Breaking off

There is a philosophy in yoga that says we cannot lose anything that is truly ours. Our material things, jobs, relationships, even our bodies, are simply on loan from the divine. Who we are is deeper and wider than what we feel, what we do, where we go...

All the loss we have had this past year feels like a breaking off. The breaking off of parts of my heart that Mr. Carrico and John have taken with them. The breaking off of my dreams for my son Anthony. Those broken pieces feel like pieces of me... gone. Just gone. Gone are two wonderful people who loved me just as I am. Gone are the opportunities to learn from them and appreciate them. Gone are the naive assumptions that our family had reached our tragedy limit. Gone are the comforts of thinking that there will always be time later...

What is gone feels so much like parts of ME gone. I keep looking down, expecting a physical body part to be missing; surprised that I still have two hands; surprised that this body still wants to eat, sleep and work. I wonder what is left? After all of this breaking off, how much of my heart is left here?

That is how I feel...but I know that is not how Life works. When I can stop fighting the pain for a brief moment, I see a slightly different perspective.

Maybe this journey of grief is less about ME breaking off and more like layers of "not me" being pulled off. It is painful in its unfamiliarity like new skin in the sun. Maybe this shock of loss is my call to shake free from everything that keeps me from growing - guilt, fear, anger. Maybe that feeling of my heart breaking off is really peeling off its outer shell to contain more.

I still ask "what's left" and I'm still not sure. I am still so raw. I feel so sad and tired and old and sometimes scared.

But this is what I want, and this is what I will work toward - a bigger, kinder, wiser and more grateful heart. A soul that is not afraid of the sun. A woman who knows that her smile is a better testamonial of love than her tears...

My Brother John

As I sit on the couch this evening staring into the dark countryside, I offer my love up to my brother John. He died this morning in his sleep. To say that I am shocked and saddened just doesn't seem adequate. The pain of this grief is physical. My heart hurts; my skin hurts; my eyeballs hurt; I just really hurt.

There are so many stories and pieces of advice and words of encouragement that I can easily remember about John. He was so quick with kindness...and sarcasm. He had this irrepressible, irreverent sense of humor that would just shock laughter right out of me. I love so much his refusal to take himself too seriously.

My favorite story about John was one I didn't see, I just heard about it from him and his wife.
Several years ago, he was offered a job as a principal of an engineering firm. The company gave him the checkbook and told him to buy a car as his company car. The car he chose? A PT Cruiser. :)
What I love about that story is that it illustrates how John did not live his life to impress anyone. A PT Cruiser looked neat, so that is the car he bought. He was himself, no matter who happened to be looking at him at the time. He had so much intelligence and class, and absolutely no pretension.

He helped me organize my first term paper in high school.
When I was done whining to him about how big the paper had to be and how overwhelmed I was, he explained how I could break it up into more manageable pieces. (Incidentally, my brother Bill helped me type that same paper. It was the first time I ever used a computer to write a paper.) I use that same process daily and often think about that first intimidating paper.

He helped shape my work ethic.
He modeled working hard and honestly for what you want. When I passed my driver's test after failing it three times (long story), John and his wife Helen called me from San Diego and sang me a "Congratulations" song.

I called him first when I graduated with my master's degree...got my first teaching job...found out we were having a girl...

I am so grateful that I got him as my oldest brother. I am so grateful I had time with him. Every phone call started with his enthusiastic "HEY". Every phone call ended with "I'm proud of you. I love you." I can hardly bear knowing that those phone calls are gone.

I am hurting, and I know lots of us are hurting because he touched so many people. I love you, John. I will carry the best of you forward, as far as my path will go.

A Calm Moment

We are having a calm moment in our household.  It is our moment to breathe in, look around, and not deal with any crises.

I am grateful that I can enjoy it.

Our little guy has a new doctor who connects with him in a way his psychiatrist could not.  Our Zoloft journey is continuing successfully.  Each day, I see in him less anxiety and more attempts to communicate.

Our sweet girl got some much needed one-on-one time with me last week, and my husband and I celebrated our 18th anniversary yesterday.

As I take my breath, I can see how people get addicted to drama in their lives, though.  In this calm moment, I am needled by the buzzing flies of cultural and personal guilt awareness.  I see all the issues that get pushed aside during the rough spots.

• How can I give back more to my community?
• How can I decrease my carbon footprint?
• How can I eat better and exercise more?
• How can I be a better friend, sister, aunt, mother, teacher, wife, human?
• When the hell am I ever going to finish Anna Karenina?
• Are my teeth as white as they could be?
• Will I ever care about fashion or own a pair of heels?

I see how it would be easy to start complaining; how tempting it would be to look for a cause or an injustice or...any distraction. That is not what I want.   

This is my Life.  It is imperfect, messy, unfashionable, sincere, and has a carbon footprint about a mile wide.  And I will enjoy every blessed minute.

I will not squander this gift of time.  I will not invent problems out of the business of everyday living.

