my little light

jazz, mentally

2015-07-13T23:50:00.000-05:00

For those following and wishing an update, Mom's doing well right now. Or as well as she can, between randomly striking strokes. She worked up to using a walker, until another seizure last week knocked her back into a wheelchair for a while. She rolls around the home now every day, and calls with updates every night. She seems happy; knows she is loved and well-cared for.

And I live in Houston now - land of hurricanes, sources of well,-at-least-I-don't-live-there comments-for-Dallasites - Houston.

And like Nashville turned out to be more than rednecks with longnecks, carefully constructed open-mindedness and Music Row dreams, Houston holds more than Barbie dolls living in cement forts, hair jacked to Jesus, listening eagerly to Joel Osteen spewing prosperity theology.

It's stunning news, requiring time to absorb. It's taken me about 2 1/2 months.

About a week ago, my housemate asked if I wanted to attend a jazz pick-up jam session. I'm really glad I said yes.

Truth be told, I have serious issues with jazz. It wrestles me more than any other type of music and leaves me in an awkward, serene mindspace where I can only dwell with the experience. Especially bothersome? Jazz doesn't tell me a story. It's not blues, sharing burdens and anger. Anything I feel with jazz is all me, my head. It's far more intimate than music should be.

Jazz is life; unnerving, audacious, glorious. It doesn't resolve; instead opening doors into the grittier, rougher parts of the soul we rarely have the nerve to admit exist during our brighter hours.

But much like other facets of truth, jazz tends not to leave any soul the way it finds it. Mine almost always feels murkier, too-new afterwards.

Houston, far from Mom and my soul's home-nest, feels more like seeping into mire than crafting a new life. But as someone said tonight in one of those kitchen-honest conversations, just because I can't easily see life in the unfamiliar doesn't mean it's not present. It may be lounging, jazzily.

the journey of ~950 miles starts with.. packing

2015-05-07T22:11:00.001-05:00

Staring out a window in Houston yesterday, I found myself wishing for the simple life of a storm cloud.

Be water.
Be evaporated.
Be a cloud.
Be a big cloud.

Be around other clouds.

Be so much yourself, you change the sky.
Cry.
Storm.
Crackle with energy.

Fall back to earth.

Be water...

It's a pretty, simple path. No right, no wrong, no mistakes. No worries about where life is going, how the story will end. Just.. rain.

A week ago Friday morning, the person I was living with in Dallas asked me to find another burrow to hide in for two weeks. Just out of the blue, just... poof. Shelter evaporated.

I called friends; one offered a space to land for the night. In Georgetown. Another offered a place to crash and recover for the two weeks; or longer if I needed it. In Houston.

So I carried down my laundry basket packed with not-unpacked-from-the-last-move, neatly folded clothes to my car, and started driving. 3 days, 14 hours of driving and 3 tanks of gas later, I'd visited my mother, spent time with a friend and my brother - to end up on the doorstep of an atheist ex-boyfriend.

He showed me an entire room I could have to myself, with a bed and a clock, a quilt and a closet. Across the hall waited a bathroom with my own towel. Outwardly, I cried spring rain tears while exhaustion raged with tangled thunderstorm emotions and gratitude in my core.

Last weekend, I drove to Dallas from Houston to pick up my brother and cleaning supplies from the old burrow; then on to Ada to see Mom. Benny and I arrived late Saturday night to find Mom was still present and cognizant, but dealing with a 24 hour bug. She hugged us and told us to go see The Avengers movie. When we went back Sunday, she asked about the movie, Benny's job, where I was living. She was weak and skittish, but there were glimmers of the mom I most love in the person Benny and I visited.

Afterwards, I drove Benny home to his apartment, and I made my way to Houston.

This week has brought two interviews for possible positions, and air heavy with the possibility of rain. But also quiet time for me to covet the life of a cloud.

nests

2015-05-01T11:40:00.000-05:00

My introvert friend Jan nests.

She prefers her home, feathered with her craft room, dark chocolate splotched dog, and partner living a challenging life with Parkinson's.

Recently moving from a larger house to this smaller spot, Jan seems more content; as if having responsibility for less space makes her feel more protected.

She reminds me of a bird, Jan does; content in her migrations between her nest and unknown perches for those she loves. She knows she is loved, with deep, flourishing roots in family and community. Her sons grew from chubby cheeks and sweet eyes into men of character of kind eyes and solid handshakes. Her partner built a nest, and they weathered storms together. Now he wraps her in wings of a deeper affection.

And I, with my wild hare-like existence, shared her perch for a night.

Jan likes the impersonal serenity of motel rooms, and asked me to spend the night with her this last Friday. Her oldest competed last weekend in Georgetown, just outside of Austin. She drove south that morning from Dallas, roughly 3 1/2 hours of travel along a major highway under construction. One way.

Because for her, being present shows love. But for me, she is a lovely thing with feathers.

a different kind of care

2015-04-21T12:35:00.002-05:00

I drove up to Oklahoma Thursday to be with Mom during her swallow test, but she was taken in early. When I arrived at 10:05, she was already back in the van, ready to be taken to the nursing home again.

Since I didn't want to just turn around and drive back 2 1/2 hours through traffic and flat, flat land, I spent most of the day at local coffeehouse. I fiddled around online, did some editing and writing. It was a lovely break; a calm, normal day which has started to look really good.

Then I got a call from the company which owns the nursing home on my way back to Dallas.

Kim, the administrator, asked for permission to evaluate Mom for hospice. I said sure, thinking they'd do it later Friday. She was evaluated and approved before my drive was finished. So as of Friday, April 17th, Mom transitioned to hospice care.

According to Kim and our call, there are two sorts of hospice. The first results from a single disease, and a life expectancy timeline (such a civilized phrase!) of 6 months is given. The second, the person has a list of diseases (all of which could justify being on hospice), but there's no range of expectation. With the second, most either pass in a few days or live longer than the six months.

Either way, after the paperwork was signed, she's on hospice for as long as she lives.

I clung to shock for as long as I could that night, as driving through construction on a major interstate and dry heave crying aren't a good look. It didn't last long enough.

Due to the difference between state laws, I had to get an updated POA to have on file; without it, the DNRs I signed the week before would be void. And since the law requires Mom sign her own POA, we needed to get it done sooner rather than later.

A friend with an uncanny ability to find things located a form online for almost free. So I got up, dressed, and went down to the local FedEx office. What was a 16 page document hacked down to 10 since Mom (thankfully) lives a relatively small, quiet life.

Stopped in at Starbucks on the way out of town, I then gassed up, and drove from Dallas straight to the nursing home. Mom was awake and signed the form, despite her pretty fingers trembling and forgetting to sign her first name first.

While she struggled, I used my recently developed Mommy tone with her, asking she wait. I turned the paper on an angle to match her partial signature, but it didn't help overly much. Her once light, loopy signature hunkered on the paper like a jagged mountain range.

