Grief

Grief is not a feeling. It’s a capstone resting squarely upon every block of your being, which is apparently located somewhere between your stomach and lungs. The weight of it, when first received, can weaken the knees and forestall any effort to fight against the gravitational pull of the earth’s core. The stone comes uncut and jagged; shallow breaths and small meals are advised.

Sometimes the grief you carry, snug within the cage of your ribs, is not just the pain of a life you lost. It’s the pain of a person you never got to meet. It’s a lifetime of love you never received. Sometimes a person is already gone before you even get to meet them, before you are even born.

When those infamous rogue waves of life have already crushed them, the cruelties of the world have abused them and stolen their innocence, and what little is left of them has retreated behind a titanium curtain decades wide.  

Sometimes we grieve never making it past the wall, and knowing that on the other side cowered something far more precious than rubies or gold. Something worthy of being found. It’s the loss of opportunity. The chance that you might still make it past the veil, past the pain and fear, to the heart that still beats on the other side.

Sometimes grief is anger. It makes you rage against the relentless storm of this world that is always breaking and stealing. It makes you seethe at the cycle of victims creating victims, and fume at our inability to heal them; our own helplessness in the face of injustice.

We find, with time, with every shallow breath and forced meal, with every tear that turns into a smile, the rough edges of the stone we carry are smoothed and shaped. Our memories are given new eyes of understanding. With every step forward our legs are strengthened, more able to bear the weight, and what once was a burden is now a treasured gemstone.

We peek behind the curtain, and find that the cage has been unmade. What once was bound is free.

I win/The Maiden of Inglaydius Pt. 1

This morning my daughters perfected the art of the foot race. They lined up at the end of the hall where their baby brother is usually trying to sleep and shouted, "READY, SET, GO!" Then they took off across our home screaming like banshees, much the same as any other childhood foot race. However, this morning my daughters decided to take turns declaring where and when the finish line existed. They raced around and around every room and then one of them would arbitrarily declare, "I WIN!" The other child would give an obligatory sulk before claiming their own turn.

I think they are geniuses and I want to be just like them when I grow up.

The story I am about to share with you may very well make no sense to you. Zero. Nada. You may be left scratching your head wondering why I would feel so compelled to write something like this, let alone share it.

And I'm okay with that, because right now it's my turn. And I'm winning.

The Maiden of Inglaydius

The wind dove down the narrow valley corridor and lifted the plaits of the maiden's hair like a dozen ravens taking flight. It whipped the cold stiff fabric of her clothing, pulling it against her chapped skin. She paid the humorless weather no mind as she pulled her ax from the trunk and reburied it juxtaposed. Again and again she swung the ax until her muscles burned and sweat collected above her lip and between her shoulder blades. The tree fell without her call, with no one to hear it. She listened to the silence after the fall's echo, a sound more native to her than the language she spoke. 
She wiped the sweat from her brow and shivered, acknowledging that her work was done for the day.

Her breath froze in a cloud around her as she pivoted to survey the forest. She could not see the first stars awakening in the east. She could not see her path home in the west. She saw only the trees rising up around her like a many fingered hand holding her in its palm. She heard only the whispers of the forest residents as they recognized her as an intruder. When the wind lifted her hair again and caressed her neck she let the shadows chase her back to the village that had raised her.

     The warm glow of evening firelight welcomed her like an embrace as she began to weave and duck through the village's low, thatch roofed dwellings; her ax perched upon her capable shoulders. She was no longer ashamed of her height or build. As a child she envied the lithe, petite forms of her peers. She had wept at the discrepancies in her size and behavior when her limbs had first sprouted and she wobbled around like a fawn on fresh legs.  Now, at the cusp of womanhood, she rejoiced in her strength, knowing that she was no longer an encumbrance to those who had taken her in out of scandal. Her mother had tumbled into the village full of child and had escaped back into the night without the burden of her. All the maiden had she owed to this people who were not her own, but with every passing year she found she could reach a little higher and lift a little more. They came to her daily to thatch their roofs and work in their fields. She held her head high as she passed the flower picking, basket weaving young woman who called to her in jest.

