The World Without

Thanksgiving Confession

2011-11-22T23:16:00.010-05:00

There are still many moments (probably more than I should admit to) when I catch myself thinking "Oh, she's going to love this..." right before I remember I cannot call her. I can talk to her (and I do, probably also more than I should admit) but I really cannot describe how sad it is not to be able to share everyday things with my girl.

So, I am going to occasionally ~~foist them on you~~ throw them out into the blogosphere instead. First up is Thanksgiving Related News She Would Have Loved: I found a Pilgrim in our family tree. An honest-to-goodness Mayflower-Compact-Signing Pilgrim (two really, if you count his Excommunicated-from-the-Church-of-England Separatist Pilgrim Wife, which we do).

Really, this would have tickled her funny bone and made her extremely proud, all at the same time. Straight-laced Puritans! Rebellious Roots! Seventeen generations from the Mayflower to My Girl. Fun Stuff.

Brittany Alaina Harbuck

14th Great Granddaughter of James Chilton, Signer of the Mayflower Compact

[Note: There are now an estimated 30 million Mayflower Descendants wandering the globe. We regret we cannot invite all of them to dinner.]

Admit It

2011-07-12T22:57:00.001-04:00

Some days, you'd just like to say this A Lot.

Today was one of those days.

Fragments & Flowers

2011-07-10T19:35:00.003-04:00

Occasionally, I stumble on a quote that really resonates. Today it was this one:

“There is a beginning and an ending for everything that is alive. In between is living.”

From Lifetimes by Bryan Mellonie and Robert Ingpen

I like it. Also, these:

Remembering Kandy

2011-06-05T21:49:00.004-04:00

The night I met Kandy Sims she earned a permanent place in my heart. I didn't expect and I wouldn't have bet on it, but it happened.

It was the fall of 2007, and the freshman dorms had just opened at SCAD. Kandy and her husband, Mike, had spent the day moving their son into his home-away-from-home. The Sims are a musical family, so after the unpacking was finished and the teenager made it clear he didn't need them to hang around, Kandy and Mike headed for River Street to check out the local acts. Chance brought them into the Bayou where Dave was on stage. I wish I could remember how we started talking, but I don't. Bars are crowded and loud and I am used to fielding questions about Dave (I'm With The Band), handing out business cards, and occasionally booking gigs while he's playing. I do remember that we hadn't been talking long when I asked what brought them to Savannah.

You know where this is going, right? She told me about her kid and then, because it's what moms do, she asked about mine. Did I have them, how old...and I told her, in that oddly-tensed way, 'I have a daughter. She died about year and half ago in a motorcycle accident.'

And, for the first time in that year and half, someone new - someone who hadn't known me Before and who never knew my girl - stepped towards me instead of taking that oh so perceptible half-step back. In a moment where most people murmur and move away, she chose to stay. I never forgot it.

We ended up hanging out with Kandy and Mike that whole night and saw them several more times over the years when they'd come from Atlanta to Savannah to visit their son. We saw them in Atlanta, too, catching Mike's show when we were visiting family there.

Kandy and Mike's son graduated from SCAD yesterday, but she wasn't here to see it. Kandy died in April and I will always miss her. Her particular kindness - because that's what it was, truly, a kindness - remains a rare thing and Kandy's initial reaction has become the yardstick by which all new people are measured. Not many people have passed that test.

And...We're Back!

2011-06-04T10:06:00.008-04:00

If you read this blog, chances are you know me fairly well. It will not surprise you to know my family often describes me as 'mouthy.' I prefer 'outspoken' or 'opinionated'; 'firm in her convictions' is a personal favorite and I'll even cop readily to 'righteously indignant' but, perspective matters too and sometimes I AM mouthy. As a child, I was a back-talker, even if the highly charged atmosphere in my home meant that back-talk was always under my breath and most often into a pillow. As an adult, I stopped muttering and whispering and found my voice. There's not much silence in my corner of the world.

And, since Britt's death and the subsequent loss of filters that comes, frankly, from having little left to lose, it's only gotten, well, louder. I say what I think. What I believe is not a mystery. No one ever has to wonder where I stand on an issue, large or small. This isn't always easy to live with, I know, and I appreciate each and every one of you who's hung in there. Because, I do believe it matters. It's important to know yourself and what you stand for. And it's important to stand and be counted, especially if what you are standing up for might make a difference in the lives of others.

Facebook, for all its silly games and sometimes endless repetitions of dinner menus also offers a space to make a stand, to spread the word. I often link to articles I read that move or anger me; post news updates that cheer or horrify me; and, yes, call people out when they post something that sticks in my craw, makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, or just leaves me thinking 'What?! Really?!' I had one of those "are you kidding me?" moments yesterday. Through my dear friend Renee, I've become FB friends with Connie Schultz. [For those of you who are not familiar with her work, Connie is, among other things, a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, a columnist for the Cleveland Plain Dealer, an author, a political activist and, because it's an important part of this story, also the wife of Senator Sherrod Brown. I am a long-time admirer of the Writer and the Senator, both.] On Thursday evening, Connie posted this picture on her page:

On Friday morning, I was a little shocked to see it there. I clicked to see what she had to say and, well, the next part of this story is Connie's to tell, so in her words - with her permission - this is what happened next:

"Yesterday, I posted this photo and shared an exchange I had with a stranger who doubted that I could have an Eagle Scout in our home. (Sherrod and both of his brothers are Eagle Scouts.) This bumper sticker was meant to communicate my pride in my husband, and illustrate that conservatives have no monopoly on public service.