Kay, the nurse from hospice, stepped into Mom's room a few minutes after 2. My voice growled just this side of civil at her soft greeting, which distracted Mom, leaving her staring off blankly at the wall near her bed.

I asked if I could find her in a few minutes, that we needed to get the POA signed and turned in for records. She smiled, nodded, and I finished fighting for a few more letters.

Wandering to the front desk, I asked after two witnesses to sign the form, and where Kay might be. An older gentleman signed as a witness my signature looks nothing like my mother's, and Kay appeared to sign as the second.

We sat at a table to work through a stack of paper. The DNRs lay on the top of the pile, followed by forms outlining all the tests, possible diagnoses, all Mom's known medical history for the last three years. Professional and kind, Kay shared her dad has Alzheimer's. I smiled wryly, and said it would be helpful if that had been Mom's diagnosis, too.

We spent two hours talking about what had been taken, what had returned, what might slip away. Kay was shocked as we went through all the ways WMD looks like something so familiar - a stroke, Alzheimer's, , but just isn't.

She shared, too, the qualifiers for hospice changed recently, too. Hospice no longer implies a death knell the way it has in the past; now, the focus tends more towards pain management and specialized care. There's a great, small comfort in that, as I internalized it Mom doesn't have an expiration date.

After we talked, I walked Kay to Mom's room. I introduced them, and explained to Mom she wasn't expected to die soon. She looked relieved, and exhaled. I left Kay taking Mom's vitals, talking to her in that soothingly capable voice.

Lots of Things Happened Since Thursday

2015-04-15T23:56:00.002-05:00

The nursing home called Thursday of last week to say my mom gurgled, so could I come up pick her up and take her to the hospital?

Seriously. Gurgled. What in the world does that mean?!

Also, I'm living in Dallas - 2 1/2 hours away one way, if there's no traffic - not really close enough to pick my mom up if she needs to go the hospital quickly. When I mentioned that to the nursing home, the response "Oh.. so we need to call an ambulance. Hm. Ok..." didn't give me warm fuzzies.

I asked if I should drive up and was told to check with the ER after she was checked out. I probably didn't need to, if she wasn't admitted, the voice on the phone said.

Ok, not weird and freaking out. Yeah, that's a lie. I was completely baffled and unsettled. Just in case, I called, left my contact info with the ER so they can call when she arrived.

Two hours later, Mom's admitted for pneumonia, dehydration, and malnutrition, and Benny and I are about to drive up to the hospital.

7 hours later, after driving across Dallas twice, picking up Benny, gassing up the car and stopping for dinner, we made it to Oklahoma safe and checked on Mom. The nurse on the floor thought she'd be in the Chickasaw Medical Center for 3-4 days, depending on how she responds to treatment. I was so very thankful my brother was there.

Dead tired, we asked and, because of Mom's extended stay and the distance we drove, we were allowed to stay at the Chikasha House for free.

Most of the Friday, Benny and I sat in Mom's room while nurses came in, suctioning foamy, yellow-ish fluids from her lungs. I remember as I glanced at the container and hours passed, it reminded me of the layers of an aberrant lemon chiffon pie. Weird the thoughts that pop into your head when desperate to not feel the weight of mortality closing in.

The nurses also monitored what they'd classified as an recently discovered open wound as well. Doped up on antibiotics, cough syrup, painkillers, Mom could finally sleep for the first time she arriving at the ER Thursday.

Saturday morning, Benny and I returned to the hospital. The doctor on staff, Dr. Hucks, suggested a PIC line be administered for Mom so she could be less poked and prodded to receive her 5 antibiotics or to have blood drawn. It was supposed to be a relatively simple surgical procedure, taking about 20 minutes while she was sedated. Because most of her arteries and veins are shot, vary from wide to narrow and back again - even when most bodies' don't, the procedure took 1 1/2 hours.

A tube inserted down her throat came about as she'd choked on her morning eggs. She was placed on a diet of Ensure, which seemed cruel when my brother and I received biscuits and gravy on our guest trays.

Mom's color was much better Saturday, and she could actually articulate "yes" and "no" when asked questions or preferences. She was definitely improving!

About half an hour later, Dr. Hucks came in. He said with the type of pneumonia Mom had, her stay would be 5-7 days; also, a speech therapist would visit her Monday. I remember thinking that would make me laugh any other time - Mom having any issue expressing herself. HA.

But then, this person is more my mother's ghost.

He was also concerned after this stay she might not be able to swallow, due to an especially mean white mass disease flare. They tried to keep her from aspirating and get nutrition, so a tube allows her to intake Ensure. Trippiest thing in the world, to watch someone beerbong your mom a chocolate nutritional shake. Through her nose.

We received good news: Hucks doesn't think she needs hospice care within the next 6 months, whether she can swallow or not. Funny how small things like that matter so much.

As of 10:30 Saturday night, Mom was admitted to the ICU. The nurse, who called just after 11:30, recommended we let her try to sleep. Ben and I went to see her as the ICU doctor made their rounds at 7 AM Sunday morning.

I was really hoping to take Benny to attend at a nearby church with its extraordinary stained glass and flying buttresses. We encountered the divine in a much different space that morning,

The ICU doctor caught me when I walked in a few minutes before 7 AM. She recommended a DNR (which really should happen after coffee; just sayin'). Mom's weak enough CPR would break all of her ribs, and anything she swallows flows into her lungs to sit there until it chokes her. Aspirating, they call it; that's why they moved her to ICU last night. Her oxygen intake, which usually runs about 100%, dropped below 70%, too. It took about an hour to stabilize her enough to justify the nurse stepping away to call me.

Since being moved to ICU last night, Mom has continued to improve, though. Dr. Hucks said if she continues to improve, she can be moved back to Acute Care tomorrow.

Sunday night was a rough night. Benny couldn't sleep, and then storms moved in. Monday morning, we slept through the alarm, then scurried into the hospital. We look like drowned grease monkeys, while the cardiologist taking pictures of mom's heart looked dry and fresh as a daisy.

Dr. Hucks mentioned the swallow test had been performed Friday, and stated Mom had no swallowing function. I said she had taken meds orally yesterday, so (according to the nurse who administered them) she can take at least swallow something as thin/thick as nectar. They planned another swallow test for later Monday.

I woke Mom up before Benny and I headed back to Dallas. He had work the next day, and I was his only ride. For a 5 hour trip. But I could pick up some more of my clothes from my friend's place, which was needed as Mom wasn't set to be released until Friday.

She seemed more present when we saw her, but wasn't. She didn't remember where she was, and even after she was told repeatedly, couldn't remember the name of the hospital. She still recognized and named Benny and me.

It rained as we left Oklahoma, but eventually some sun broke through during the long drive.

I made it back to Oklahoma Monday night just before 9, having dropped off my brother back at his apartment, and gotten some more of my stuff on my way back up. He bought me gas and Whataburger. He's a really cool brother.

