January 1, 2014

unfolding

Out of a mess forms something beautiful.

A blank canvas, paint smudged on its surface

crumpled with cellophane, left to dry.

Layered over this mess, more paint applied in the shadows, the smudges, the splotches of dried paint.

Look for the forms, the shapes in the mess instructs my teacher.

So I study, I gaze into the shapes

and begin to see them…

the forms, traces on the canvas.

I add color, more shape, more layer upon layer

a creation begins to unfold

as I see patterns, unexpected, on the surface

enhanced by color, light and shadow.

It is the shadow that brings out the beauty in the whole

So as I close in on a year
and reflect on the beginnings of a new year

a blank canvas before me

I pray I will let events shape me,

and try not to control them

let them happen as they are
let them happen randomly….
the places of shadow and sorrow, the places of light and color
the places unexpected
the places smudged or rough or worn
the places exposed.

And at the end of a year, when I look back on the whole picture
stepping away to view from a distance
I will see how each place, each stroke, each color, each shadow had a part
in creating something new.

December 19, 2013

My big fat Christmas Tree

I love this tree.
The biggest, fattest christmas tree we have had in years .
I found it at the grocery store leaning on the wall.

I wasn’t there to buy a tree

I was there to run in to do the everyday things, pick up lunchmeat for the kids, grab some milk, wait for prescriptions for mom. I was even in the little car.

But the scent of the fresh pine trees caught me as I walked through the breezeway. I poked along the wall to see the biggest one I could get for the money

I love living in a neighborhood where I know the grocery store attendants. I asked one to find the best 8-9 foot tree he could find. He plopped one out on the sidewalk. A man walking out gave the affirmation: “That’s a great tree!” Sold. But I wasn’t planning on this purchase, and would have to come back to get it since i was in the little car, for the original plan was to pick out a tree together as a family.

Every year we get a fresh tree
despite the trouble of tying it to the top of the car
putting it on the stand
dragging it in the house
making sure it is straight.

It is a joke every year about the tree, that next year we will get an artificial one.

We are not a handy family. Even the simplest things like changing light bulbs are a major ordeal, a major accomplishment in our house.

So to bring in a 9 foot tree into our home, straight, without crashing over, ornaments and all, is a feat in out home.

This year, I cheated…..not only did the attendant pick out the biggest, fattest tree for me, he offered to put it in the stand too….. and on top of that, the store manager offered to throw it in the back of his truck and deliver it to my home!
…….I felt a little guilty,
but hey, they benefitted,
I benefitted,
we all benefitted!

A gift of time, no headache

and a big fat tree sitting straight up in our family room.

A big fat tree too big for the stand, dropping needles all over the tile, and had to be adjusted and restraightened and straightened several times by the kids. Its big fat trunk finally pointed straight up in all its glory

...in this moment, in this middle of midwinter, in the dark of your very thickest thicket, there’s the rough bark of the Tree… Ann Voskamp

This tree and its story how it arrived in my home, gives me a smile and laugh in what started as a bad week. Even though it is warm here in Florida, I had been struggling to find warmth in a darkness, a darkness of doubt and bitterness….

Am I doing the right thing, having my mother here in my home
how has it affected my kids, my marriage, me???

As this disease develops, it will only become worse, and I will distance my heart even more as I watch the progression, as I continue to repeat my words, remind her that my dad has passed, that her mother has passed.

I remember this picture
one of the few photos I have as a child…

my mom reaching for my hand at Christmas.
We didn’t have much then, that’s why there are so few photos.

The few gifts were there in the picture.

But in the sparse surroundings
none of the excess I have now

there was love, hope,
a dream fulfilled, growing,
of coming to a new land of promise,
to live in America
to have a new life
to have a new beginning.

So I press on
to give her a peaceful ending
to surround her with the love she willingly surrounded me with during my beginning

and even though my tendency is to not want to watch this ending
this deterioration
this dwindling

I have to hold fast and return to the hopes of the very small tree of my first Christmas
if there even was one.

Now I look upon my big fat tree in my big fat family room
with boxes of unused ornaments and decorations that haven’t even made it to the tree or to the table or to the door

and reflect on dreams fulfilled, many because of the selflessness and prayers of my mother.

Life is full.
31 years of ornaments in a box.
Many reflecting milestones, markers in my family…
our first home, our first baby, our trips around the country and the world
markers to be placed on our tree

This year, this big fat tree, even halfway decorated
means more as I read more words from Ann Voskamp…

Advent is the time to see the Tree in your thicket and whisper the echoing words of your God: Now I know. Now I know. Since you did not spare your only Son, how will You not also graciously give us–even me–all things you know I need?

I need peace
to remember am doing the right thing.