Today, Debi Carey Harbuck posted a comment that took me aback: "Connie, I have to tell you this disappoints me. Not your witty come-back to Guy #1, who clearly has an attitude problem, but you and the Senator, both, actively and publicly supporting (proudly!) an organization that openly discriminates against gays in the name of 'god' and 'faith.'"

Whoa.

I assured Debi that Sherrod and I have been in the trenches for decades on behalf of our LGBT friends and family members, but she pushed back: "I most certainly do respect your activism, and as the mother and step-mother of LGBTs, I have to respectfully disagree with this one choice. In places where institutionalized discrimination is entrenched, your support, and the Senator's, serves to legitimize and makes it harder for those who are excluded to make their case. There are many fine organizations (which I know you also support) that do good work for fatherless children without standing beneath an umbrella of hate and fear. I don't believe the discriminatory policies of the BSA will change until not-gay Americans serve notice that it just won't be tolerated and withdraw their support."

Debi is right.

I removed the bumper sticker this morning. Not everyone here will agree with this decision, and, as always, I welcome the discussion. I'm still very proud of Sherrod's childhood accomplishment, but the message matters. I am grateful to Debi for her honesty, and her advocacy."

So. Today I am adding 'advocate' to my list of self-descriptors. And, I am going to keep on being a mouthy advocate for what I think is right. Because it matters. And because people are listening.

Solstice Season, Take Six

2010-12-21T07:21:00.006-05:00

This is my sixth winter living in A World Without and, this year, I am trying (yet) another approach. This is the Year of Full-On Celebration. The tree has been up for weeks. Not only are there lights strung on the front porch, there's a fully-lit tree there, too. Sparkly, multi-colored lights twinkling from dusk til dawn.

Inside, there's a festive string, à la Donna Reed, bedecked with cards from near and far. I sent cards this year, and - so far - I'm running about a 55% return rate. (Which isn't bad when you take into account my 5-year hiatus.) I count all the cards received up to New Years Day, so it's looking pretty good, even if certain people have de-listed me. (You know who you are.)

I even shopped. Not excessively, not with abandon, but with a certain measure of the joy and trepidation of past years. Will he like it? Oh, she'll love this! And I chose a wrapping theme (silver foil papers with green and blue and white ribbons and bows) that Himself promptly corrupted with a gold foil box tied 'round with a deep red ribbon. (Mens!) I am fairly certain there's yummy chocolate from our newly opened neighborhood chocolatier in that box, so I am going to overlook it. (I am also going to move it before the official Picture of the Tree - 2010 is taken. But then I'm going to put it back.)

There's a lot to celebrate this year. My Girl's Nana (also known as my dearest MIL) has come to live with us. While the reasons for it are not particularly celebratory, it's a joy and comfort to have her under our roof. There have been babies and rumors of babies. A wedding. Many plans for the future. There's been new sadness as well, fresh grief to lay over the the too-fresh grief that already blankets our world. In short, life keeps happening.

Which brings us here, to the Winter Solstice. The moon hung full and bright in the not-quite-dark sky as I drove home from work Monday evening. And as I twisted and turned along the marsh's edge I could hear Britt's voice, clear as a bell. 'We're going to build a fire, Maija, and dance around it while the moon rises! Winter's death knell...just as it begins, it begins to end. That's an excellent reason for a party, I think!'

So do I, Baby Girl. So do I.

Skinks For Lisa

2010-05-31T09:17:00.003-04:00

Today is my dear friend Lisa's birthday and I hope it's filled with all the things she loves most in the world.

For you, honey. First, the skink we all know; look at the blue in his tail. Gorgeous.

And, the skink I discovered this spring, and am trying hard to love. Aren't they prehistoric? Itty bitty dinosaurs that stalk the garden.

As Britt would say "here leeezard, leezard..."

This Is What Is

2010-05-30T08:57:00.005-04:00

Since Britt was killed, April and May have been hard. The anniversary of her death followed so closely by Mother's Day is a one-two sucker punch from the universe. I think about karma, and wonder what I am supposed to be working out. Where is the lesson? What is the lesson? I think about reincarnation and wonder what I could possibly have gotten wrong before that this is the answer to getting it right. I think about unanswered prayers and I wonder why it's surprises anyone that it's just easier to let go and not believe in anything anymore.

Every day is a colossal effort. Get up. Get dressed. Go to work. Focus. Be anywhere but inside your head. Smile. Maintain. Carry on. When people say 'Hi! How are you?' Say 'Fine, thanks! You?' Do not say 'Angry.' Do not say 'Losing my mind.' Do not say 'Have you lost your mind?!' Above all, do not say 'My heart is breaking a thousand times a day.' 'Fine, thanks! You?' is just easier for everyone. Because this is what is. She is gone and she is not coming back and there are countless, numberless days to manage.

There are gardens to plant and rooms to tidy. Laundry and dishes and floors that need attention. Decisions to make and plans to follow and all the flotsam and jetsam of life that continues to accumulate...regardless. And, June is coming.

