Grief was my Teacher

I can remember the exact day my life bottomed out, the day I knew I would be a different person forever. June 17, 2014. It doesn't really matter what happened, maybe another day I'll share the details. Trauma is weird that way. You have to talk about it to heal from it, but not necessarily on the internet. ;)

I wandered a cemetery in Puerto Rico last summer. The kids were enamored with an old open grave, ooooo-ing at what could be the story behind it. 'I think I see bones! I think I see a ghost!' I laughed at their conversations. Once they had seen everything they had wanted to see, they wandered away and explored something else. But I found myself lingering, especially by this statue of a woman, hunched in grief, clutching a wreath; mourning a loss almost impossible to bear.

I knew how she felt.

I raised my camera and took several shots. It was hot and humid from a rainstorm moments earlier. My Tamron lens kept fogging up. We had to catch a plane home soon but for that moment everything was quiet. Just me and my camera. The cemetery was empty and my thoughts were full. I found another statue. A woman, head bowed in prayer, clutching her rosary in clasped hands. Age weighing heavily in the statue's face, weathered stains adding to her mournful look.

Grief has exposed me to another dimension I didn't really know existed. Or rather it removed the blinders so I could finally turn my head and see it on my left and on my right. Grief over lost dreams. Grief over lost trust. Grief over lost certainty. Grief over loss of faith. Grief over what was hidden in plain sight. Grief over new realities. Grief over the past. Grief over the present. Grief at what might be in the future.  I feel odd at remembering my life before--how invisible grief was to me.

I remember a few months after everything changed for me being in the dentist's office. He told me I might need a root canal if the antibiotic he was prescribing me didn't work. I have always been deathly afraid of oral surgery, maybe because I've never had it so the unknown frightened me more than it should. But in that moment I wasn't afraid anymore. I knew what real pain was; this oral surgery would be nothing in comparison. I was stronger now, less afraid. I remember being surprised at my calmness. Grief had been my teacher. It taught me to not be afraid.

I would never go looking for grief. I'm not a masochist. But when it became my constant companion I learned to eventually welcome it. To sit with it. To stop shoving it away and pretending everything was okay. It's okay to not be okay. Grief wouldn't be my constant companion but she was a long time companion. She was the teacher I never wanted and never knew I needed.

Trees and Faith and People

Nathan the tree climber, 2004, age 6.

When my son Nathan was a toddler I told him that I was heading to the nursery to buy a tree for our yard. Up until now we had only installed a sprinkler system and some struggling hydroseed for our lawn. It was a sad little yard, hot and shadeless. When I came home from the nursery, Nathan took one look at that sapling of a tree and with disappointment exclaimed, “Mom I wanted the kind of tree you can climb!” Fair enough. I wanted shade and he wanted to climb. Neither of us would get what we wanted, at least not yet. It was going to be a while. Years in fact.

Spindly little Tulip tree. The wind later snapped it in half. :(

We moved by the time Nathan was eight so he never got to climb a tree in our yard nor did I enjoy any shade at that house, but I was determined to make both happen. In our new house, once again we had the arduous task of putting in a yard. And that meant planting more trees. We planted Ash trees, Flowering Pears, Aspens, Redbuds, and Maples. Ten years later I have my shade. And maybe Nathan is too big to climb trees now, but his little girl or boy will get to climb our 23 trees someday. They'll be large enough by then.

Birds feeding under my Patmore Ash

Thankfully I do have shade now. I need its refuge. This sun worshiper is getting too old to sit bare-faced in the hot backyard anymore without a bit of respite from the glaring sun. As I sit under my 10-year old trees, listening to the messages in the rustling leaves, watching the birds eat from the orange feeder, I think about my little son and his desire to climb a tree that couldn’t even bear his tiny body weight and how everything worth having in life takes as much time as growing a climb-able tree. Faith. Healthy relationships. Healing. Patience. Perspective. The messages in those fluttering leaves have taught me how God speaks to me--subtle but sure. Trees take years. So do people.

Orange tukips in Keukenhof, Netherlands

After ten years, some tree roots are large enough that they are visible through my lawn. I planted about 50 orange tulip bulbs a few weeks ago. As I dug holes all around my yard I kept running into the deeper but smaller, more spidery, tree roots. I did my best not to disturb them, to let them do their own thing, and to carefully plant the bulbs around the roots into our rocky Utah soil. Those thin little roots will get thicker and more stable year after year. They'll keep progressing and spreading, sending out more roots, like I am, even when, or especially when, growth seems to be negligible and even non-existent.

Nathan the graduate under our shady Maple.

Last week we hiked through Zion's, in Kolob Canyon, through a thin and narrow passage filled with brightly colored fall trees. As we hiked, a gust of wind came through quickly and I heard that familar movement of leaves. Paul stopped and said “I love that sound, the rush of wind through a narrow canyon.” He heard wind but I heard God, once again whispering to me through rustling leaves, that everything is going to be okay. He is aware of me. I matter. Be patient. Let my roots grow deeper. He has given me shade for now, and soon it will be time to climb.