      The events of the last few weeks had run together like many small streams gathering together and pooling in this evening's ceremony. Today she was of age and a match had been made. Against all odds, with the height of a man and the gait of an ox, the maiden would be a bride. She was to marry a son of this village. No, she had nothing to be ashamed of. 
Her calloused hands scraped and caught as she attempted to wipe the sweat from them before entering her guardian's cottage. Thesma, stooped and crooked with age, waited inside with some of the other women, bathtub nearly cold and crisp garments draped over a corner chair.

   "Where have you been, girl?" Thesma scolded as the maiden ducked into the room. She grabbed her by the arm without waiting for a response and began pulling her toward the tub, her clothes thrown off in their wake. They plunged her in the tepid water and scrubbed mercilessly; pulling out long limbs to scrape nail beds, scouring away the work earned layers of her skin, and tsking at her broad, freckle marred nose. Goosebumps coated the length of her while they wrapped her in borrowed linen and beaded sandals. She knelt before them as their nimble fingers weaved her long onyx hair with flowers and braids until it rested like an ornate crown upon her head.

She stooped before a dimly lit mirror trying to reconcile the woman before her with the girl she knew herself to be. The glossy black heads of the village women bobbed around her shoulders as they straightened and smoothed the layers of her gown. It fell in gentle folds across her shoulders and chest, wrapping gently around her abdomen before falling to the ground, leaving her toned arms bear. Wisps of hair brushed against her neck and for a moment she felt only fear at not knowing herself. It occurred to the maiden for the very first time that although she made a very ugly villager, perhaps that was not a fair comparison. Perhaps, she thought as she gazed into this new perspective, a mountain cat made a very ugly doe.

   They pinned a heavy veil into her hair, covering her to the waist, and positioned her by the door. As the other women scurried out before them, Thesma unlocked the old wooden trunk at the foot of her bed and began piling the contents on the floor. The maiden watched her curiously. At last she excavated something wrapped in old black cloth, nearly as long as Thesma was tall. She grasped the heavy object in both of her age speckled hands and dragged it behind her.

"Thesma, what is this?" Her voice croaked as if she had never spoken before.

"It is your dowry gift, child. You will present it to your groom. Your father sent it with a messenger when he learned of your birth." Thesma released it into the maiden’s waiting hands, like it was a burden she was happy to be rid of.
The maiden stared dumbly from behind her thick veil. “My father? For my dowry? Thesma, what is this?” She lifted the object numbly, as if there were any question as to what they spoke of.

“It’s a sword, you foolish girl. He probably stole it from someone. It is a wonder your mother even knows who your father is,” she spat on her own floor, removing the foul flavor from her mouth. “He sent a messenger to tell us what your name would be, and that this was to be given to you when you were of age. Now it will purchase a fine situation in a respectable family. He could have hoped for no more than a match such as this one.”

The maiden opened her mouth again, still feeling that she was wearing the wrong skin.

“Hush your mouth, girl. I’m weary of your voice,” Thesma rubbed her hand across her brow, clearly taxed by the maiden’s inquiry.

“Abigail, you will bring the sword to your groom when you hear the drums. Wait here until we are ready for you,” Thesma was out the door with only her words remaining.

Abigail. It had been months since the maiden had last heard her true name. Months since she had responded to anything more than ‘child’ or ‘girl’, but she had a name. Her father had named her. And this was his sword. Her eyes blurred with collecting moisture.