A Short Announcement

2010-05-12T07:25:00.002-04:00

You may or may not have noticed, but in the last few weeks there has been a lot of comment-spam here. In an effort to reduce it, I have enabled the word-verification feature on posts. I apologize for the inconvenience (my eyes aren't what they used to be, either) and hope you'll keep chiming in.

Today's Poem

2010-04-25T12:16:00.002-04:00

This is the poem I woke to find in my in box this morning. That is all.

Graves We Filled Before the Fire
by Gabrielle Calvocoressi

Some lose children in lonelier ways:
tetanus, hard falls, stubborn fevers

that soak the bedclothes five nights running.
Our two boys went out to skate, broke

through the ice like battleships, came back
to us in canvas bags: curled

fossils held fast in ancient stone,
four hands reaching. Then two

sad beds wide enough for planting
wheat or summer-squash but filled

with boys, a barren crop. Our lives
stripped clean as oxen bones.

The Gathering Storm

2010-04-24T08:57:00.002-04:00

I have been laying in provisions. It's an odd assortment, some tangible and some not, and the pile increases as small offerings arrive in the mail from far-away friends who know instinctively what is lacking. Cards and funny signs and Emily Dickenson are added to the pile of potato chips and dark chocolate and red wine. They are necessary. I place them next to the recent memories of good visits that are waiting to be wrapped around me when I cannot get warm. Poems come through the ether, seeking me out and the rose bush is collapsing beneath the weight of its blooms.

Just me and the otters, I held them so close
I felt the bump of ghosts as I held them.
There is no poem that will bring back the dead
There is no poem that I could ever say that will
Arise the dead in their slumber, their faces gone
There is no poem or song I could sing to you
That would make me seem more beautiful
If there were such songs I would sing them
O they would hear me singing from here until dawn

- From Dorothea Lasky's Me and the Otters

Then Again, Maybe Not

2010-04-05T07:08:00.002-04:00

Perhaps April isn't the best month to challenge myself to a daily-posting spree? The garden is going in and that takes most of my free time. I'm also trying to throw together a last minute wedding shower (by sheer force of will, it's going to be just lovely, I swear) and get ready for two of my dearest friends to visit. And, you know, it's April and just holding on to my sanity is a lot work some days. I don't have time to read a poem a day, much less the inclination to think about randomly selected verse winging its way through the ether. So we're letting go of the Poem-A-Day-Posting theme.

That said, this poem is lovely. Ms. Lerman's work has already earned a space on my shelves.

Small Talk
by Eleanor Lerman

It is a mild day in the suburbs
Windy, a little gray. If there is
sunlight, it enters through the
kitchen window and spreads
itself, thin as a napkin, beside
the coffee cup, pie on a plate

What am I describing?
I am describing a dream
in which nobody has died

These are our mothers:
your mother and mine
It is an empty day; everyone
else is gone. Our mothers
are sitting in red chairs
that look like metal hearts
and they are smoking
Your mother is wearing
sandals and a skirt. My
mother is thinking about
dinner. The bread, the meat

Later, there will be
no reason to remember
this, so remember it
now: a safe day. Time
passes into dim history.

And we are their babies
sleeping in the folds of
the wind. Whatever our
chances, these are the
women. Such small talk
before life begins

A New Month

2010-04-01T20:57:00.005-04:00

It's April and National Poetry Month is upon us. I haven't always known about National Poetry Month but I do now and I'm glad. I've signed up for a poem-a-day from the American Academy of Poets. (Isn't it marvelous such a thing exists?) I'm looking forward to seeing what each morning brings to my in-box and I plan to share them with you here if I find I have anything at all to say about them. I hope to share every day, mostly because I think it would be sad (and also a touch embarrassing) to read a poem and have nothing to say about it all.

Today's poem is marvelous. It's has history and almost-but-not-quite-forgotten people and the old houses haunted by them and also a touch of melancholy about ticky-tacky houses too close together that have become our norm. This poem reminds me to remember the many women who've made homes in this old house and gardened under the shade of these old trees. Also to be grateful for the view of pastures from my kitchen window. Everyday I walk in well-worn footsteps and it's good to be reminded of that.

Here's Philip Levine's A Story: A Story - Poets.org

And here's my beautiful old house.

My Friends

2010-03-11T21:36:00.010-05:00

I have the best friends in the world. Every day, they give me little pieces of themselves in dozens of big and little ways. I would not be here, or anywhere realy, without them. They make each day mean something, and some days that's much more than I can do for myself

For instance, Lisa sent me this poem a few days ago and it's been pinging around in my head - and propping me up - ever since.