The best news, though, was I got a call on the way back Mom's been moved to Acute Care. No more ICU! Because it was late, I'd get more information from her doctor Tuesday.

Yesterday, Dr. Hucks said they have a swallow test scheduled. If she can still swallow, they won't have to put her on a feeding tube. Also if she continues to improve, she might be released in the next few days; possibly even the same day.

An hour later, she was released. The swallow test was rescheduled for Thursday at another hospital, to see if she can swallow and what consistencies, but the pneumonia is gone and she's been cleared to go back to the nursing home.

And we all do a little dance.

Because that was a heck of a week. And it's only Tuesday.

White Mass Disease

2015-04-13T23:08:00.000-05:00

White Mass Disease is a neurological disorder, where blood cannot (or for some reason does not) travel to the end of an individual's neurons. These organic-jellyfish looking cells use tendrils to communicate, brushing along the little finger edges to preserve memories and facets of personality. Neurons tell how spicy that pepper is, so eyes water or tongue tastes soap. Or do not.

They also control all the muscle memory for the body. The jellyfish in the brain tell the throat how to swallow, the facial muscles not to droop, the eyes when the person seen is loved.

White Mass is not well known, and presents like a series of tiny strokes. And Alzheimer's. And dementia. But only the worst aspects of all, as sometimes, some things can come back. And what is taken varies on a daily, sometimes hourly basis, as if the memory floats in some dark ocean, seeking to be rediscovered.

So far, in three years, my mom has lost the ability to walk, stand, sit, chew, remember the day, time, how to read, write, sign her name, the joy of peppers, the taste of food to WMD.

But there is the small, tender hope she may remember again.

my brother owns sally the camel

2015-03-31T13:45:00.000-05:00

About a month ago, Mom's doctor at the Medical Center scheduled her an appointment. The hospital called me to schedule a time, saying Dr. Wallace felt tests gauging Mom's possible levels of dementia would help us select a more appropriate healing path in the future. The only day they had open was April 1st. At 1 o'clock. Which means we'll be getting the 411 of my mom's grip on reality and sense of presence on 4/1 @ 1.

Seriously. April Fool's Day.

I would be laughing if it weren't my mom. And I hadn't remembered until I woke up this morning that the appointment is tomorrow. So despite having just spent two days up in Oklahoma, I go back again.

I called my brother, the challenged, happy child, and asked him to go with me. But the cable guy who was supposed to install his cable modem Sunday rescheduled for tomorrow, too. And he has to meet his case worker after work. He offered to go with me next weekend. And to pay for a hotel so we could not have to drive up there and back in the same day.

Although I don't talk about him much, my brother rocks.

Severe bipolar disorder and its cousins of schizophrenic disorders run in our family. Our father was diagnosed as severely bipolar schizophrenic while he was in the Marines, and Benny presented markers not soon after he was born.

Diagnosed a just few years ago (in his late 20s) as schizo-affective, the meds prescribed after the final, appropriate diagnosis worked the first time. Thanks to what he calls his "happy pills," he went from the temper flares of a 3 yr. old to an impressively balanced, responsible adult in just a few years.

He lives with a roommate, works 6 days a week. He works the bus and train system to get around town, can buy groceries and maintain a budget. He's pretty grown up.

When I moved up to Oklahoma, Benny and a friend of mine helped. Stuck in the car for 2 1/2 hours, topics of conversation dry up quickly, and the space left felt serene. But Benny's an energetic person, needing words and sound, so suggested one of his favorite games - The Song Game.

The Song Game came about because of Benny. One person in the car thinks of one word from any song lyric ever written, and says the word. Then someone else in the car has to sing a line with the word from any song as a guess, as long as it's not a song already sung. The singer then thinks of a new word, and the car tries to guess that song. If the original song the word is from is not sung, the word-giver can keep saying the word until it is (or the rest of the car gives up). If the car gives up, the word-giver has to sing the entire song from memory - with no help from Google.

It's a silly, fun game; unless there are three people in the car with entirely different musical preferences. And one of them is a good mood and has an evil streak. Then it's hilarious.

My friend, Quin, said fire, which Benny guessed as Garth Brooks' "Standing Outside the Fire". It wasn't what Quin was thinking of, but it was Benny's turn. And he decided we needed some Barney in our lives.

He said wheels, so I asked, "The Wheels on the Bus?" And he said I had to sing it, so I did. I only remembered the wheels part, but Benny was kind enough to supply the wipers, the horn, the money, the driver, the baby, and the mom verses in as well.

He's a giver. And since he loved the game, I knew he'd just keep. on. Giving.

I drove for a while, trying to think of a song he or Quin could guess that didn't have a word from a Barney song. I said humps (thinking of The Black-Eyed Peas' "My Humps"). Benny immediately jumped in with "Sally the Camel Has Five Humps". And he sang it.The complete countdown. With hand motions. For. All. Five. Humps.

When he concluded with, "Sally the Camel has NO humps 'cause Sally is a HORSE!" (complete with jazz hands in the backseat), silence filled the car. I'm not saying it was the song that broke us, but I'd laugh if someone else made the pun.

It was a good day, looking back. And I'll miss my brother on the drive to go see Mom tomorrow.

a good walk through the woods

2015-03-27T15:01:00.001-05:00

Someone told me recently, I should be happier in my writer's voice. What you're dealing with happens to all of us, he said, and it's not that bad. It could be worse.

Full disclosure: this person read my blog, and there ends the relationship. We talked online once before presenting the comment. He's not a member of my tribe, not an intimate.

His opinion holds weight because he read. And spoke. Because he is human.

And because it troubles me to think I may inauthentically represent this stage of my mom's journey.

While seeking feedback and honest thoughts from an atheist friend, he shared that his current journey's goal parallels mine. Where my vocabulary contains ideas like worthy suffering and divinity, his presents wrestling with the difference between happiness and contentment. He's gone through a bit of a rough patch recently, having been broken up with about six months ago and the loss of a years' long friendship shortly after.

He mourns, but seeks contentment. Happiness, from what I gathered from our conversations, would only distract; and not heal. So he moves towards a worthier goal.

Something a professor told me once struck me while we were talking. As a computer science major, I enrolled in a painting class. To say it was challenging would be an understatement; the only brushes in my hand since elementary class had been for my hair or to apply some decor color to the wall. She was kind, seeing my first works, and said, "your hand will eventually convey what your eyes see. Until then, allow yourself to be fully in the space of growing; as we tend to be kinder to growing things than to ourselves."

What the blog-commenter may have been unaware of matters and may have affected his word choices. The last two trips to see my mom, I haven't talked about much. Because they have been fucking hard.

My force-of-nature mother trembled, leaf-like, at the idea of asking she be moved away from persons who frightened her. Her emotions vacillated like a child's - from feeling abandoned at not remembering the last day I visited - to being happy to see a familiar face within minutes - all within minutes; then the cycle began again. She began sentences and did not finish them.

She tried for about an hour before she became too tired from the effort, and slept again.