She dropped to her knees and laid the dowry gift out before her like a puzzle to solve. There was no time left to hesitate. She swallowed an aborted attempt to breath and pulled aside the fabric, revealing a sword hilt alive in the fire. Rubies and Sapphires caught the light as it played across the ornate filigree. She reached for the veil obscuring her vision and tore it away, flowers and pins thrown from her. A pattern of thin, fruit heavy branches with long oval leaves was etched into the scabbard. Olive branches. She gripped the handle firmly with decision and removed it. The blade sang softly, it flashed in the light free from rust or tarnish, and from tip to hilt was a fine pattern of script in a language the maiden did not yet know.

This was her father’s sword. He had given it to her. And now a man she had not chosen was waiting for her to hand it over. The payment he was to receive for the the burden of their union. She threw her head back and laughed, reaching hysteria as tears slipped from her lids to stream unattended and alien on her cheeks. She stood again, now with the sword in her hand. This place was not her home. These were not her people, and she would not sell her birthright to purchase a place among them. This sword would lead her home, or it would buy her freedom. This village could gather its own wood, thatch its own roofs, and place its toil and labor upon the shoulders of its own daughters.

She moved to gather her possessions only to realize she owned only what was in her hand. The clothes on her back were borrowed. The village would hold the ceremony and wedding feast as her debt, and she had no means to pay. They would try to keep her here. She is an asset to them, she realized, lifting her chin. They had benefited from the strength of her body, and now they would take the wealth from her hands.

The mirror watched silently from the corner. It held her reflection’s gaze like a confidant, as she stared at her now ragged appearance. Tears glistened oily on her cheeks and neck. Her thick dark hair fell tangled with flower stems down to her waist. Her hair. Dark and lustrous, the only testament that this village had once been her mother’s home. The only part of her that belonged here.

She set the sword by the mirror and pulled her hair into a single knot. She knelt down again and lifted the twist of hair above the blade, closing her eyes against the shame, she pulled the blade up from the nape of her neck. The hair whispered a sharp inhale as it tore across the edge. What was left of it fell in her face.

After a few deep breaths she looked into the mirror again. The woman staring back at her was not beautiful, but she did not look afraid. In the distance the ceremonial drums called.

Wake UP

Having a toddler is very much like waking up from a long, unexpected afternoon nap. The kind of nap where you didn't get a chance to brush your teeth or take your makeup off first. The kind that leaves you in a terrible, groggy funk for the rest of the day; until real bedtime comes along, and is ruined because you aren't tired anymore. I'm right about this, just listen.

When you have a newborn you fall into a sleep deprived, emotionally driven haze. You put your car keys in the freezer, put the clean diaper on without taking the dirty one off, and you crumple to tears when you try to add up the amount of sleep you've gotten in the last 36 hours. (A number which may very well be in the single digits.) Your husband stands timidly at a distance wanting to help, but also knowing the greatest gift he can give you is to let you yell at him for awhile without expecting you to be logical or sorry when it comes out like, "Well maybe your mom is too nice, have you thought about THAT?!" Everything is hard. Normal things are ridiculously difficult. Taking a shower feels like finishing a marathon. Remembering to put deodorant on afterwards is the equivalent of a gold medal. How are you supposed to keep on being a person on top of all that?

So you go to sleep. (Unexpectedly, because it's one of those little tidbits no one ever shares with you beforehand.) You begin to realize that you can't go on as you are. You are too much to carry. Your interests, aspects of your personality, even some of your relationships have become too burdensome and time consuming. So you set down the things that are no longer vital and tuck them away for a long nap. Long term plans, hobbies, acquaintances, brooms, scrapbooking, eyeliner, and anything that has to do with current events. Not everything, and not the same things for everyone, but you lay down enough so that you can carry on, and you let those things slumber for however long. Some days you have to set everything down but the baby itself; you are alive, the baby is alive, and you don't care what eating out does to the budget, he's picking up Chick-fil-a on his way home. (May God help him if he forgets the sauce.) Other days you vaguely remember having opinions about things like climate change and GMOs and what happens in the second half of the movie you tried to watch the previous night.