The Mystery of Meteors
by Eleanor Lerman

I am out before dawn, marching a small dog through a meager park Boulevards angle away, newspapers fly around like blind white birds Two days in a row I have not seen the meteors though the radio news says they are overhead Leonid's brimstones are barred by clouds; I cannot read the signs in heaven, I cannot see night rendered into fire And yet I do believe a net of glitter is above me You would not think I still knew these things: I get on the train, I buy the food, I sweep, discuss, consider gloves or boots, and in the summer, open windows, find beads to string with pearls You would not think that I had survived anything but the life you see me living now In the darkness, the dog stops and sniffs the air She has been alone, she has known danger, and so now she watches for it always and I agree, with the conviction of my mistakes. But in the second part of my life, slowly, slowly, I begin to counsel bravery. Slowly, slowly, I begin to feel the planets turning, and I am turning toward the crackling shower of their sparks These are the mysteries I could not approach when I was younger: the boulevards, the meteors, the deep desires that split the sky Walking down the paths of the cold park I remember myself, the one who can wait out anything So I caution the dog to go silently, to bear with me the burden of knowing what spins on and on above our heads For this is our reward:Come Armageddon, come fire or flood, come love, not love, millennia of portents-- there is a future in which the dog and I are laughing Born into it, the mystery, I know we will be saved

And, Another Thing

2010-03-05T19:48:00.000-05:00

Here's a podcast of an interview with Meghan O'Rourke. More good stuff, and interesting to note that many of the ideas we've shared here keep surfacing again and again.

A Podcast with Meghan O'Rourke : The New Yorker

Finding a better way to grieve: From The New Yorker

2010-03-05T18:51:00.000-05:00

For any of you who are interested, here's a link to the New Yorker story Cara mentioned. Excellent reading.

Finding a better way to grieve: newyorker.com

Further Thoughts

2010-03-04T20:01:00.005-05:00

I've been thinking about yesterday's post all day and I think what bugs me the most is the way these sorts of things - seeds of pop-science wisdom - seep into the culture. They affect the way all of us are treated by our physicians, how we're perceived by the people around us, and even how we view ourselves. More distorted scales and faulty yardsticks by which we can weigh and measure and find ourselves lacking or failing or falling behind.

Yesterday's example is cranky-making one, but the most egregious example I can think of is the continuing misunderstanding of what we have come to call the Stages of Grief. Forty-ish years ago, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross* wrote a wonderful book called On Death and Dying in which she examined the psychological process of coming to terms with one's own, imminent death. Her work changed for the better the way we deal with the terminally ill on every level. Somehow, early on, her research was co-opted by the culture of grieving and soon everyone dealing with death (their own or anyone else's) or just about any form of loss (being fired, getting divorced, moving, etc.) was urged to 'work the stages.' You remember the stages, right? 1.Denial 2. Anger 3. Bargaining 4. Depression 5. Acceptance. And, following Acceptance comes the unofficial sixth stage: Moving On.

Moving On is also known as 'getting back to normal' or 'getting over it.' And that's the stage that other people are really waiting for. Unfortunately, this life I'm living now isn't about stages. Nor should it be. There's plenty of current research on grief and bereavement that does not support the Stages model and, increasingly, therapists and support organizations that specialize in bereavement are moving towards recognizing that grief and grieving are not a cookie-cutter, step-by-step process. Unlike preparing for one's own death, there's not a definitive end in sight...there's just life - as much of it as might be left - to navigate. Unfortunately, it's taking a while for that message to reach the general (and not so general) public.

So, consider this me doing my part to spread the word. Because, I assure you, when your child dies, there is nothing neat about grieving; it does not happens in stages. It just is.

*I wanted her to have her umlaut, and I still don't know how to make them. I am reduced to stealing umlauts.

It's The Little Things

2010-03-03T20:46:00.006-05:00

It really is. The small smile-making things that can turn a day around. And also the littlest indignities and slights that can spawn a thunderstorm in your head.

For instance, earlier this evening I was wandering around a website that belongs to a friend of a friend. Just clicking through pages, really, getting a feel for the layout and the sorts articles they publish when a comment about stressors caught my eye: divorce was the second most stressful event, topped only by the death of a spouse. Seriously? Who makes these lists?

Now, I don't fault the website, or even the person who wrote the article, because you can find these "life stressors scales" just about anywhere (I've seen dozens of them) and - unless you are reading a list specifically ranking types of grief - you're not going to find "Surviving The Death of Your Child" on any of them. And, I'm not arguing the stress-factor of either of those events; I've been divorced (okay, a few times) and while I've not buried a spouse, I have read enough about grieving to know I'm in no hurry to. However, most of these lists are based on the Mother Of All Lists, also known as the Holmes-Rahe Scale. There's no child-death mentioned on the HRS...and so no child-death on any of the other lists either.

I wish I could make this go away by ignoring it, but I can't. The grief is huge and real and everyday is, as Renee once said, like walking a minefield. Even if it isn't on the list.

This is my Buddha Frog, dusted with snow. Imagine.

Other People's Words

2010-01-17T12:12:00.003-05:00

John Dufresne (one of my favorite writers - read him!) describes fiction as "a lie that tells the truth." It's an excellent metaphor, and the reason we so often find pieces of our lives buried in stories about people who never existed. For instance, this bit of honesty from The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society:

When my son, Ian, died at El Alamein-- side by side with Eli's father, John - visitors offering their condolences, thinking to comfort me, said, "Life goes on." What nonsense, I thought, of course it doesn't. It's death that goes on; Ian is dead now and will be dead tomorrow and next year and forever. There's no end to that.

Indeed.

Christmas Present - No Ghosts Allowed

2009-12-25T23:08:00.005-05:00

Christmas - the fifth without my girl - is almost over and I cannot say I'm sorry to see it go.