I need strength
for I grow weary of this task, this burden, this guilt of feeling that this is a burden even though she was always there for me.

Because of this turmoil in my soul, the Christmas need/ want list is changing for me.

The things I used to ask for…. a new sweater,, something for the house….yes I do still love and enjoy those things….

but this year the list is morphing into different wants…

I want my children to know and trust their future paths
one, career choices,
another, college options,
another, just get through college classes,
another, courage to follow her dreams..

and they all have the gift of an endlessly hardworking father who gives them opportunity to chase those dreams.

My greatest, most precious gift, is that each of them know and love the One that died on that Tree, who was born to us in a manger this Christmas season.

My gift, is the joy of watching each of them grow in their passion for that One, as they live out each day in a world that does not feel the same, yet they shine in their corners of the world where that One has placed them.

My gift, though I don’t always see it, is the depth of the soul of my mother in our home, living out her days, her love for Jesus remaining despite foggy senses of what is immediately around her.

That is her gift to all of us

to be fully aware of the One above
the one she points to and says she is ready to go
for even though she is not fully aware of date or time or persons or events
she still remains fully aware of Him….

and that is how we all should live.

Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever….Hebrews 13:8

November 18, 2013

seconds measured

47.4 seconds.
That is my son’s best time in the 100 yard freestyle, the time he just swam at the 4A Florida State High School meet last Saturday.

47.4 seconds.
a time when each breath was intentional
each stroke intentional
each kick intentional

47.4 seconds
not just halfway, but all out. Each stroke and breath all out, pushing to the limit, pushing past weariness and pain, driving body past barriers until he touched the wall to finish.

There was a flurry of movement all around as surrounding athletes pushed limits through resistance, water, to record best times, driving at All- American speeds: 44 seconds, 45 seconds 46 seconds.

Behind those seconds are hours and hours of work. Miles and miles of yardage logged to get the speed, endurance to be able to charge through those few seconds all out.

Hours put in early when the moon and stars still fill the sky.
Hours put in in pouring rain and cold temperatures.

Swimming ….a truly inspirational sport, one of true discipline
as the one standing on the blocks, poised to move forward, every muscle tensed, anticipating the start
is the only one who knows the preparation, the hours and yards and conditions endured to ready himself for that brief race.

I have fought the good fight, I have stayed the course, I have finished the race….2 Timothy 4:7

It is the last push that determines the winner.
The last reach, the last stroke head down
lungs bursting
arms burning
legs burning
in the final reach for the wall.
The final time.

The glance at the clock that records time is only a measure of the discipline and perseverance endured to reach that mark of 47.4 seconds.

In our own moments, we endure those seconds of push in life where we are beyond ourselves
grinding through resistance, the churning waters that surround, laboring past the pain and weariness

that place beyond ourselves that is glorious and exhausting

that place where we can help another
or bring a smile to a face by a simple act of kindness
or see a terminal situation in a new light, though the situation has not changed

those are moments of glory.

Psalm 89:17 says, “For you are the glory of their strength.”

These are the moments, lasting a bit longer or shorter than 47 seconds, that inspire us through the hard places,

These moments of inspiration push us to look beyond the pain to reach for something greater to better ourselves, or even greater, to better someone else.

There is great gain in launching into deep waters. In going beyond limits to do something impossible or unattainable. And whether or not that thing is attained or just beyond grasp there is victory in the trying, in the drive to get to wall to the place beyond your limit. To bring you beyond yourself into the unknown. To places beyond borders.

Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders
Let me walk upon the waters
Wherever you would find me

“Oceans” by Hillsong

We become tired and weary of the places we are called to go, determined by choice or by circumstance…to care for the widow, the orphan, to be the single mom, to juggle the finances, to walk with cancer.

We think we can’t propel past the pain and weariness to move forward, one motion at a time, one stroke at a time, one kick at a time.

Somewhere deep in our soul, we find the guts to move on. Faith gives us the push to move forward.

Triumph comes not in the time or the medal or the accolade because most of the time there is none. Triumph comes in the strength attained that often times unknowingly inspires another to find the same.

October 23, 2013

stuck in the middle with you

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am stuck in the middle with you.

Last night this song is playing at Uno’s while I eat pizza with my kids. I tell them this is a song that talks about my life right now…stuck in the middle with you. They roll their eyes and keep eating their pizza.

It’s homecoming week at the house, a time when the kids both want me around and push me away. When they want my opinion, then silently warn me with their eyes to back off. A time when the purse strings are wide open for all the stuff… jewelry, shoes,makeup, costumes…when the car is rolling for errands, rides to the float parade…

It is also a week with a lot of doctor appointments and follow ups for my mom, first to the primary, then arrangements for home health to draw bloodwork, then to the cardiologist for an echocardiogram for a new murmur they hear.

