 

I was four or five when my family moved out to Carriage Lane, to the country, or the boonies, as we called it.  

The house was placed on 1.65 acres of Florida pine-laden, sandy soil, with an expanse of land for a front yard.

I saw bare land.
My parents saw their dream.

With hundreds of tiny sprigs of St. Augustine grass, our family kneeled in the sand,
dug holes, buried the runners,
standing with a hose spraying well water,
urging the runners to sprint.

Between Florida sun, daily summer rains, and the regular back and forth spread of nitrogen, phosphorus, and potassium, the grass grew and grew.

From that bare plot eventually grew a miniature Garden of Eden, full of chest-high azaleas, shoulder-high camelias covered in pink blooms, dogwoods, oaks, and roses.

I’m not sure, but it seems like I couldn’t even see over the handle of the red Toro push mower the first time I was given the privilege of being like Daddy and
pushing the vibrating beast over ankle-high St. Augustine,
learning to create squares,
seeing the line between the cut and uncut,
adjusting the mower to get a full cut with the right wheel just over the edge,
turning 90 degree angles again and again until there was only one swath left.

Every week without fail, the whole family converged on the yard—pulling weeds, raking pine needles into piles to create our large driveway, trimming bushes, and most importantly, mowing.

How I loved the rumble
And the clean lines that defined that job.
The power,
The clarity of the work,
—and  don’t forget the sweat—
But all was worth it when it was complete.

Here I am, maybe 48 years after my first mow behind that red Toro.

As I pull the handle on my red and black Honda,
I still see the yellow wooden toy block my parents drilled and used as a handle on the Toro when the plastic handle broke.
I still hear Dad’s voice, “See the line, Kim?”
I still feel the cleanness of my edges along the sidewalk, the curb, the plant beds.
I still turn my 90 degree angles,
I sweat and sweat and sweat,
But the sense of accomplishment and joy is there—

As I look over my back and front yard,
I also imagine I feel a bit what Mom and Dad did on Carriage Lane,
Perhaps a bit what God did on Day 7:

“It is good.”
 

Winged Parachutes

  

1970s

I loved childhood summers in North Carolina.  With no cell phones in existence then, and with no television in our rental places at Lake Junaluska, my sister and I spent our two weeks of cooler weather outdoors, reading, imagining, creating, building, and playing.  The soft grass, the smell of clover, the small creeks with smooth rocks, and the fireflies were so different from our norm.  We reveled in the joy of those days.

 We took over a small rock foundation that became a fort, and we protected each other from the marauding pirates.  We skipped and sang as the famous Lewis Sisters.  We owned a restaurant, making menus and serving food and charging customers with tabs we wrote up.  We worked as civil engineers, moving rocks and twigs that blocked the flow of creek water.  We filled mason jars with the tiny lights of fireflies dancing inside the glass.

My first remembered experience with dandelions came in one of those early summers.  What joy!  Pulling the puffed stem from the ground, I gripped it carefully, wrapping all my small fingers around the green furry stem.  I held the puff in front of my lips, careful not to move it too much too soon.   I took a birthday-candle-blowing-out breath and blew.  

It was pure magic.  Those small white seeds rode the wind currents and parachuted down across the lawn, releasing their passengers.  I would pick another puff, make a wish, and blow again, confident that there were no bounds to the magic of nature and the magic of life.


Early 2000s

I watched my two little boys in the yard at Mom and Dad’s place in North Carolina.  Born in a different decade, and born with technology that I couldn’t have dreamed of 30 years earlier, they were quite a bit less sure of what to do with their time without a DVD on or a GameBoy in hand.  

They watched with fascination at the chipmunks (otherwise known as “chinkminks”) who  scuttled across the yard, diving in small holes at the base of the hickory tree.  They marveled at the different grass, the sound of the wind coming down the hills through the leaves of the many trees.  When their cousins appeared, the art of “cousining” resumed after a 12-month hiatus.  With 4 boys under the age of 6, the raucous laughter and crashing of cars and the sound of tussling and wrestling filled the air.

The four boys chased bugs, walked in the creeks, got muddy and wet, and made forts in the house.  They ate everything in sight, from Grandma’s famous pickles to her never-ending batches of sweets.  They, too, became civil engineers, building huge dams, and then became expert rock throwers in the same exact spot their mothers had 30 years before.