I spent most of the day with family; we gathered at my mother's house and there was too much food and too much wine and too much television. Way too much sugar in too many forms. And I wonder if I will ever get used to feeling so alone in such a crowd. Five nieces and nephews, three of my siblings, my mother...and I did not hear one person say her name all day. That's a lot of silence amidst all that noise.

Christmas Past - ca. 1991

December 11th - Again

2009-12-11T02:47:00.009-05:00

From the moment of Britt's death, I've struggled with verb tense; past or present? Britt is or Britt was? She loved or she loves? In the early days of my grief, the past tense enraged me. In some instances it still does. I have a daughter - not had. She is my only child - not was. It may seem a small thing, but it's important to me to acknowledge in the most precise way possible her continuing presence in my life.

In other ways, the past tense is just what comes naturally; she loved animals and books and Mexican food. She was a talented writer. And then there are those moments where the rules about shifting tenses do not apply and I slip and slide among them. What is, what was, what would have been.

Today is her birthday. She loved chocolate cake. She would have been 24.

Favorite Things

2009-12-07T04:41:00.004-05:00

Everyone's little girl has Christmas favorites. The things that make them squeal with delight when the boxes come down from the attic; things that are extra-special because they only come this time of year. Here are two of my girl's favorites.

Britt loved this book, a Night Before Christmas for the Deep South gang. No drifts of snow here, no fancy presents; just a sweet Christmas poem about family being the most important gift of all. Also, there's an elf named Jed, which always made her laugh. For the last few years, I've been looking for our copy of this book. Last night, my sister called to tell me that she'd found a box of Christmas things that belonged to me (stored in her attic during one of my many moves) and the book is now found.

Every year for her birthday (just two weeks before Christmas) one of Britt's presents was a new ornament for the tree. For four years running, nothing would do but this Hallmark set - Barbie! Dolls of the World! She loved them because "Barbie is perfect. And these are all Barbie. So, perfect can come from everywhere and look like everybody." Indeed. I gave this little collection to Miss Anna last night. Right now, she'll like them because they're Barbie. But later, we'll make sure she knows who they belonged to and what they meant to her.

Gratitude Break

2009-11-23T07:11:00.003-05:00

Well, here we are after a week of being sick and sore and are reminded - once again - that daily gratitude is harder than it sounds. It requires a certain quantity of graciousness and that can be hard to summon when you feel awful.

Of course, in retrospect, there was a lot to be grateful for in the past week. Doctors and medications and access to both. A corporate policy that allows for the accumulation of sick time and generally good health that means there are plenty of days saved up for when I really need them. A decent work ethic, which also contributes to those days being available for actual sickness. Family and friends who called or wrote with offers of care. Mojo (again) for being an excellent companion. Naps. And of course, David, who made soup and tea and fetched pills and books and blankets and rubbed my back and generally put up with a lot of not-so-gracious behavior from my sick and cranky self.

In an ideal world, I would have remembered to be grateful for all those things as I went along. Something to work towards, for sure.

Best Friends

2009-11-14T23:50:00.004-05:00

It's always good to be reminded who your best friend ever is, and why. Tonight, I went to a concert with mine and it was wonderful. Thanks for a beautiful night, Dave.

Homecoming, Redux

2009-11-13T23:54:00.004-05:00

Revisiting being grateful for coming home today, for different reasons. Home is good. Home is "in here" instead of "out there." Home is where everybody is always on your side. That hasn't always been the case in my life, but it is now. And that' s a whole lot for which to be grateful.

Homecomings

2009-11-12T23:09:00.005-05:00

Today (well, everyday, really) I am grateful for my dog, Mojo, and in particular for the humongous party he throws every time I come home. No matter where I've been or how long I've been gone, my return is cause for joyous celebration.

He barks, he whines, he waggles his head back and forth. He throws his whole self into the air and spins like a top. He races around the house. He is the very essence of exuberance. The party ends only after I have hugged him and petted him and allowed both my hands to be washed. Thoroughly. He's not sure where I go each day, but he's pretty sure I'm getting my hands all icky out there. He takes his clean-up job very seriously.

It is, quite frankly, marvelous. No matter how crappy the work day or the weather, no matter how tired I am or how achy I might be, how could I not love coming home to that?

And, really, look at that face. How could you not love that?

Considering Tomorrow

2009-11-11T22:32:00.003-05:00

Today I am thankful for making plans. For looking ahead and choosing to believe the odds are at least even we'll be around when the time comes to go a concert, gather for the holidays, or travel to a wedding. It's hard to walk the very thin line between this moment we know for certain we have and all the moments to come that are just a promise. Every day is a balancing act between being truly present in the moment and being willing to risk hoping for those moments to come. I don't always strike that balance well and it's good to have reminders that good things just might be lurking around the corner.

Here's a reminder that Halloween will come again: Jack and Anna all dressed up in next year's Halloween costumes (because their mom is super smart and bought on sale after trick-or-treat). I'm planning on seeing these costumes hit the road.

Doing Hard Things

2009-11-10T19:01:00.006-05:00

Living, I mean really living and not just getting through each day, might just be the hardest thing I do. Some days it's easier than others but no day is easy and remembering why I work so hard at it takes a lot of effort.