Clowns to the left of me, jokers to the right, here I am. Stuck in the middle with you.

A mirror, a two way mirror.

I see my daughter, choosing what she will share, averting conversations, hugs, kisses on the forehead, gradually taking a few steps back, and me doing the same to my mother, avoiding painful, quiet conversations, needy hugs, a kiss on the cheek, taking a few steps back.

for my daughter, it is independence

for me, it is sorrow

The sorrow of not having the relationship the way I do now with my daughter on the good days–the days out to lunch, or perusing the racks at Marshalls, or grabbing a Starbucks together–the days I used to have with my mom.

I need to let down my guard and have the silent hugs, and take the kisses on the cheek, and take the hand that wants to be held

for that is what a mother needs from her daughter,

and what a daughter needs from her mother

at 15, or 52, or 89

Fathers, be good to your daughters

Daughters will love like you do

Girls become lovers who turn into mothers

So mothers, be good to your daughters too

–John Mayer

My mother was so good to me.

Am I a daughter who loves like she did?

Selflessly, putting others first?

I have such a hard time right now, putting her first.

She is so kind and gentle

while I fight for myself and what I want

and see that in my daughter too

fighting for who she is

to carve her own way, not mine

even though I may try to direct it.

It is so hard to see her, my daughter, mirroring the fight I have myself…

wanting independence,

to be free of this constant care and worry for my mom.

Mom tells me she’s ready to go.

I ask her why.

She tells me she doesn’t want me worrying about her so much. Isn’t that what we do as mothers–worry about everything being right?..hair, makeup, the right outfit, friends, relationships, the right fit?

I’ve done that since my daughter was a toddler. I do it now

I do it for my mother at 89, she does it for me.

I walk in the door, dressed up to go to dinner. She motions me towards her, she adjusts my skirt,

“That’s so pretty,” she says, turning her hand in a circle.

“Turn around.”

I sigh, turn grudgingly around.

“Fix your hair,” she says, pointing at my wild mane.

“OK mom,” I say, turn on my heel and walk away.

The next day I do the same to my daughter as she readies herself for homecoming. She’s frantically curling her hair with a wand into little ringlets.

“Aren’t you going to fluff those out,” I ask

“No, mom,” she says. “I like them that way.”

“What about your makeup, aren’t you putting on your makeup?”

“Yes, mom.”

“Pull your skirt down.”

I pause.

I am my mother

My daughter is me.

The lines are blurred in these moments of female-hood

Three generations under my roof

Three fights for independence

one, wanting to be free to be herself,

one, wanting to be free of her physical limitations

one, wanting to be free of the worries of both

for here I am,

stuck in the middle with you

October 7, 2013

storm

Recently my family was enjoying the beach on an overcast day. In the distance we could see a storm drifting in. As the storm approached the wind began swirling. The dark clouds became darker, moving towards the light horizon until you could see the merger point, where the black clouds touched the calm skies. The contrast was clear. Its energy filled the air, moving all around us. We were compelled to stay and witness this merging conflict. Its electricity sparked the kids, as they ran and laughed and did cartwheels on the beach as the storm moved closer. The calm converging the darkness moved us all. We drank it in until the ensuing lighting and pelting rain forced us from the beach.

That moment of collision, where the calm meets the storm, so striking, so powerful, altering our world, is terrifying and thrilling at the same time. Stark is the point where calm and conflict meet..

These moments of collision happen too often in those of us who care for someone with Alzheimer’s. We have calm in our day, in our normal routine that is the stability of someone in this condition. Then something moves in to upset the routine….this week for my mom, a UTI, something minor, that presents itself in weakness and fogged memory. Yet the conflict that arises in me as I change my routine, take her to the doctor, get her medicine, take her for her follow up, answer her questions, worry about her weakness, imagine it may be something bigger…all these things swirling around in my head drain me and scare me at the same time.

I try to do something with all this stuff inside, so I paint. I paint the storm. At first, I lay out the storm with smooth brushstrokes and defined lines, but it does not truly depict the image. Instead, I hold the brush at the end and move in large strokes across the canvas. My peers in the art room look over my shoulder. I like the energy, they say. I can feel it. So I continue in this mode, in large, jagged movements over the canvas. At one point I begin to doubt, and start stroking, blending in the colors, with softer strokes, smoothing in the foreground. What happened, says my teacher. You’ve lost the movement. Don’t work it so much she says.