I held my breath as they climbed the tree in front of the house, certain that I would hear the thunk of bones on the ground.  Running from dandelion to dandelion, they blew the puffs across the yard, with me cringing each time, loving their laughter but also realizing dandelion weeds would be spread all over the yard.  



October 2020

I held the all-too-familiar hand, the wrinkles a new development I refused to accept.  It was the hand that had weeded gardens, the hand that had written notes and Christmas letters to each of her dear friends, the hand that graded thousands of English assignments, the hand that had spanked me occasionally and nurtured me throughout the years.  It was the hand that held the phone I called each day for almost 30 years since Dad died.  She was dying.  I could do nothing to save her.  My “She-ro,” who was not afraid to climb on roofs and trim trees, who quietly battled anxiety and depression without ever admitting it to herself or anyone else, who was a literal force of nature, couldn’t fight this.

Sitting beside her bed, hearing her take each deep heavy breath, the unreality of the impact of chemo on my mom’s lungs, the unreality of her imminent last breath, and the unreality of being without either parent at the age of 51—-all these unrealities left me numb.  Instead, I sat and held her hand and wrote an obituary she would have laughed about and loved.

Her last gift to me was a light long-sleeved cardigan with the words on the back, “Just Breathe.”  Beside the words was a picture of a dandelion, with seeds parachuting away.  At first, I had misinterpreted and believed it a message to me to stop being anxious.  Perhaps it was.  

However, since she, too, carried the same anxiety, beside that hospital bed in her last moments, I began to think that perhaps she was wanting me to slip back to my younger years, to rediscover the magic of childhood, to dream that the seeds I was planting in the lives of my boys and my other relationships would come true.  

It was a message to believe again.  To believe in me.  To believe in the magic of life.  To grab hold of the furry green stem with bigger fingers and close my eyes and make a wish.  To pucker up my lips and say to the world, “Here’s to bigger dreams, to larger possibilities, to a me that is true to myself.”


November 2020 and after . . . .

When I returned from my mom’s funeral, I suddenly saw dandelions in numerous places in my yard, the puffs just ready for me to blow on.  It was November, and before I even unpacked the car, this 51-year-old woman blew and watched the seeds dance around on the wind.

Now, each time I see a dandelion, including ten days ago, at the age of 54, I breathe and I believe.

Standing Witness---a tree

 

 Summer 2022
The tree, once vibrant and green,
A shelter from the too-bright sun,
The umbrella to many shaded reading hours,
With the strength to hold small boys below.

Trimmed branches became the forbidden fruit of invasive stranglers
That suck the lifesoul,
Diminishing the tree,
Weakening its strength.

So that when the too bitter cold for too many days
(during SNOVID/Sno-pocalypse 2021)
smothers the fresh buds too eager for spring weather,
The tree experiences Raynaud's disease,
Sap constricting, flowing to the trunk, leaving branches vulnerable
To lack of life, lack of love, lack of warmth.

Reaching out with its black-brown fingers toward the sky,
No life flows within.

Death.
Collapse.
Decay.
Loss.


There is no service for a dead tree.
No granite marker commemorating its service, its life.
No Psalm 23.
No line of mourners.
There was me—and only me.
I was not in a black dress and heels.

What sadness to mark the death of a tree that was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the destruction of time, of cold, of lack of warmth.

I bore witness to the death of the tree,
Wearing shorts and a tank top, sneakers and socks,
With tree trimmer, pole saw, chain saw, ladder, wood chipper, and  clippers,
With buckets of energy, gallons of muscle strength, and a lot of sweat,
With curses of frustration and tears of grief and so much love,
I slowly trimmed the dead from the tree.
I placed the limbs into the wood chipper, and from the chewing and cutting and grinding
emerged the tiny chunks of oak to nurture other botanical brothers and sisters.
I loved on the tree the only way I knew how—-
By honoring its contribution to me by caring for it in its last moments.

Summer 2023
What sadness to mark the death of a person who once was a symbol of strength.
What sadness to stand witness to the deterioration of a person due to time, lack of warmth, lack of acceptance, lack of love.