So, since it just makes sense to make things easier when you can, I'm going to spend the next sixteen days making a list of things in my life for which I am grateful. Some will be big and some not so much. In no particular order, each will be something that makes me smile, helps to center me, and keeps me moving in a generally forward direction.

Today's thing, first on my list, are my nieces and nephews; Britt's precious cousins. For those of you who don't know, I have six brothers and sisters (three of each) and among them they have twelve beautiful children. I used to dream of being an only child, but Britt did not love it. She was fortunate, though, to live close to some of her cousins and to get to visit the others. She adored her Capital C Cousin, Christopher. They were inseparable for most of their childhoods. She loved to talk about the weekend she spent at college with her cousin Amanda, and the time she went to Elizabeth City and her cousin Sean took her to coffee shop called "Muddy Waters." She went on a cruise with her cousins Bobby and Megan and her oldest cousin Susan's college graduation made her cry. Her little cousin Anna, born just a few months before her high school graduation, stole her heart. She never met her littlest cousin, Jack; he'll be two next week.

She loved her cousins with a fierceness that, not being an only child, I never quite understood. I love them, too, and am grateful for all the ways they remind me - every day - that good things continue to happen and that time, and I, must keep moving.

And, since no post is complete without at least one picture, here's one of my favorites: Britt as Bridesmaid to her cousin Amanda, in September of 2004.

Even Now, Peppers

2009-10-28T20:54:00.002-04:00

Fall is here, not that you could tell from our recent temperatures. We had a short cold snap, during which we remembered that we forgot to have the heat turned on when we ought to have. But it passed and it's been warm, if not particularly sunny, for the last week. And since we're no where close to our first frost, the garden continues to produce. The peppers especially seem reluctant to call it quits. This is the latest harvest and there are still plenty more to come.

There were a lot of grape and roma tomatoes, too, in a pretty yellow bowl. But, a rouge squirrel invaded the house last night and, before Dave could chase him out again, he managed to knock said bowl off the counter and send the tomatoes flying. He and Dave both stepped on a few and the whole mess ended up in the trash.

I really liked that bowl. Stupid squirrel.

Found Treasures

2009-09-26T05:40:00.004-04:00

One of the great things about gardening at an old house is the untold number of gardeners who've been there before you. Some of their handiwork is very obvious: the monstrous azaleas that flank the front steps, evergreen and tidy (with regular pruning!) that burst into hot pink glorious-ness at the first hint of spring; the deep-blue hydrangea at the corner of the front porch that blooms all summer and marks North East truer than the truest compass; the stately line of pecan trees that marches down the side yard, shading the house in summer, allowing the sun to warm us in the winter, and providing enough nuts for dozens of pies and cookies and brownies in between.

There are also the not-so-obvious things: the clumps of snowbells that randomly sprout and bloom near the front steps and in the side yard - out of zone and out of season and charming with their tiny white-with-green-polka-dots flowers; the amazing not-an-agapanthus that became three huge plants when I dug it up and moved it earlier this year (which is, by the way, something called a crinum lily and which continues to bloom at regular intervals. This picture was taken about an hour ago using the "night" setting on my camera); the confederate jasmine that has exploded in the corner where the hose-holder-with-faucet lives and which I am training to run down the railing of the back steps.

And, then, there is this:

One lone beautiful red lily that sprouted in the middle of the side yard. I've been here three summers now, and never seen that lily before. And if weeks of intermittent afternoon rains combined with these endless weeks in a sling hadn't conspired to keep us from mowing the grass, that lily wouldn't have stood a chance. I dug it up (obviously) and have every intention of replanting it in the back yard...and when I did, I also found these:

a handful of bulbs, each one waiting to be another lily! Some are now planted by the back gate and some have moved around the corner to my mama's house. All of them are a reminder that at least some of what we do in our brief time on this earth lasts, in ways we cannot possibly imagine, for years and years after we are gone.

Introducing 'Like Fire'

2009-09-22T04:14:00.009-04:00

You remember my friend Lisa, yes? Lisa and I egged each other on during May's blogathon and then practically abandoned our blogs together for the rest of the summer. Lisa - though she may not know it - is one of my role models. In all honesty, Lisa is sort of who I thought I'd grow up to be: she works at an Ivy League University in a big city; she's smart and funny and reads both widely and deeply; she's fiercely loyal. She buys used books on the street during her lunch-hour and is devoted to her four-legged friends; she's an incredibly talented artist, an inventive cook, and a master baker of cookies that are as pretty as they are delicious. She has more integrity than anyone I know and I'm not embarrassed to tell you that a rousing round of "What Would Lisa Do?" has become one of my major tools for getting through a difficult day. In short, Lisa rocks and I am a better person because I know her.

While my blog was languishing in favor of sitting on my porch and watching my garden grow, Lisa was busy putting together another blog....this one all about books and the people who read them and how those books change both the world we live in and how we look at it. Here's a link to her latest entry...check it out:

The Light Gleams an Instant, Then It's Night Once More (Like Fire)

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An Open Letter to My Friend, Caroline

2009-09-18T07:38:00.003-04:00

Dearest Caroline,

I just read (again!) your essay in A Few Thousand Words About Love and realized I had probably never told you how much it means to me. The first time I read it was just a few months after Britt was killed. I was visiting Katharine in Connecticut and she had a copy of the book on the table by the bed in her studio/guest cottage where I was sleeping. Just a few paragraphs in, I was crying so hard I could barely see and I'm afraid that section of her book is forever wavy from my tears. In the years since then, I've read it often and, the more time passes, the more I am struck by the truth of what you said: ..."as the capacity for pain grows, so does the capacity for joy. And when you know that sadness can visit at any time, your appreciation for happiness is overpowering."