Then, suddenly, your baby has nearly as many teeth as you do. He waddles around and eats goldfish crackers off the floor and sleeps through the night (LOL...but you get the point). For the first time in months (or years) you start to wake up. You stretch and wipe the sleep paste from your eyes, except you can't really stretch because your back is still out of place from lugging that baby carrier around for six months ... and the paste in your eyes is probably the pink eye your kid gave you (maybe you should get that checked out), and you are trying to figure out what year it is now and how old you might be. (Thirty-ish? Maybe.) You blink into the slanted rays of light coming through the blinds and you realize that it's gotten later, you're older, and there are still things you would like to do before the day is through. Also, you probably want a snack, but I digress.

Now I'll speak plainly for you people who are not fluent in avoidably complex metaphor. To become a mother is to experience the high of selflessness. There is absolutely nothing you would not joyfully give up or lay down for your new precious baby, even if it is whole pieces of your identity. That will never change. Whether your baby is brand new or 52, you give whatever you can for their success. However, what is required of you changes over time. It ebbs and flows. There comes a point when, after giving up everything for so long, they need you a little less, or at least a little differently. You are left with some empty time and a shelf full of dusty, slumbering pieces of yourself that you can either pick up and dust off, or forget about altogether. Should you call up that old friend and see if they can meet for a coffee date? Should you pull your paint and brushes out from the attic? Should you crochet? Begin Crossfit training? Start a garden? Finish reading the pile of books on your nightstand? ...... Should you write?

Even though I'm groggy, out of practice, and generally terrified of public opinion, I am choosing to write. I wasted too many years before I had kids worrying that I was unqualified and untalented, but I'm different now. I have spent the last six years walking around Walmart wearing leggings as pants and having so much dry shampoo matted into my hair it looked like I was in need of troll magic to remove the ice from my heart. Now I am shameless.

In light of all of this, an announcement: I am going to release a story I have been working on in a series of posts starting later this week. It isn't a funny story about my kids (losses the two subscribers I have). It's a work of fiction about a young woman who inherits a sword from a father she never knew, and the journey she embarks on to find him. It's called The Maiden of Inglaydius. 








(Note: I ate an entire pint of ice cream while writing this post. You guys make me anxious.)

Adelaide

I have a child who needs to be heard.

She needs you to make eye contact while she's speaking and to nod your head and to respond in full sentences. If my eyes begin to wander away or my replies become mumbled, she will place her chubby little hands on my face and turn my head back toward her until she can look me in the eye and ever so gently whisper, "Mommy, I don't like it when you talk to me like that."

She is completely confident in herself and she needs you to be completely confident in her as well. She has an opinion, or at the very least a commentary, for every circumstance. She has a plan, a suggestion, and in her own mind, she believes she has complete autonomy and presidential level veto power. She is not particularly inclined to obedience. Why ever would she want to follow an order that is totally lamer than her own? She doesn't care if you're happy about it or mad at her as long as you never ignore her; as long as you see that she was right, in the end. (Just realized I might possibly be raising President Obama. Hold on a sec while I Google law school tuition ..... Well, she'll make a great hairdresser.)

There is no greater offense her siblings could bestow upon her than to simply cover their ears and pretend she isn't speaking. The repercussions are immediate. And loud. And not easily placated.

Have you ever tried to reach into a mirror to fix your reflection's hair or straighten her clothes, but you just keep running into yourself? Over and over and over, no matter how hard you try? If she would just stay still you could set her hat on right, but instead she insists on rising up to meet you. If you keep trying you'll just end up frustrated. You'll end up hurt. And your reflection will be no better off. That's what it's like for me to raise Adelaide. That's what it's like to be in charge of instructing someone so much like myself.

This morning she dumped out a basket of toys and used it to climb onto the kitchen counter. Once she was done pushing all the buttons on the coffee maker she opened the doughnut box and ate all the frosting and sprinkles off of her sister's doughnut. When I caught her red-handed she covered her ears and ran down the hall screaming, "You aren't saying NOTHING, because I can't hear you."