I stand witness to those I have loved,
Those whose bodies gave way before it was time,
Those whose life purposes were cut short by tragedies,
Those who have carried hurt and loss,
Those with heavy secrets that were too much to bear,
Those whose depression and anxieties smothered the lifesoul,
Those who experienced the coldness of the desperation felt by Raynaud’s disease.

I stand witness the best way I know how,
by
Getting up each morning, dressing, calling others, reaching out to those around me,
Learning and reading, asking questions and challenging the preconceptions I had,
Growing and exploring and daring to try new things,
Grading and driving and cleaning and cooking and mowing and texting and shopping,
Laughing and loving and giggling and cheering.

I honor those I have loved
By continuing on,
By pushing forward,
By recycling the hurt and ache in my bones and heart, the loneliness that overwhelms, the questions that circle in my brain,
By recycling the dead growth in the wood chipper,
By refusing to give up.

I can love on my loved ones of the past the only way I know how—
By honoring their contribution to me by caring for others—and caring for me.

Unleashed Reservoirs--the call of water

The water called to me,
Giggling and playfully teasing me as a little girl,
Of walking in cold mountain streams,
Teetering on slippery moss-covered Appalachian rocks,
Family members holding hands and traversing the uncertain ground, the rushing current, and the shore all too far away,
Slipping and plunging with shrieks into the clear water, 

Innocence, belief in the goodness of life,
Togetherness and joy,
Potential.

The water called to me
In a hushed whisper, inviting me to ponder the roaring noise of stillness,
Moments of escape from the beelike activity of life,
One small pebble thrown,
And ripples then forming in outward-facing rings,
One evolved into many,
A purpose, a bigger picture,
The interconnectedness of the flow,
The power of influence, the buoyancy of friendships,
Motivation.



Once again and again, the water called to me,
As to a frightened rabbit alone on the shoreline,
Inviting me to find peace in the small wind-rippled currents,
But my life flow was repeatedly dammed behind a construct of
Mores, expectations, guilt, and inadequacy,
The murkiness of life hiding truth and purpose,
Vision blurred and cloudy,
But to the shores,  the water echoed back to my confusion,
Reminding me of its ever-flowing vastness,
The interweaving nature of all water, 

Rushing and rippling and absorbing each other.
Then, water trickled, free falling down my cheeks,
Cleansing,
Clarifying purpose and meaning,
New eyesight.



The water called to me again just a year ago, 
Daring me, pulling me,
Challenging me to plunge into the depths,
To dive into the unknown,
Fulled clothed and yet so nakedly vulnerable,
Bidding me to leave the safety of the shore,
To blindly trust the water’s ability
To absorb my hurt, to lighten the weight,
To buoy me,
To make me alive.

The water that day provided me a reflection
Of the young girl turned woman,
Who has the power to choose—
To tiptoe and slip into the flow,
Or to dive headfirst and heartfirst,

To reflect from the shore 

Or to listen to her heart’s desire to explore the depths,

A choice to float on the surface and soak in the peace,
Or instead, when the moment is right, 

To pick up a paddle and push forward to the spot where the light rises in the east,

New beginnings,

Re-creation. 

Santa, the Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy, and other Lies/Truths

His three-piece suit and Florsheim wingtips never stopped my 45-year-old father from crawling through play tunnels with toddlers in the church nursery.  His position as a school principal never made him too sophisticated to stack blocks on his head and have them intentionally fall to the ground to the laughter of young children.  

I learned everything about what it takes to entertain young children from watching him and my mother play with the children at church.  Apparently, I learned a lot since kids come to my house and never want to leave.  I have had kids meet me and an hour later refuse to let go of my hand.  Perhaps it is due to the toys I have with me, but perhaps it is my willingness to be real—and silly.

I worked with children at church for several decades, as a children’s worker, children’s worship leader, and children’s pastor at several churches.

My tailgate kids likewise climbed and crawled all over me, and between the pictures they drew for me or “Wild Bronco” rides on my lap, my own boys recognized that playing with them was the highlight of my year.  


* * * * * * * * * * * * * *
There is something about children that draws me to them.  

Perhaps it is their willingness to love wholeheartedly with arms wide open.
Perhaps it is their honesty—-even when that honesty sometimes hurts.
Perhaps it is their hope and willingness to believe in the best.
Perhaps it is their lack of judgment and their open acceptance.