Even in those very dark early days of my grief, you helped me decide not to be one of those people who allowed my grief to steal my life. I thought of you and your widows' group experience every time I went to a Compassionate Friends meeting...and granted myself permission to flee those rooms when the relentless "you will never be happy again" drum beat so loudly I couldn't hear myself think because you had done it, too.

These days I find joy in small and simple things...seeds that sprout in my garden, the exuberance of my dog, David's smile when I come home from work each day...things I know would also have given joy to Britt and though the grief is a tangible presence in each day so is her love and the love of my friends. I am so fortunate to count you among them.

much love to you,

d

P.S. - Those of you who don't know this book definitely should.

Why I Write

2009-09-09T21:19:00.006-04:00

Random stumbling and clicking around the Internets (following my friend Cara, because she was following me yesterday ;) made me land on this quote from one my most favorite writers:

“I write entirely to find out what I’m thinking, what I’m looking at, what I see and what it means.” -Joan Didion

That really does sum it up for me. It's all about getting the stuff that's inside my head out where I can see it. If I was uber-cool, I would have a picture of myself with Ms. Didion, snapped at some fancy party or a high-toned reading for this post. (If I was super uber-cool I'd know how to put an umlaut over the "u" in uber.) Alas, I am not, and so here's a picture of Cara's cool tattoo instead. Cara is so cool, she probably knows how to make an umlaut.

Continued World-Avoidance

2009-09-09T06:49:00.003-04:00

In an effort to retain what's left of my own sanity and ignore the lack of same being displayed all around me, let's continue to tour the tiny but pleasant space I call "home."

Here's another touch recently added to the kitchen....one step closer to being well and truly done. I'm not too fond of those tab-tops in this space, but one of my sisters assures me they are easy to get rid of and that will also help to shorten the curtains and keep them out of the sink when they are closed.

What I really like is how the zinnia patch threw up red and yellow flowers (very similar in tone to the colors in the living and dining room) and then also gave me greens and oranges to draw from. Even when this year's zinnia patch is done, I will still have all the colors of my summer flowers around me. That's a good thing.

Flower Break

2009-09-07T19:32:00.003-04:00

I have spent the last couple of days more engaged with the world than I really like to be of late and may I just say WTF?? Of course I can. It's my blog and I can say what I want. And one of the things I want to say is this: People are crazy. I mean seriously bat-shit crazy. And since I don't have a lot of energy for foolishness (particularly of the manufactured kind) and it completely wears me out...I quit. At least for the rest of the day I just refuse to put up with crazy people.

Let's look at my beautiful zinnias instead, shall we? I grew them from seed (a first for me in the flower department) and they have been just lovely out there in the garden for months. They came up in a rainbow of colors - pink and purple and yellow and red and white and orange and cream and even green - that have helped to inspire the ongoing painting projects in the house and they show no sign of letting up. Zinnias may be my new favorite flower.

Good Medicine

2009-09-04T07:14:00.003-04:00

Another thing I did while I wasn't posting for most of July and August was take a few days off work (really...I did!) and head to Atlanta to visit my mother in law. This was sort of huge as a) I rarely use vacation days for actual vacationing and b) Dave hates going away and so one has to drag him, kicking and fussing, into the car to get on the highway. It was a wonderful six days away.

Also, it was my favorite sort of vacation: spending time with people I love and just talking and lazing about and doing not much of anything. MIL and I went to IKEA (FUN!) and I found a cart full of things I couldn't do without and only spent $50. We visited the grounds of a Trappist monastery near her home and it was both incredibly peaceful and joyful. I spent one evening with two highschool friends I hadn't seen in years and their significant others and that was a joy as well. And, there was a puppy.

I spent the better part of six days making friends with Boots. Boots is bulldog/Jack Russel mix, only 5 months old, and well on his way to becoming a Damned Fine Dog. In the way of all puppies, he is full of energy, a little destructive, and sneaky as hell. Everything is new and exciting to a puppy and they just radiate happiness and a desire to please. I really did want to stuff him in a bag and bring him home with me (he's from the same litter we seriously considered getting another dog from and I still think Mojo needs a brother) but I also want my MIL to keep loving me...so I didn't steal her dog. I did enjoy cuddling him a lot: this shot pretty much sums up that vacation; good stuff.

The Garden Lives On

2009-09-02T07:13:00.003-04:00

One bad thing about not posting for so long is that I missed showing you some great photos of the garden during July and August. It's been pretty spectacular. With the exception of the tomatoes (it's been a bad year for tomatoes and my friend Cara, in Boston, has had the only brag-worthy crop I've heard about) everything has been gorgeous and delicious and - as Britt used to say - abundantly abundant. More cucumbers than we could eat, several rounds of eggplant that were yummy, bell peppers and banana peppers that have made Dave very happy, and - Oh! - those peas.