Touche, Addy. Touche.

I see myself when I look at her. In the color of her skin and the flip of her hair. I see myself when she is being impossibly loud, impossibly sensitive, and impossible to correct. I see the road before her like an emotional suicide mission. She will put her foot in her mouth, and overreact, and rebel against every voice of reason ... at least once or twice. She will be told that she's too loud, too prideful, and too selfish. And she'll have to learn that everyone is right. She'll have to learn to hold her tongue. She'll have to learn to listen. She'll have to learn that her words are no less valuable just because they aren't meant for every second of every hour of everyday for every person. 

I want to shake her. To warn her. To give her the last 20 years of my life so she can avoid the painful lessons, but we just aren't the type who learn the easy way. Trying to force her to understand would do about as much good as painting makeup on your reflection.

So I'll do my best to turn my hands back around and brush my own teeth and button my own jacket. I'll comb my own hair and straighten my skirt. Maybe then my little reflection will see and follow suit. Maybe if I can face my own demons it'll give her strength to fight her own. 

I'll celebrate her strengths. I'll affirm her value. I'll trust the Good Shepherd whose rod and staff have never failed me. Who never let me wander too far and whose discipline was never too harsh. I'll do my best to love her in the process. 

You do you, BB. Mommy will be right here.

A Mother's Paradox

Today I refilled 10,000 bowls of Cheerios, and I yelled when they woke the baby. Then my three year old told me she knew I was proud of her, so I wrote this in an apple juice stained notebook and made everyone late for school.

I want you to leave me alone for five whole minutes. 
I want you to never stop needing me.

I want you to use your quiet voice
to tell me all your secrets.

You need to pick up your toys,
but don't you ever stop playing. 

I want you to never be afraid to color outside of the lines.
You should always look both ways before you do.

I want you to be fearless.
I want to carry your shield and fight all your battles.

Your wings will grow broad and you'll soar.
I want your feet strong enough to carry them.

I want you to love without restraint.
I want to keep your heart safe.

This world could never be good enough for you.
It needs your brave, kind heart so badly.

I'll be so proud of you when you're on your way.
I'll keep my eyes on the horizon, just in case.

This Almost Didn't Happen, but Dinosaurs!

In the past few years many of my friends and acquaintances have asked me to start a blog ::blushes::. I took it as the compliment that it was and graciously explained to them that I was simply too humble and productive to write about my real life on the Internet. There was a silent agreement between me and whoever was asking that no one would call me out on this completely misguided view of myself. I really appreciate how nicely you all played along.

Updating your Facebook status on a daily basis with wordy and unsolicited descriptions of your family and world view is absolutely not the same as blogging. I began to view it as a challenge to fit all of my normally verbose feelings into something someone would want to read as they scrolled through their newsfeed at a traffic light (I'm sure none of you do this, because it's super dangerous and probably illegal *winks*.) I think I've gotten better at it over time and had started feeling pretty smug about how humbly I was scratching the itch to talk about myself, but then something happened. Something nothing in this world could possibly prepare me for (literally). I had a dream. A dream so life changing and defining that I wished I could re-dream it every night and bring all of my family and friends along to dream it with me. But that's not possible, because Inception is not real and Leonardo DiCaprio is probably not creeping into your dre technology to view the dreams of another person is still in the early stages of development and a dream is too long to share in a Facebook status and .... as you can see, I had a serious dilemma on my hands.

Which brings us here, my dear blogyeurs (©Me, to define those who enjoy reading as people vulnerably expose themselves on personal blogs. We're such creeps.), and without further ado, I will now humble myself by appearing completely un-humble, for the better of you all, so that you all may glory with me in the best dream anyone could ever hope to have. You are welcome.