Autumn leaves in Kolob Canyon

Van Gogh: The Mulberry Tree

I have a new art print in my home, all framed and hanging happily in my family room.

What makes Van Gogh’s The Mulberry Tree so special to me is that I found it at, what was for me, a very difficult time in my life. I had spent most of the previous year trying to pick up the pieces of my shattered life. I truly wondered if I would ever be really be happy again. What I went through isn’t important, we all have excruciating days and sometimes years where the sun just doesn’t seem to rise for us. I found solace in reading, meditating, and praying and begging God to help me rise above the ashes.

So in May of this year (2015) I made a trip to see my sister and my parents in Chino, California. I found solace with them. My sister Carolyn is a magnificent person. She is smart, intelligent, non-judgmental, and so very fun to be around. I knew I could count on a weekend of fun diversion with Carolyn. Everyone needs to forget their troubles once in a while. We went to the Norton Simon Museum in Pasadena one afternoon. Beautiful art is divine. I had fun wandering the exhibits with Carolyn.

And then I saw this Van Gogh painting. “The Mulberry Tree”

I couldn’t stop staring at it. The  colors, the harsh brush strokes, all fascinating. Then I read the plaque and began to cry.

How is possible to suffer and still see beauty all around you? How did Van Gogh paint this and many other work of arts when he was at the lowest point of his life? In fact his suffering would claim his life, just months after this painting. I have no idea what it is to have a mental illness but I do know what it is suffer and yet to still desperately try to see the beauty of life.

I came home from that respite of a weekend, bought this print at art.com and it now happily hangs in my home. It reminds me that the beauty of life is everywhere—even in a Mulberry Tree at an asylum,as depicted by a man, gifted and troubled. There is always beauty no matter the turmoil. Don’t give up.

Deep Thoughts

It’s been a while since I’ve posted about anything of consequence and meaning to my heart.  I prefer to stay private and blog about food and fabric. That’s just how I roll these days (errr, years actually.)

Life has been kinda tough mentally, physically, and emotionally lately. But it has for you too I bet. Nobody has it easy, of that I am convinced. 

What’s been mentally tough is dealing with my children—particularly my son who is now in high school. He is flexing his teenage muscles of independence and that’s tough to deal with. I’ve always loved to work with teenagers—for years I worked with the young women ages 12-18 at my church and loved every minute of it. But when that teenager is your own…..well you don’t always love every minute of it. Yes the below photo is staged but everyday they re-enact this scene. For real.

What’s been physically tough is getting back into the swing of things with school back in session for a month now. Paul and I get up early with Nathan and make him a hot breakfast and send him off with a huge sack lunch at 6:45am. He eats eggs and bacon in the dark and it’s mostly quiet, and I’m tired, but in 4 years he’ll be gone and then I’ll wish I had done more.  By the end of the day when I’m washing dishes once again in the dark, I’m even more tired, but that’s just life right now.

(A lighter moment with Nathan—pretending we’re tough Mexicans. Well, we’re not pretending to be Mexican , that’s a fact, just pretending to be tough.)

Emotionally what’s tough is trying to figure out what I wanna be when I grow up. By that I just mean that I’m trying to have a bit of self-awareness—am I doing all I can for my kids who are growing up so fast? I feel the urgency of that everyday—they’re growing up so fast. Am I teaching them to be kind because they see me kind?  Do I give enough? Do I serve my fellow brothers and sisters enough? I’ve been given so much and it has to be for a reason—I have to reach out and help more and so often I feel so insular. That’s my prayer every day to my Father in Heaven—help me to reach out and help someone today. 90% of the time it’s my kids or hubby whom I help but I hope I can reach beyond my own little life and be a puller and not a pusher.

P.S. My sweet Ilene was given clearance from her orthopedic surgeon to live a normal life—she can now run, jump, and be a typical young girl. What a miracle. It makes me weep with gratitude. (Post here about her surgery.)

Caring for My Sweet Daughter

On February 15th 2012 my sweet 11 year-old daughter Ilene had spinal fusion surgery to correct a condition called spondylolisthesis. One of her lowest vertebrae was 65% slipped over the one below it. We may never know what caused it but we think it was brought on by a fall 6 months ago. She slipped on a pile of sheet protectors on the floor while helping her Aunt get her classroom ready and landed on her back. She was sore for a few days but we didn’t think much of it, after all, kids fall all the time. But in January 2012 she started complaining that her hamstring muscle hurt on one of her legs. And then she started walking funny—like a duck. Her torso was way forward and her lower half was a couple inches behind her. She said it hurt her leg to try and walk straight. So we took her to the doctor, had x-rays, were referred to an orthopedic  surgeon at Primary Children’s Hospital where we were told she need surgery to correct her spine. What? Our healthy little girl needed major surgery? They would make room for her the next day to be operated on.