My writer's voice does not evoke happiness during this piece of thorny undergrowth; there are reasons.

And those reasons point the way to those places where kindness is shown to growing things. I'm slowly reconnecting with my tribe, with those in whom I find shelter; and I recharged in their presence last night at ArtHouse.

This morning, I took James to the mechanic for a check-up. He asked about my mom. And since he was very aware of last week's happenings (those admitted to and those better left on the side of a dark road in a small town, as well as the non-consensual, off-roading adventure week before), he thanked me for supporting his shop.

And paying for his son's college room & board expenses. I laughed, because he's honest. Most would have charged me enough to pay full tuition.

As I was leaving, another customer entered. They started talking trucks and inspection changes, but as I left, I heard Mechanic Alex say in his exotic spice accent, "she's a strong person. Few would have grace enough to handle her last reason to see me."

As aftercare for James (and because I jonesed a chocolate croissant), we drove to Barnes and Noble; where I met a Vietnamese Catholic priest. He shared the diverse writers' works in his hands: the Dalai Lama, Joseph Prince, Anne Lamott, Pope Francis's latest. We talked about God, about Peter's first assignment change in 18 years. About the chances of two progressives of a spiritual bent meeting in a Southern bookstore.

The conversation grew quickly into something beautiful and wild, not found in the safe places.

My voice holds not happiness. My path wanders although I am not lost. And I pray contentment thrives among the growing things gathered along this good walk through the woods.

Fury, Firefly, & philosophy

2015-03-22T16:58:00.000-05:00

Last week, I found something challenging. The magazine article discussed the philosophical validity of a cup changing color if one person turns and does not look at it. A student asking the professor about the feasibility was pushing boundaries, to see if the professor would bend, as he had the reputation for being kind.

The professor responded with the suggestion the one student not face the cup, while the rest of the group looked, and be asked about its color.

The article went on to discuss how to stand for an idea without being a jerk about it. Which is helpful information as I've noticed, to paraphrase Al Capone, kindness is often mistaken for weakness.

The thought of perception not being reality lingered in my head. Talking with a friend online, I shared that although Sunday was a royal bitch, I'd not blogged about it because I don't want to present as whiny or so selfish, I'm constantly looking for empathy. I don't want to be That Chick.

He asked me what was wrong with seeking support from friends; said it's not a weakness.

Honestly? I hadn't thought of it that way, didn't see the situation in that light; didn't recognize it was acceptable or possibly appropriate. That idea was foreign, like a newly discovered color. I couldn't reference it, so didn't have a name for it; thankfully, I have differently color-blind friends.

I spent the night with Sarah this weekend. We watched movies, had pizza, ice cream; stayed up too late, had gluten free pancakes for breakfast. At noon. It was AMAZING.

And from the outside, the evening sounds like an episode for some tweener show on the Disney Channel. Or would have been if we watched or a Pixar movie with some profound message wrapped in cool animation. Or a rom-com.

And if we were 12. Or not dealing with loss and the weightier, darker things of life.

Mulling over movie options, I realized I was secretly hoping for something light and bright; a romantic comedy looked like brain candy, an escape to me. I wouldn't seek out a drama about death; I'm living it. And that experience colors my world right now.

Conversely, Sarah would shy away from romcoms. No matter how much I might love to see the one with Meg Ryan and Hugh Jackman jumping through tesseracts and that fantastic talk about dogs seeing rainbows being like we humans don't see time. That space, right now, she just sees lacking. It's not where she's exploring; it's not where she'll find new life.

Instead, we tore through slices from a local joint, curled up on a couch under blankets, talking about random things, and scrolled through the new movie options OnDemand presented. We had Interstellar (which was long) and Fury, which had been written up in Relevant.

Somewhere between the beginning of Fury, and 1 am, we started talking about the past week. I shared my Sunday; how it started late, then offered enough traffic to make a 5 hr. drive into 8, how visiting on a different day meant Mom wasn't doing well, only to head for home and be pulled over for speeding. And then have a tire blow.

There was more when the sugar rush hit. Or the sense of the absurd.

She was a good friend, and listened. Even though she didn't have to. Even though dark night had fallen. Even though her world is colored by the truth of not asking to be a widow at 33.

She said she's glad we're friends; because although she is one of the most Pollyanna-esque individuals she knows, she sees me as the SciFi channel. She sees this hallway season experience as Firefly, and hopes the next window shows Eureka.

She said she mentions me in her evening prayers.

I love the world I get to see through her eyes; full of colors I'd be blind to otherwise and things named as they are. We misfit together, she and I, although the odds of us ever even getting along were never in our favor.

Funny, by accepting each other as individuals, differently color-blind to our cups, we've learned to see unexpected beauty in each other's worlds. She sees me wandering hallways, and walks with me; and I see a Pollyanna, aiming to misbehave.

What else happened Sunday...

2015-03-18T03:18:00.000-05:00

Stuck out on a two lane curvy road with no donut and a blown tire at the end of a super-fun day, a biker brakes behind me. I (cautiously) think yay! Help! He informs me there are 18 wheelers using this road often (like I haven't seen them), and maybe I should think about pulling off to the shoulder (like there was one).

I mention it's been muddy. And what happened the last time I tried to follow directions. Getting back into my car, I turn to hear him rev his engine. He's gone before my door closes. Yeah, he was a helper.

The next person to pull up behind me in the pitch black is a gentleman with a thick Okie accent in a truck. Who mentions I can park in his barn. Which is just under the single light in the distance. And assures me it's perfectly safe. Then offers a glass of iced tea while I wait. If I wanna.

This did not trigger Dueling Banjos playing over the shower scene from Psycho in my head. At. All.

Just after midnight, the Roadside Assistance tow truck appears like a gift from on high, and tows James back home to the other side of the Red River. The tow truck driver mentions he's a volunteer firefighter. And that he's picked up quite a few people from that particular barn.

He's heard the tea's delicious.

I was glad we'd crossed the border before he said that. Because I really could have used an adult beverage. Or 12.

I made it to bed around 3 Monday morning.

the one I love the most

2015-03-17T08:18:00.000-05:00

My mom dies slowly, of something cruel and unfair. We don't know of a family history of this particular disease, although we do know of epilepsy, heart disease, high blood pressure, alcohol addiction, and stupidity.

Since moving from my home in Texas to an Oklahoman hotel there to a friend's trailer, to a house of my own, and then back to Texas again to a friend's couch - all in 6 months, I've thought a lot about the things we gather; and about what we carry when we can. I have things stuffed in containers in two states; pictures, books (not nearly as many as I did before), CDs, china, furniture, my mom's art. Things of little value to strangers, which tell the story of what matters to me.

My most valuable possessions live in my purse now: two necklaces and a picture of my mom. One necklace was a gift from her on Valentine's Day. It is delicate and feminine, and far too pretty for me to wear often. The other belongs to my mother, given to her by a visitor. It is cheap and clunky; the pieces having slid off the chain and been slid back on. There is a random, red stone, broken which requires repair. I keep meaning to fix the whole thing and return it to her, but she fears someone will steal it.