It might be their fragility, the sense of that tiny little hand wrapped for dear life around your finger.
It might be the trueness of their smile, the giggles that comes straight from their bellies, or
The wide-eyed wonder in their eyes when something appears to be magical.

Yes, I know I was that child at one time, as I know you were as well.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Wouldn’t you in many ways like to time travel back to childhood?
To the simple belief in the mistruths we adults tell to children?
Of the existence of our bearded Santa Claus and Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, the hoppity Easter Bunny with his hidden eggs and chocolate, the sneaky Tooth Fairy, and other lies?

Isn’t it true that we are stuck with the same dreams as little children?  


We laugh at Santa Claus, but we want to believe that someone or some circumstance will listen to our deepest desires and bring us what we want.  That someone or something will fulfill our dreams.
We would love to crawl up into a lap, be hugged, and be guaranteed that everything our heart desires will be ours.
We look for this bearded desire-giver in our spouses, our friends, our jobs, our children, and our God.  We hope and pray that if we find the right person and ask in the right way or if we behave and act like good little boys and girls, our deepest desires can be met.
However, we get disappointed when this person or this circumstance does not solve all our problems.


Isn’t it true that we can laugh at the Easter Bunny but still long for someone who would spend time and energy decorating and working to surprise us with items that bring us joy?
It might be true that chocolate still might work for many of us as adults.  
However, if we think of other surprises, don’t they bring us joy?  
Don’t handwritten cards, thoughtful presents, texts of appreciation, or the happy surprises of life still bring that sense of excitement?
We see the envelope in the mailbox with our names on it, we tear at the patterned giftwrap, or we hear the “ding” of our text messages—-and we are little children again, ready to run for the surprise.


And what adult believes in a winged fairy who comes and gets teeth with decayed roots and exchanges them for money?  (I used to get $1.00 a tooth, but I know inflation has hit!)
Yet, our childlike heart still prays and hopes that there is some possibility of recycling the losses of life—-the loss of death, the loss of a job, the loss of familial relationships, the loss of financial stability—-into something positive with no effort from us.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

What other mistruths were we told as children?
It will be OK.
Mommy will never leave you.
Let me kiss it and it won’t hurt any more.
Daddy’s got you and he’ll never let you go.
No one can ever hurt you.

Wouldn’t you like someone to say all of these words to you right now?—--
And mean it?
And you believe it?
To believe that your loved ones will never leave you, that it will all be OK, and that no one will ever hurt you again?

Wouldn’t EACH of you want to hear those words right now, this minute, this month, this year?
Even those of you in suits and ties with wingtip shoes.
Even those of you looking at wrinkles in the mirror.
Even the single moms with babes hanging off of her all day long and crying for more.
Even those of us who have almost given up?

The sweet, not-so-honest words of comfort and
The figures of childhood joy and mystery—Santa, the Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy—
All speak of the deepest desires of all of us–
Our desires to be seen, heard, cared for, and sacrificed for,
Our desires to be surrounded by those we love,
Our desires to be looked out for and guarded,
And our desires to have everything make sense.

* * * * * * * * * * * *
Perhaps I am drawn to children because they represent a chance for me to lose some of my adult maturity and full-time seriousness/responsibility,
Perhaps their simple joy rubs off on me when they are near,
Maybe their innocent, belly-filled giggles and wide-open love remind me of what life is all about,
Maybe it is a chance for me to hope and pray that I can believe again in all the things I used to believe about life, about people, and about God.

Regardless of the reason,
I believe in the magic of children,
In their power to heal the broken-hearted,
In their ability to revive hope and joy.


Spoiler Alert:
If any of you adults brings a child around me, plan to be ignored.
Plan for the Fisher-Price buildings to come out all over the floor of my clean living room,
For the game of riding “Wild Bronco” on my lap,
For homemade peanut butter chocolate chip Rice Krispies treats,
And for me to be seen crawling on my knees in a play tunnel,
Laughing and giggling and being silly.


Final Thought:  
Who knows?  
Maybe I don’t need children around me 24/7 to adopt some of these ideas in my oh-so-serious life.
I may not pull out the Fisher-Price buildings, but what seems silly and a waste of time?  
Maybe I need to spend time putting aside adult responsibility and just doing something silly and fun.
Maybe I need to make a sinful edible treat—-just for me—and eat it without worry of who might see the smeared chocolate around my mouth OR worry of my tightening pants,
Maybe I need to pull out my kite and go running through a field,
Maybe I need to gather some friends more often and laugh and giggle and, yes, even be silly.