For all of you reading that are in my Life, I thank you from the bottom of my heart and I love you.

Slippery

I had the pleasure today to talk to another momma a little further down the path. It helps me so much to hear about someone else's journey and experiences. A topic that popped up often through the conversation was the idea of acceptance, specifically acceptance for WHO my son is.

I want that very much. I want to accept my handsome little guy for exactly who he is. In fact, I want the same for my daughter, for myself, for my marriage, for my Life...

I feel that acceptance for me is like a slippery fish. I feel like I am rooting around in murky water trying to capture this acceptance. (For the mental picture, envision "River Monsters" instead of "Hillbilly Handfishin'", please.)

I'll think I have it in my hands, holding it almost tangibly. I will be convinced I know what acceptance feels like, what it looks like, the weight of it. Then, it is gone through my fingers, and I am on the side of the road crying to "Born This Way".

I have to admit that I am not sure what the practicality of acceptance looks like...
How many occupational classes do you sign up for if you "have acceptance"?
How much do you dare hope for drastic improvement?
How much speech therapy coaching do we work on at home daily?
How much do I challenge him?
How much do I comfort him?
How much do I give him?
How much do I give in to him?
How much do I require from him?


Usually, I end the blog with my answers and my ideas.  Not this time...

In My Spirit

These past few years, I have been finally able to grow comfortable inside my body. Lately, I have felt the calling to become comfortable in my spirit.

Years ago, I was lucky enough to hear a sermon titled "Faith Is Not Belief". I will not summarize it here; there is no way I could do it justice. (If you are interested in reading its entirety, it can be found in the book Invitations to the Dance by Michael Brown). This sermon was a significant catalyst on my path. It helped me recognize that I did not need to spend so much energy searching for ways to define my beliefs. I saw that faith does not necessarily need a belief system. I spent the next few years relieved, but embarassed. I took that same energy and wasted it being defensive about my newly found "faith instead of belief". I still felt sheepish admitting to friends and that I had no church home, feeling like an errant child playing hooky. I think it is time to let that go.

The truth is that I do not know the exact nature of the Divine; I cannot map out the edges of my soul. There are mysteries of Life I fully expect to gaze at questioningly for the rest of my life.

And.I.just.don't.know.what.I.believe.

That un-knowing is NOT a tragedy to be overcome.
My un-knowledge is NOT a problem to be fixed.
These mysteries are NOT gaping holes to be filled.

I love and respect my friends and family with strong religious beliefs. I do not want to convince anyone of anything. I am just ready to accept that, although my spiritual journey might look like (and even be...who knows?) aimless wandering, this is exactly where I want to be. I am much too stubborn to be on any other path.
My un-knowledge suits me, and I suspect there is peace deep inside it.

My Week

I am a little hesitant to write about last week.
It was a painful inoculation into the world of living with mental illness.

I learned a few things that, unfortunately, many people already know too well.

• psychiatry is much more an art than a science.
• there are no quick fixes.  This is a long journey, and we need to prepare ourselves for that.
• OCD can wax and wane, even on the correct kind and amount of medicine.

It was a trying week, definitely.  We made it through.  We have a short term plan (upping my son's medication), and a long term plan (signing up for an anxiety reduction class through the local Easter Seals).

Though during the worst moments, oddly, I was most worried about leaning too much on the people around me.


I am the type of person who, whenever I get something I really want, will immediately start imagining my Life without it.  This is the first time I have had a support network of such caring, authentic friends.  Sometimes that scares me. I very much do NOT want to lose them.  And, of course, they are loyal and wonderful; listening to me while I cry...or worry...or rage...or apologize...

I want to be a good friend.  I want to enjoy the luxury of letting someone comfort me, while not crossing into the gray area of "the friend always in crisis." I also want to support my friends without crossing boundaries or being "hover-y".  This does not come naturally for me.My love for my friends is genuine, but I sometimes feel like I am faking knowing when to give my opinion and when to just listen; when to tell it like it is and when to just validate feelings; when to challenge and when to just be there.

Mainly, I very much realize how lucky I am in my Life, and I never want to take the people I love for granted.

I Surrender, part II

It is time.

I surrender to the word autistic.

I am too tired to fight anymore.  I give.

I have been running from this word as fast as possible for two years.  I realize now that I cannot outrun this word with a piece of paper from Easter Seals.  There will always be people in my son's life who label him as autistic. 

What is scarier than the word autistic, is the knowledge that no one actually knows for sure.  We just can't at this stage and age.  
He is speech-delayed; he has a fine motor delay; he has anxiety; and, I just found out yesterday, he has a gross motor delay.  Those are the facts.

The cause?  The depth? The breadth?  The future?  Those are the guesses...


I am not ready to say my child is autistic.  That may be denial.  If so, I am in good company (his pediatrician and Easter Seals among them).

...But I am tired of fighting the ghost of someone else's guess.  As of today, I will let the word autistic live in my universe.  I will not run away from it.  I will not fight it.  I will just let it sit beside me.