So I treasure it.

And here is the picture:

It's of Mom and me in the London Eye, the year after 9/11. We'd gotten tickets for crazy cheap, and spent a week there. I don't remember the name of the photographer, only that they were a cute couple from Germany. Our hotel was within walking distance of the Underground, and the weather was amazing. It rained every night, and each morning the world looked fresh washed and lush with possibilities.

We didn't rent a car, but walked everywhere. We looked at portraits in the Royal Gallery, caught a Bollywood exhibit at the Victoria & Albert Museum. Mom offered her chili recipe to a cook who thought chili started with stew meat and who was completely baffled by the idea of a burger with chili and cheese on it.

Meandering through a Salvador Dali exhibit at a nearby Underground stop, we heard about the Royal family's wedding dress collection at Kensington Palace. We toured through, after scarring the right and proper ladies having high tea at The Orangery with our sweaty, horrific American tourist clothes and manners. The soul of the Old City floated on the air, and the energy fizzed like the first day of school. We had so much fun; it felt like an entirely different world, one which fit even better than home.

This is the mom I miss the most.

gathering sky

2015-03-14T18:29:00.001-05:00

It's Saturday and I didn't go see my mom today.

There are reasons. Mostly exhaustive depression, but also a cough and sinus issues. And while orange juice may look like summer sunshine in a glass, it doesn't really burn away the oppressive sadness of today's cinder block colored sky.

Why am I writing if I lack the energy to drive 5 hours to see my mom? How can I leave her in that place which smells of medical disinfectant, and agedness? Is it really because I don't feel well enough to drive, or is it simply because I am cowardly today?

Do I really crave the chance to hide in my cave of convenience and familiarity more than seek the light of her cherished smile?

I texted with a friend, explaining the lack of Waze link, why there'd be one tomorrow instead. Said I really am ready to be not quite so tired. all. the. time. He said to go to sleep and get up at normal hours, and get enough sleep.

Drink some orange juice. Get rest. Take care of yourself.

The words sounded like my mother's and tears slide along my cheeks before I blinked to stop them. I miss her keenly. But yet again, I won't go see her. Instead my roommate and I order pizza and watch Game of Thrones DVDs, calling it a mental health aftercare day.

We feast on seared animal flesh, our teeth tearing at bread drenched in garlic while cheering dragons. And ignoring that emerging somber sky.

a long talk with a friend and lamb korma

2015-03-12T19:50:00.001-05:00

My friend Sarah and I had dinner last night in a local Indian restaurant Mike loved. I'd missed her something fierce during my time on the other side of the Red River; hours felt like minutes while we talked. And we talked about everything - God, sex, love, death, taxes, gluten free pancakes.

Somewhere between the pakora arriving at the table and the restaurant closing, we delved into the idea of how some life events affect such profound change, it takes a bit to adjust and find all the edges. Feeling out the new pieces and curves, a fear slithers in that the new normal, this new present's all temporary; it won't be strong enough to stay. Like unset glue, old habits will tug, sliding back into place, and all the work done to process will give way. And you find you didn't really learn or grow or benefit from this horrid experience at all.

You'll just have failed. Worse, you'll have almost succeeded.

Something dear disappeared; a love dies, a parent disintegrates, a dream job becomes a nightmare. And the only possible redemption rests in the lessons learned through the process. And the hope that they stick.

Christianity presents suffering as a virtue, a unique and challenging concept among most faith traditions. But tell the truth and shame the devil, suffering blows. Suffering connects the proverbial door God closed to the window He's in the process of opening, forming a hell of a hallway.

And although life can bloom there, that space is nowhere to live.

Sarah has already seen good flow from her suddenly slammed door. Her eyes watering beatifically, she shared stories of faith, of deepening relationships with her sister and tribe. The grace with which she holds these moments floats like silk and exotic spice.

It's a honor, humbling, to walk this hall with her. But I have to confess, the glue holding my pieces together chips, too.

See, Sarah's got this. She is the rock star version of the little china girl from Oz, all of her pieces cracking delicately. Her tribe supports her, is present, inviting her to parties for friends who have been present for decades. She talks with her counselor when she has a need; her job understood and supported her, even though their relationship with her is still relatively new.

While I am living out of a suitcase on a friend's couch, unemployed, having uprooted almost all intimate ties 6 months ago; feeling guilty because I can't offer my mom even a fraction of the care Sarah offered Mike.

I'd own to being covetous if I had the energy, and thought it would do any good. Instead, though, I work on applications for jobs and wrestle with things I'd rather not admit to on my blog.

Talking with a friend online about how we define success, I said I'm not completely sure. Living a good life and telling a worthy story definitely ranks, but so, too, does contributing to my job and community at large. And I'd like, too, to be able to communicate my mom's story in such a way which would ignite change.

Leaving the world a better place than how I found it would mean I lived my life well; that would make me a success.

The challenge of how do I get from here to there makes all the best stories great, as the characters move from what they were given to who they could be. Hobbits bringing Kings to mountains and destroying rings; Luke lifting ships and finding his father to be human; all the toys finding a place to be loved even if it's no longer with Andy; these are tales from the hallway, noble and worthy of attention.

But hallways present complex decisions because they're not as clearly defined as they seem. They have options and rooms to turn around in, different paths to follow around blind corners, choices with consequences not laid out or easy to spot. And if you're standing in a Matrix of a hallway, as anyone other than Neo, all the doors look the same.

Or if you're sleeping on a friend's couch, haunted by ghosts of those nearly and those dearly, recently departed, surrendering what can't be carried with you to gain what you really need, sometimes turning a knob looks a lot like a long talk with a friend and lamb korma.

stuck in mud

2015-03-10T02:52:00.002-05:00

Driving home from Oklahoma last night, I hit traffic just as darkness settled full on. Waze showed 3 wrecks, complete with cops, slow downs and traffic jams along the two lane highway. For. Miles. The screen looked a kid's sticker book attacked by a pack 6 yr. olds hyped on artificial sweeteners.

Then it showed an alternate route from the highway double-backing along country roads leading around the massive mash-up of cars. Cutting out of line, James' wheels tore through a gravel service road, leaving a trail of dust for the off-roading 4 wheeling trucks to follow.

Except the winding country road was a driveway. And the road connecting back to the highway was a yard. Over a septic tank. Where James' front wheels got stuck.

The cherry on the top? A friend of mine had ridden up and back with me, which means I can't deny this happened. Yeah. No joke.

We sat in James, contemplating options for a few minutes. I tried going forward. Didn't happen. Tried going back - also a great big negatory. I tried easing out of the hole the front driver side wheel had formed. The tire spun until grass thickly splattered onto the windshield.

That's when I called roadside assistance. The woman I spoke with couldn't find the highway we had just left. She asked if there were numbers on the houses. Which were dark and had barking dogs. Then she asked if I could see any road signs. I started twitching.