There is still plenty of summer left.
That maybe may become a reality.
 

Still . . . .

 

 

This is the sound of surviving

 This is my farewell to fear

 This is my whole heart deciding

 I'm still here, I'm still here

 Nicole Nordeman, “The Sound of Surviving”

The sounds emanating from my house the past 6 months (or 12 months) may not have sounded like stereotypical concepts of survival or strength.  

My house has not carried refrains from Nancy Sinatra’s “These Boots are Made for Walking” or Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” or Helen Reddy’s “I Am Woman.”

It has sounded a whole lot like sobs, curses, and words of frustration as I moved items around my house by myself.  
It has sounded like phone calls to dozens and dozens of companies.  
It has sounded like yells when two-tier authentication locked me out of every account we had. It has sounded like a crazy woman talking to herself, reminding herself that she can do it, that she only has to handle today, that she has done it before and can do it again.

It has looked like a sweaty middle-aged woman trying to go through mountains of belongings, rubbing her sore back and bemoaning her limited strength.
It has looked like a woman in front of a computer screen staring into the distance rather than focusing on grading.  
It has looked like dogs barking, rubbing against me, and joining me in the bathroom like a toddler, as they desperately tried to get love from someone too tired to give it.
It has looked like a woman walking from one room to the other, only to forget what she is doing and repeating her steps.
It has looked like me cooking food and then realizing I had made 3 times too much to eat.
It has looked like me smiling and saying everything is fine when at many moments it wasn’t.

However, I am here.
At the end of this May, a bit more than six months after my nightmare began, I am still here.

This is no little statement.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

There are choices in life—-
When tragedy strikes, one choice is to curl in a fetal position and let life move by.
It is also a choice to protect your heart so much you feel nothing ever again, to doubt every person you meet for possible ways you can be hurt.
It is possible to live in rage and anger at the unfairness of life, of choices people have made.
It is also possible to just live in denial and move through life as if nothing happened OR live in fear that the worst-case scenario might happen.
It is so easy to slip into a self that is less vibrant, less unique, less “out there,” less passionate for life or others.

However, as the Nicole Nordeman song lyrics say,
I have made the conscious decision—-with my whole heart deciding
To still be here.

For me, this decision to still be here means that
I am still here for the tears, the ache, and the loneliness.
I am here for the laughter and joy of singing at the top of my lungs when I feel like it,
For the wind in my hair as I ride down the road with my windows down,
For the bills, the paperwork, the vacuuming, and the cleaning.

I am still here for the disappointments and the joys,
For the thrills of life, for the beauty of spring flowers, for the sweat of lawn mowing,
For the piles of electronic assignments and emails,
For the endless house repairs that need to be done.

I am still here to talk to friends,
To take two of my dogs for a ride to the convenience store every morning,
To drag trash bags full of garbage out of the garage,
I am still here packing up the car with donations,
And I am here to take on new job challenges, starting now as I prepare for the fall.

I am still here for the numerous ways people will disappoint me,
And the numerous ways people will surprise me and love me,
For the hugs and smiles of others,
For my sons whenever they need me,
For my friends in the middle of the night or at the break of dawn.

My story is not over.
I have fought my way over craggy mountains, hanging on by my fingertips to the small crevice in the rock.
I have slogged through the muddy depressions of life, when it was an effort just to move one leg forward.
I have skipped across open fields with spring wildflowers, tugging on the string as my kite soared above.
I have also boarded the party bus a few times, singing songs with friends, watching the scenery rush by, and enjoying just being along for the ride.
However, I have also trudged along without a new sight in the distance, unsure of my directions, but moving forward one step at a time.


My story continues . . . .
Still. . . . .

And that decision to still be here has to be made each day, but today I am marking it with a forever symbol on my wrist to remind me that it is important to keep fighting, slogging, skipping, trudging---just as it is important to enjoy life and laugh and love BIG.

It is important to be Kim . . . . still . . . . regardless.  

As I approach year 54 in a few days, 

I am boldly deciding with all my heart that I am still here . . . . for whatever comes . . .