Again, art reflects the conflict inside me. The times I see a situation brewing and try to manipulate it, smooth it over, instead of letting it be. I try to control it, or minimize it, or worse yet, let it torment me inside while externally I smooth it over, hiding the conflict of emotions inside. The conflict of worry, of guilt of being angry, of weariness of this situation, of wanting to be free of all this. So I continue to work on this painting, and myself. I’ve changed the composition a bit, but I have not changed the storm clouds. My teacher says her eye is drawn to the midpoint of the painting, where the white clouds meet dark clouds. She thinks that to be the strongest part of the painting.

Last week I spoke at a caregivers conference, reading one of the poems I had written about caring for my mom. At different times during the conference, three women approached me, telling me they felt the same feelings I am feeling, feelings of conflict, feelings of despair. I held their hands, gave them a hug. I know there are many of us caught in this storm of caregiving, of conflicting feelings of sorrow, anger, guilt, weariness as we continue to care for our loved ones day by day by day by day.

Storms move in and out of our lives. But in the moment before, and then right after, there is stillness. A moment of peace. In that moment of stillness, even as a storm approaches, we as caregivers must take rest. A breath. A prayer. An exhale. That is where we find the strength to weather what is ahead.

September 27, 2013

discovery

I scour the rocky beach with my young friend Micah. Through his eyes I’m discovering all the wonders of this remote bay in Kodiak. A simple request to see the bay has evolved into a scavenger hunt along cliffs and boulders. As I scamper over barnacled rocks in my slippers, I’m transported into Micah’s playground of tide pools, tiny hermit crabs, even a sea urchin. Jagged rocks loom large like sentinels over these beach treasures. But the treasure that most catches my eye glints slightly beneath the puzzle of smooth , black, flat beach rocks perfect for skipping in the ocean.

“What is that?” I ask Micah as he chooses the perfect stone to throw into the water. He stoops down to look at the tiny blue treasure. “Sea glass” He picks it out, cups it in his hand and hands it to me.

“Blue is the best color. That’s the most rare on this beach. That’s my favorite. “I examine the tiny sapphire jewel in my hand. The color is deep. The edges round and smooth.

“That’s a good piece. I know a perfect place where we can go and find some more. Come on!”

Over kelp bulbs, seaweed, rocks we scramble until Micah and ruddy cheeked 5year- old Stuey lead me to the promised land. “Look at this one,” says Stuey . In his chubby little palm lays a perfect piece of aqua sea glass.

“Oh, that’s beautiful. Can I have that piece?” I ask.

His little blond head ponders for a moment. He shakes it back and forth.

“No,” he says. “I like this piece.” He scrambles off to find some more.

A little miffed I crouch down to seek out my own. I discover a large blue piece to examine. I love the color. “What about this one?” I offer.

Micah comes over to inspect. “No,” he says, “the edges are too jagged. It’s not ready yet.”

Stuey returns, clenched fist uncurling to reveal a large brown piece.”I like this one.” Micah examines. ” No Stuey. Not that one. It’s too sharp. You’ll cut yourself.”

“No I won’t,” he protests, clutching the jagged piece in the flesh of his palm even harder. “Look. I’m not hurt!”

And as I watch that cherub faced boy tight fisted clench that shard I realize

I am that broken piece,

Shattered from the impact of watching my mother decline.

Like sea glass worn away over time

Broken pieces of the woman she once was

Her memory, cognition, awareness are diminished

By this disease called Alzheimer’s.

The brain eroded by plaques,

Minerals eating away her mind

As sea salt eats away glass

Rendering it transparent

Frosted, cloudy.

While I still broken, fragmented, attempting to to grasp understanding of this disease,

Its process like salt burns my wounded heart,

I still have sharp edges, cutting words, distorted from lack of sleep, anxiety of the unknown,

Guilt divided between duty to my children and husband and duty to her.

I too held on too tightly

Squeezing the broken pieces of my life too hard

Thinking it was noble, beautiful to hold on to the pain and let uncertainty and fear and guilt grip me

as I watch this disease wear down my mother.

Yet she like sea glass

Continues to shine

Luminous beauty beneath lost memories,

Spirit glowing under frosted edges,

Edges smooth and gentle

A treasure to be found.

My friend told me the story of sea glass:That true sea glass has rounded edges

And pieces like bottle tops and bottoms are most rare

As are the colors blue and aqua.

And in a piece of true sea glass

The original color remains the same

Only gilded by the coat from the sea.

A myth about sea glass Is to return the broken pieces not yet polished

Back to the sea as you make a wish.

So I will throw this broken fragment back to the sea

And not wish for a cure

Or a miracle or her memory back.

Instead I will find treasure in her gently worn life

Her smoothed edges

Her luminous spirit

And clutch it to my heart.

seaglasslife

life, laughter, joy, sorrow all tumbled into one

Alzheimer’s Encouragement

unfolding

My big fat Christmas Tree

seconds measured

stuck in the middle with you

storm

discovery