Once she figured out I really did know what highway I'd turned off of, and that the highway (gasp) actually existed in the town I said it did, she connected me with the tow truck guy. I flipped on my hazards (which irritated the dogs) and the heat (which kept me from getting cranky..er).

Then we had nothing to do but wait. Quin started playing sudoku on his phone. I thought.

I thought about not ever being stuck before; and about how it is entirely different than being stuck in traffic. About what else I could be doing with the time, and how being stuck in a car on a dark road, waiting for someone else to come pull me out was unexpectedly freeing.

There was literally nothing I could do to change my circumstances. I love me some James, but he is a car - a beautiful curved, couple ton collection of metal, rubber and computer bits. And I'm no Bruce Banner. (I'm even less the Other Guy.)

I had done what I could to work the problem, to get James, Quin, and me back on the road for home. I did what I could, when I could, and that was all I could do. It's all anyone could do.

So although it looked like I was stuck in the mud, filling time between doses of activity or busyness, in a quiet night full of flashing lights, stalled traffic, and barking dogs, caught between where I wanted to be and where I was, I was free. And right where I needed to be.

Saturday Night Coming Down

2015-03-07T23:06:00.000-06:00

Johnny Cash sang a song Kris Kristofferson wrote called "Sunday Morning Coming Down." It's soulful and honest, jarring and jangly, talking about a Sunday morning full of bittersweet memories leaking into a present full of things better forgotten.

There's a line about the Sunday smell of someone frying chicken, and how it took him back to something he lost somehow along the way. A few lines later, the singer wishes he "were stoned, 'cause there's something in a Sunday that makes a body feel alone". The wistful wanting reminds me of my mom, of how good memories seemed easy to make with her.

I visited her last Sunday, before I packed up to leave Oklahoma. She was so keenly present, it was like there was no white mass, no memory loss, no darkness. She smiled for pictures and talked about naming her new stuffed puppy. We talked for almost a solid two hours.

Her vocabulary shrank sometime I wasn't watching, like one Sunday morning she came down. She spoke softly about how sad I had been the week before.

I can't lie and couldn't deny it; it'd been a rough week. I'd tried not to cry in front of her, to be honest about the situation but not overly critical, since her emotions rule her so frequently and inconsistently. But truth was, I missed my mom and my sounding board. Isolation, frustration, unempowerment choked me.

I told her I was, but that it was ok; I would be sad for her. Oklahoma and I didn't fit each other well, but I was there to be with her. She said she was taken care of, happy where she was; that I had to do what was best for me.

And that being sad wasn't good for me.

So I moved back to Texas with my packed PT Cruiser James.

I traveled back to Oklahoma to see Mom today, unsure how she might be when I returned. Walking into her room, she peeked out from beneath The Marshmallow. Her face lit up when she saw me, and God, I had missed her.

She cried because she was tired and wanted to rest but wanted to talk, too. Tears slipped from her eyes as she kept fighting to stay conscious, to remember her words, to hold thoughts.

She thought I had left and would not come back to see her. The week seemed endless as her memory played tricks. She asked quietly for hugs, clinging as much as she was able.

Seems there is something short of dying that's as lonesome as the sound of the sleepin' city sidewalks: a Saturday night coming down.

bullying versus encouraging

2015-03-07T03:52:00.001-06:00

There's a conversation happening in the interwebs about gender identity and the validity of being gender fluid or creative. It was sparked by a simple statement:

I refuse to be my child's first bully.

It's a noble idea, to intentionally speak kindness rather than expectation without relationship in any situation; especially when social norms, most of the interwebs and one's culture respond harshly. Self identification, gender identification, sexual preference all present large, important topics which need to be held with open hands. And from the outside looking it, what is appropriate and healthy appears obvious.

That noble idea when dealing with one's child, however, becomes murkier and harder to spot, let alone defend against when dealing with adults.

Or seen in a light differently, how does an adult appropriately respond when being bullied by another adult in a position of power? A boss, for instance, or a friend?

Fact is bullying destroys another human being, and should be spoken against. But how do we change the behavior children have learned from their elders? How do we respond to bullying masquerading as encouragement?

"It's ok if you come out of the closet, sweetie; you just can't live here anymore." - a parent

"If I had to pick one of your weaknesses, it's you're a pushover." - a friend

"Take out your notepad. Write down this process. Write #1. Make a dot. When we finish, type up the notes and email them to me. And print a copy for your records." - a boss

As a child, I was told to avoid bullies who sought me out, to look out for those who were bullied. And I applaud my mom, the tribe who showed me a path through the thorns of childhood for ingraining that idea into me. But one of the implications supporting the idea all opinions are worth expressing adduces those expressions have been weighed, measured, each word and intent considered before it is shared.

Instead, we withhold our words as if they are more precious to us than they are to others who need them. And the world is a lesser place for our cowardice.

I confess in my past I have been a bully. I thought I was encouraging change; I honestly didn't see how what I presented did not reflect my intent.

I wrestle with the old, familiar causes of that behavior still.

Owning that truth makes intuitively knowing how to appropriately respond to another bully challenging. I know where my head when I was in that place, and it wasn't open to a conversation about why I wanted something for selfish, fear-filled reasons. Conversely, I know where my head is now - in a body being bullied. Which hurts, making me feel angry, trapped, and unempowered.

The initial reaction to bullies is avoidance, basic animal instinct of fight-or-flight. Avoidance at all costs - however difficult it makes the life of the avoider/victim - makes it a version of victim-shaming. That, in turn, can be seen as acceptance, if not approval, of the bully.

Which is a very human response.

The most appropriate option may be the hardest: find a space to discuss the behavior and reactions with the person. Own beautiful, imperfect-and-learning humanity lives on both sides without encouraging or condoning. Forgive equally. Hope for change, accept mistakes.

We humans, caught in bodies fitting-and-not, living in a world changing-but-familar, bully when we could encourage. Because no matter how much we may all wish not to be our first child's bully, they are here, among us. And until all fear is gone, our greatest power lies in authentically encouraging each other to find better paths.

choice, fear, & something better

2015-03-05T16:23:00.000-06:00

Old fears have to be my absolute least favorite. They sound like trusted friends, even as they steal bites from my ability to be present. One of my personally least favorite fears seeded from my tween years. I can name it, see it, but still, its teeth take more hope than I have some days.

God is subjectively good. And wants only His version of good for you, whether you want it or not.

This wouldn't be nearly so paralyzing if it weren't quite so insidious.

The base logic behind the thought starts with whether or not there is a God. (Which I can't explain or debate how I know there is, but something in me resonates with the idea there is. And He loves me. But that's another post for another time.)

Then there's the idea that God is good. This is usually when I get tangled, and my world darkens as I pick at the mental Gordian knot. The Bible clearly states (repeatedly) God is good and loves me; all of His choices bear out from love. If I believe in God and He loves me, wouldn't it be selfish to think God is good because He loves me? But that's the circular argument presented. And it bothers me because I can't figure out how it's acceptable to accept that.