The Hunt

The sun had just set behind the mountains in the west and the sky still held its light. We all stood in a loose circle watching her, our leader made fearless by grief. Her robust frame was rendered black against the reddened sky, but her curly hair still held its rust hue. She pivoted slowly as she locked eyes with each member of the tribe, reassuring herself that we knew the plan and offering us one last opportunity to bow out. She was young, we all were. We looked like lost boys with our ragged clothes and coon skinned caps, but we knew this was our best chance. If we kept letting them pick us off one by one, we would spend the rest of our days in fear, wondering who would be next. We needed to make a stand. This was our forest, our home. At last her gaze settled on my own. I held my breath until she nodded her head imperceptibly, her eyes flickering to the weapons in my hands. I held them tighter for her reassurance and mine. A cutlery set, mangled by age and use, was the only item we possessed that could accomplish this task. The fork in my left hand and the stone sharpened knife in my right. I had been chosen for this.  

We startled like deer for only a moment when she dashed into the trees, then fell in step with one another. The familiarity of the pace brought comfort as we wove in and out of trees into the darkened forest. We followed one another by ear, listening for the padding of feet in the soft duff, the flap of clothes in the wind, and gentle breathing until our eyes adjusted. We knew this could be our last trek with one another, but the habitual motion kept our legs from locking up with fear or grief. The death of our leader's mate was recent enough to keep us determined. That's why the assault had to be tonight, before time could weaken our resolve. Our friend would be avenged and we would not be cowed with dread or indecision.

Barely had my eyes adjusted when I saw her lope into a crouch and still. The rest of us followed suit. I could feel it then, the slight tremor in the earth, tree branches creaking before they snap, and a rumble more feral than the noise of boulders clashing, but no less averting. We skinked beneath the underbrush until we got a visual. The dim light still filtering in through the canopy caught movement among the upper branches. Great plates reflected an iridescent gleam as they swayed with the movements of a scaled spine. We were close enough now to hear its breathing.

I held my position as the group began spreading in a wide arc around the beast. Surveying the land before me, I spotted an outcropping of rocks slanting out of the ground a few yards ahead on my right. The precipice was fifteen or twenty feet above us. I angled my body toward it and waited. My legs burned as I continued to crouch. The thing approached laboriously, showing glimpses of its body between falling trees and breaking branches. It was scaled, and scarred, and probably hungry. 

It froze in place, one clawed foot still raised, just before the torches were lit, like he sensed it coming. A perfect circle of fire light encompassed him as the others began hurling stones and spears, hewn by their own hands, at the beast. It lifted its long neck and bellowed, a sound more like laughter than fear. I sprinted up toward the outcropping with sure steps and began my climb. I didn't look at its teeth or claws, sharper than any weapon we could dream up, a mockery to my cutlery. I set my gaze on its weakest point, the long slender neck he proudly displayed. The moment my feet reached the summit, I lunged; back arched, arms forward, eyes focused. The fork pierced one side of its neck as I swung my arm around and planted the knife in the other. I dangled there for a fraction of second and felt the warm wet blood on my fingers and down my wrists. When he reared to swat me away, I used the momentum to slide the knife down his throat. My body floated momentarily as his course reversed and he fell away, the cutlery slipping through my fingers. I landed with a thud and looked up at the stars now appearing above. My tribe came from the trees hooting and laughing and lifting me to my feet. I looked down at myself, clothes soaked through with dinosaur blood and hands shaking.

I awoke from the dream still smelling the forest and feeling brave. I felt exhilarated and victorious and capable of slaying any giant.

I hope you have dreams like this. Dreams that are hidden away in your heart or sometimes creep out into your sleep and remind you that you're capable of mighty things, like assassinating dino-dragons and becoming fearless when partnered with loyalty.

I hope you have dreams that remind you what it feels like to live with a tribe of people who will fight for you, be loyal to you, and lead you to victory.

I hope you know what it feels like to have a table laid out for you in the presence of your enemies, where you can feast on hope in the face of fear.

I hope you have dreams that whisperyell in the dark, hidden night and refuse to be ignored, no matter how humble you are.