After that initial appointment on Feb 14th with orthopedics, an MRI was ordered for later that afternoon. We asked Ilene what she wanted to do to pass the time until her MRI. She asked if we could go to Temple Square. You bet! Here’s Ilene on that cold but sunny Valentine’s day:

This is how Ilene normally is:

She’s a runner, a soccer player, a very active girl who is always happy and the kindest person. She’s a true joy to our family. We went home and cried out of fear and sadness for our little girl. I think this has been the hardest trial we’ve ever been through. It was so hard to hold back the tears in front of Ilene (Paul failed miserably—crying in front of Ilene lots) but we prayed for her and she received a Priesthood blessing from Paul and my Dad. We felt at peace and grateful that Ilene would be made whole again.

Ilene’s surgery lasted three hours. This is how the days were spent in Primary Children’s Hospital in Salt Lake City—attached to oxygen, morphine drips, and eventually working with physical therapists to start to sit up and walk again. (February 15-19, 2012) Sometimes her pain management was literally taken minute by minute—a cloth on her forehead, vomiting, wiping her tears, ice chips in her mouth, and eventually a change from Morphine which was making her nauseous. I held her hand and told her I loved her. What else could I do? (Ilene gave me special permission to post hospital gown photos of her.)

Her dad and I were heartbroken to find out Ilene would need such major surgery and then would need to recover for 6 months. For six months there will be no bending, twisting, running, lifting, or soccer playing. Her bones need time to heal with those new titanium screws in her back. That sounds tough, but we’re just so grateful that she’s going to be okay that we’ll do whatever we have to do to protect her—wrap her in bubble wrap if we have to.

I still have to help her get out bed, use the bathroom, walk, pretty much everything. I read to her, play games with her and watch Doris Day movies together. But she can roll over in bed now and is starting to walk just a little faster these days—still with me or Paul attached to her arm. The road is long, but with God, nothing is impossible.

What Shall We Give?

I was thrilled on Sunday when it was announced the Mo Tab would sing this song. Is there a better Christmas song that sums it all up? I don’t think so. I’ve been humming and singing this all week—as I scrubbed my shower, and while braiding Ilene’s hair this morning.
What shall we give to the babe in the manger,
What shall we offer the child in the stall?
Incense and spices and gold we've got plenty-
Are these the gifts for the king of us all?
Merry Christmas.

Young Women’s Camp 2010

I just returned from Young  Women’s camp on Saturday. This year was my 5th year in a row attending. (Please, hold your applause.) For those of you not part of the Mormon faith, who have no idea what I am talking about, Young Women’s camp is for the teenage girls in my church ages 12-18.  Our goals are many, but just a few are: helping them increase their testimonies of Jesus Christ as our Savior, teach them skills, bond as only women (young and old) can, and get crazy and silly.  I call it the Mormon Miracle because no matter what obstacles beset us, there always seem to be much learning and growth despite my failings as a leader. 

Now, before I go further, I must say that when I went to YW Camp in the California San  Bernardino mountains as a teenager, it was quite different. We had electricity in our cabins, hot running water, and we ate all together in a giant mess hall where the food magically appeared on large tables, carefully prepared by fairies and gnomes.
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No dishes were done, no work to be done. Oh, and we had a swimming pool which was crusty, but nonetheless, it was still a pool. Now, the camp we attend in the Utah mountains is rustic and meant for pioneer women who simply didn’t know the difference when faced with a week of no bathing and boiling water to wash dishes. I am such a wimp and I proudly proclaim that camping is for the birds. Well, it’s for the kind of birds who like dirt, bugs, and sleeping on 20” wide cots. Because this bird likes her Blackberry, memory foam mattress pad, and homemade chocolate milkshakes at night. (Good grief, that sounds like a personal ad!)

This year was dubbed Rainy Camp (notice the rain droplets on the pink lantern and on the canopy). And don’t I look happy in my yellow poncho? Last year was ‘Hotter than Hades Camp’, the year before that was ‘Frozen Chosen Camp’, and the previous two were just plain ‘Normal Dusty Camp’. I thought Utah was a desert, but mother nature has a sense of humor, hence the daily rainstorms. On the day we made reflector ovens to bake our pizza and cookies, I had to light my charcoal (no joking) at least 7-10 times because of all the blasted rain.  But oh yes, I prevailed in making fire, even in a deluge. Don’t the girls looks happy cookin’ in the wild?
I tried to stay out of most of the photos, instead preferring to be the Paparazzi. Here I am photographing our pizzas baking. After all, it’s camp, and there ain’t no make up allowed at camp.


All in all it was a fabulous week. Lives were touched and I still believe that there is nothing quite so beautiful as a young woman who keeps the commandments of God. She literally glows and it sure shows in her countenance.
Wouldn’t you agree?





 

This is why…..

….. I sew (notice the Bernina sewing machine)
…… I cook
….. I have children
….. I love life.