Building on the idea God exists, loves me, given He is God with the whole speaking-things-into-existence thing, I don't have a lot of wiggle room - not being a god myself. (Being a blogger is my superpower; not so much being She-Thor.) I can accept this usually, not always graciously, and sometimes, it makes me angry and sad when I can't change things I really wish I could. All that said, the role given doesn't change, and only I can control my reaction.

Which is far too logical when dealing with a fear. And this is where this particular fear shows the maliciousness at its core.

Because I've just said I accept I am not only not the center of my universe; that there is a Someone greater, who creates worlds with a word; I've also admitted there's not a damn thing I can do against such a Power.

So He could choose whatever version of good He prefers - and I would have to accept it. Because it would become reality - as soon as He said it.

Which leaves me few options - other than the choice in how to respond.

But one of the lessons I've learned recently speaks directly to this fear: each choice matters - the big, the small, what's said, what's not, what's left in, what we leave out.

Choice is power. Not seeing it as such costs significant opportunity.

Stealing power and choice defines fear, not love. Love gives choices, dignity, offers opportunities. And if God is love, speaks love, seeks to show love, imposing His will over another's choice just because He can runs counter to that goal; frankly, that choice doesn't show love.

It shows a hollowing need, a lust for power. And I'd prefer to choose something better.

surrender is not failure

2015-03-05T02:27:00.003-06:00

There's a story in American history of a general with an ego larger than the Atlantic ocean. Although he served a mad king, he thought if he won his battles, lined up the colonies like good little soldiers, his reward would be a few states as his personal hunting grounds.

But instead farmers with pitchforks and guerrilla tactics defeated the powdered-wigged general and the previously unconquerable British army. Cornwallis was so embarrassed by his surrender, he hid, sending a lower ranking officer to offer his sword as a sign of surrender.

He failed.

I moved back to Texas from Oklahoma this weekend because I quit a job which had become toxic.
In a six month period, the position I accepted seemed unrecognizable from the one I accepted. I looked at the options presented to me, and the most honorable option was walking away.

And it feels like a failure. Because I surrendered.

With a mom in a nursing home; a financial debt to cover 4 months of care equal to some student debt; after trying each day for six months to find my place and failing miserably, I surrendered.

I did not fail.

My mom is cared for by people I don't know and have to trust; and I can't see her every day. Both of these truths cut keenly, but are 'tis flesh wounds from 2 years' long battle to get her the care she needs.

The truth is strangers provide better, more encompassing care than I can as her daughter. And Oklahoma and I did not fit each other well. Both of these situations could have been battles I could keep fighting, losing ground each day to feed my ego.

Or I could accept the sheer force of my will does not dictate the outcome of this curiously organic life. And learn to accept surrender graciously.

Because Cornwallis and Oklahoma show, when I learn, surrender is not failure.

i feel tired and old

2015-03-01T11:45:00.001-06:00

Because moving is hard, no matter what. Because I'm doing it alone. Because I'm leaving my mom. Because I don't know why I was sent here. Because I just got here 6 months ago. Because I don't know what waits for me. Because I have to live with a friend rather on my own for the first time in my life. Because I quit my job. Because it's sad outside and still icier than is really safe. Because I wanted to donate my mom's rocking chair to a local nursery. Because the church lady hasn't called to pick up the rocker, and that's just one more thing on the list. Because my mom is dying. Because.... moving is hard.

trying to love the questions

2015-02-25T23:16:00.000-06:00

She calls her blanket The Marshmallow because it's white and plump and soft. A jar near her phone stays stocked with candy, either from her roommate or her daughter. Her life's collection of pictures, books, things honed down to a blanket, clothes, and a bag looped over one of the handles of her wheelchair.

On a good day, she'll wake up for a meal, maybe two. She'll be present and make silly faces for her friends and the nursing home staff. She'll use her words, sharing the latest residents happenings. She might even call a friend on her red Droid Razr. Or win a couple of bucks at bingo.

But usually she sleeps most of most days, dizzy from seizures, sinus issues, or the neurological disorder which steals her memories and emotional control. She often sees things that aren't there; then will shake, frightened as a child. Other times, she stares off into a grey space of no words and stolen time. She tires quickly, not making it through a scoop of mashed potatoes before asking to be checked, changed, and taken back to bed.

Those are the days that worry her friends. And make me cry when I'm alone.

I wish I could tell her how proud I am of her for walking this horrid, clouded path with such grace.

Because she's my mom. And I miss her.

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves, like locked rooms and like books that are now written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.”

― Rainer Maria Rilke

you make good friends

2015-02-24T23:38:00.001-06:00

The first time I felt shame happened in first grade. I attended a private school, overseen by my Pentecostal church. Because of the structure, I could study whatever I wanted to at my own speed. Social Studies, Science, Math, English - any order, different every day.

Except then we had to study one topic at a designated time each day, for a specific period of time.

And I got bored. Really bored. On a daily basis.

After I finished my work, I found other things to fill the time. I'd stare at the wall, imagining unicorns, fauns, or ponder the possibility of discovering Narnia. My pencil became a magic talisman, transporting me into one of those fantastic wrinkles in time.

The best time-filler, though, was talking with my best friend, Tabby, who sat next to me.

Eventually, my teacher had enough; I was told I talked too much, I didn't focus, I distracted Tabby from her work. She couldn't tell me to stop talking with her because I didn't listen. Talking disturbed the class, making it difficult for others to study and learn. All because I was bored.

My desk was pulled away from the group's, and then turned to face the wall. I wouldn't have any other distractions. Nor would I be one.

Tabby had to be moved to the opposite corner next to boys she didn't like, and it was my fault.

I was told I lacked self-discipline; that I was selfish and lazy. It was all my fault. Worst of all, I was a bad friend. I could pressure, I could distract; but no one would really want to be my friend.

That's been rumbling around my mental wardrobe for almost 40 years. And I didn't realize it took up quite so much space until this weekend, when someone popped the proverbial lock with a pocketknife of a compliment.

You make good friends.

When I shared this sharp new idea with another friend of mine, he cried. He said there were multiple ways to take that statement, thanks to the quirkiness of the American English language. And as he talked, I realized I hadn't thought of any of them.

I hadn't thought about the friends I've collected as being good for me. They were misfits, like me, and we misfit together. Birds of a mismatched feather.

One of the first things I learned in first grade was I didn't offer good friendship, so really the thought didn't occur I might be a good friend, too.

Or that being friends with me could actually be good for someone else.

But then a friend took me to school.

From dust, you came; to dust, you shall return

2015-02-19T00:20:00.002-06:00

One of my longest held fears is that someone will depend on me. And that I will fail them.

There are old reasons, deep and ugly. As a child, I said it was because I didn't want anyone to feel the way I did when I was disappointed by someone I loved; and maybe that was originally true. But after the first time, the choice became easier and more comfortable.

Then not making that same choice became the challenge. And accepting the idea everyone else would make the same choice in the same situation made accepting everyone else held the same perspective just... logical.

And here I am, years later, dealing with the consequences of a choice made by a scared, scarred child. Unsure if I hold to what I knew because it's familiar or because it's good for me.

To tell the truth, in the darkest hours, good becomes so subjective, it too starts to look a lot like just another chance to be hurt. And that means it's bad.

Because for something to be good, I have to admit I want it. And that just makes me vulnerable. No good could possibly come of that.

Better to isolate, and nurse old wounds. Seriously. It's healthier. The voices in my head told me so.

And I could believe them so much easier if there weren't other, cooler voices calling me into community. Those voices, broken and not of my own making, speak light into the dark, saying things braver and truer than I can imagine.

They speak of family and roots, of a tribe who accepts and forgives. Stories of betrayal and mistakes, prideful falls and re-learning love seep into my skin, feeling as if such things are possible and workable.

Within a Gothic building of jewel-toned glass and overwatching angels, ashes swirled with frankincense are stroked along my skin.

And for a moment...Death, that horrid thief, seems not quite so keenly present; the past, that horrid weight, not quite so haunted.

And if prayer is the breath of those who love God, then I exhale fear, failure and remnants of my ghosts. Because it is once again Lent, and I can inhale the truth: God understands.

witness lent

2015-02-18T01:33:00.002-06:00

Lent begins today, and I have no idea what I am to give up this year. Much change since September means sacrifices have already been offered. All the missing leaves voids, like holes freshly dug for new seeds.

Or the longing for a long-known, recently departed friend.

Since first being embraced by a Methodist community, I've embraced Lent as the chance to bury old fears, or habits, relationships which bring no good. Truth be told, I look forward to it, because at the end of the forty days, I feel cleansed and centered.

This year, Lent arrived sooner than I expected. Which means I'm the guest at the party without a gift.

Searching around for something, nothing easy comes to mind.

I could offer to write every day for the next 40, but that tends to narrow something I love doing to a religious obligation. And as I understand it, that's sort of the exact opposite purpose of Lent.

Still, I need a gift for the party; not to observe social graces but because I really like the host. I could share dark secrets, or show scars, but doing that in public so's rarely the way to make friends.

Funny, Lent's so often seen as all ashes and shame, overwrought darkness before Easter chocolate and pastel dresses. And viewed through that medieval lens, Lent's not a party I can see anyone really wanting to attend.

For me, Lent means a period of meditation, the chance to craft a holy, separate space for things to grow. And the roots of these new, green things plunge deep into the shaved-off, not-helpful discards I offered at the altar.

The point is meditation, to consider what things to keep, to keep giving life to; and what to let die, to release and stop feeding. Lent provides time and space in a too-full, too-distracted world to remember the beauty beyond the veil.

Because there is a party, full of green, growing things and friends we long to see.

Michael Allen Campbell

2015-02-16T23:47:00.000-06:00

My friend died 6 days ago.

His wife called after he coded in the hospital, early enough in the morning I thought it was a dream. Mike, with his definitive opinions, love of musical theatre, and University of Texas orange-blood, was... gone. A phone call and my friend had gone somewhere I could not follow.

Mike was born with a unique heart condition, one of those with the long medical-sounding names and horrifically short life expectancies. Really, the fact he lived long enough for us to meet is amazing. And being his friend was a gift.

To be honest, Mike and I fit like pickles and peanut butter: great individually, but not fantastic together. Which makes being friends mean so much more.

Mike debated passionately, presenting an informed, conservative view of God, the world, and the most grace-filled theology I've ever experienced. We counterweighted each other. He thought I was an overly compassionate progressive; the coolness of his debates drove my thoughts to violence.

I can't explain why we were friends. But our lives were better with each other in them.

We met online back when Yahoo! had chat rooms. And I can't remember what exactly drew us to each other - music preferences, God or something else. We've been friends long enough, too, favorite debates, what I liked about him, what he liked about me, what made us friends faded.

Mike would know. And probably have a copy of the conversation. The date and topic, at the very least.

Mike was always the planner. Even his passing this week was typed out years ago, planned step by step, with designated music pieces and names for the private burial. He had a plan for everything, not seeming to know how to say no. Because if you gave him a minute, he'd have a plan. Then he'd nod, grin, and it could be done.

He knew there was a plan for everything; that he would meet his one love, that there was a right and a wrong and grace for in between. He lived in a world I didn't understand but loved seeing because he was there.

Mike met Sarah in 2009, and they were peanut butter and jelly on toast. Watching them grow into each other felt like being granted access to a secret love story. And I gained another friend. Who loved my friend already. Complete. Total. Win.

Sarah had a medical background, a sweet smile, and serious steel under her dimples. She filled in Mike, understanding what the heart condition meant, juggling lifelong friends and unplanned drama with grace. And she moved to Texas from Michigan just to be with Mike.

Mike appreciated snark, which is great, as I tend to maintain an ever-abundant stash of the organically grown stuff. After Mike married, he settled, his edges kinder. He, she, and I spent time watching movies, discussing the merits of different Star Trek series. We figured out each other's edges and soft spots, we tended to talk about nothing a lot. Those conversations, the time and spaces they created, make his not-here-ness most keen.

One of the highest compliments he gave me was choosing a song by my favorite band to play during his viewing. I didn't know he had until the lyrics drifted into a conversation. Between blocks of 80s pop, a random Western version of some expected hymn, and perky-shiny Chris Tomlin-heavy praise/worship slid in a Southern alt-folk group belting out an Irish hymn with serious guitar chops and a soft spoken lead singer.

It's still stark to think Mike loved me, that simply and that authentically. It's still striking to realize he shared something so intimate as his death.

I lost a very good friend last week.

broken valentine

2015-02-11T23:50:00.002-06:00

Dementia is evil. If it were possible, it should be unmade.

Dementia steals big things, small moments, entire people. It gives nothing back, leaving a trail of blank greyness where there once was evidence of a life well-lived.

Tonight, a partner of one of the residents at Mom's nursing home noted she seems like an entirely different person when I'm around. Not to make me feel guilty, she said, but because the change was so striking.

And all I could think was, she's like she was before all of this; I wish you could have known her then.

She was taken, you see, a piece at a time. Some pieces I noticed; some were returned, only to be taken again later. The pieces I miss the most are the ones taken while I thought she was present and she wasn't.

Mom was always quirky and different; I got that from her. She taught me sign language before I was old enough to talk so she would have someone to sign with. Later, she taught art when I was in elementary school.

She packed a small car with a tween, a kid, and a dog to leave an abusive relationship in the 80s; not because it was brave or empowered, but because she had to protect her kids. She traveled to San Francisco, the Bahamas, and London.

And it feels as if I am writing her obituary, as if she has already gone. Because dementia is an insidious thief.