Those peas have been just incredible. We are still picking them (another full basket last night) and they are flowering again. (Do you think they heard me talking about pulling them up to make room for greens?) They are no longer that pretty....the rain has been constant and one has to sort of trample them to get to ones inside...but they are still producing. And, miracles do happen, I LIKE them. Me. Legume-hater me thinks these peas taste great. They are not grainy or sandy or gritty...they are just gooood. Which is just one more piece of proof that food you grow yourself Just Tastes Better.

Here's a shot of some peas in the kitchen...I've lost count of how many bags like this we've had. Yum.

The House of Many Colors (or, How Even a Good Memory Can Hurt)

2009-08-31T06:48:00.006-04:00

Years ago, we moved to the suburbs. Britt was starting middle school (6th grade) at a time when Savannah/Chatham County's middle schools were really struggling with security issues (drugs, random acts of violence, frequent lock-downs involving police squads and locker-sniffing dogs); in short, not the sort of environment we wanted for our girl. At the urging of her elementary school teachers, we sold our cool downtown town-home and hightailed it to the next county. For me, the move was disastrous. I found myself the only working mom on a cookie cutter cul-de-sac, with a one-way, hour long commute, and a brand new prescription for Celexa.

I starting painting the new house (decorated in seventeen shades of pink by the previous owners) and all the walls slowly turned to taupe. After the third room, Britt became a little alarmed. "Are all the rooms going to be this color?" she asked skeptically. "Mostly" I said. I pulled out all the designer talked I learned in my years at the design firm. Taupe is an excellent neutral. Taupe is a perfect backdrop. Taupe is timeless. Taupe, truly, was how I felt on the inside and I wanted to surround myself with its numbing sameness, one room at a time. "Ick" was her reply. And then, she looked me in the eye and "One day, I am going to have my own house and every room is going to be a different color, bright and flashy, and it will drive you crazy, mama." And then she flashed me a wicked grin and I laughed and allowed as she was probably right but that I would visit anyway and try to bite my tongue. But, that was a long way off and I did let her pick a vibrant blue for her room and we moved on.

Fast forward eleven years to this funky little farm house on the edge of town. I spent the weekend of August 8th and 9th painting the kitchen a bright apple green. And, as I wandered from room to room gathering supplies and taking short breaks, I slowly realized that - unconsciously - we have created the house of Britt's long-ago dreams. I was standing on the counter (not - regardless of what some people might say - an unreasonable place to be while a painting a kitchen) lost in the memory of that conversation and thinking how much she would really love the yellow living room, the red dining room, the new apple-y kitchen...and walked right off the counter into mid-air. Gravity being a law and not a suggestion, the moments that followed were not pretty. Urgent care visit, x-rays, sling....waiting for an MRI and hoping that I wont need surgery to repair a torn tendon or muscle in order to regain the use of my arm...yada, yada. I hope they get it sorted out and fixed soon, because the guest room is next on the painting list. I'm thinking a reddish orange...Britt would like that.

Finally, because no post is complete without pictures, here are a few shots of The House of Many Colors.

The living room:

The dining room:

And a couple of views of the kitchen (which still needs new curtains, but is otherwise finished, thanks to Dave who valiantly jumped in at the end and tied up all my loose ends):

Fourth of July

2009-07-04T11:20:00.002-04:00

Here's how the garden grows on July 4th:

This picture was actually taken last weekend-ish. But, it's a good shot of the garden and I've been a little slack about posting, so here you are.

Yesterday, in response to a unprovoked attack by a rouge avian, I added sparkly pinwheels to the back plot. Aesthetically questionable, but festive!, and so far the birds seem to be hating the glinting and random twirling and that's what counts. Also, Britt taught me to be a lover of the funky and unpredictable and I think the sparkly pinwheels would have made her laugh.

Finally, here's Mojo taking his morning siesta behind the peas. I planted those seeds just 24 days ago and am just blown away. I have no idea what comes next. Will they flower? Just start sprouting pods? It's a mystery. Buddha Frog, Mojo, and I will keep an eye on them a let you know what happens.
Later this afternoon we are having a cookout. Mostly, I think, because I posted here that we are not Cookout People...and no one could come up with a good reason why. We like to eat, we like parties, we mostly like each other. Seems odd not to gather when the occasion warrants it and grill things. So, today we will. Mom's newly remade backyard will be our backdrop and I hope everyone remembers to dress in some sort of red/white/blue combination (because the pictures will look more festive that way!). I've made baba ganoush from eggplants I harvested over the last few days...no idea if it's right...but it's garlicky and that cannot be a bad thing.

And, I'll muddle through another holiday without my girl and try to find some rightness amid all the wrongness of her being gone.

Saturday

2009-06-27T08:33:00.005-04:00

Saturday mornings are almost as good as Sunday mornings. There's a little more bustle from the neighbors and a little more traffic...but Mojo and I are still the only ones awake at our house (the joys of 20-year old house guests!) and have time to experience the morning hours in the garden the way we don't when I have to head to work.

For instance, 8 o'clock-ish is a good time to examine the Mexican Petunia. It's a slow waker in the morning...and it goes to bed pretty early. But at 8 AM all its flowers are open and it's quite stunning. My sister tells me that two or three of these made a massive hedge at her former Florida abode. I've no idea how big it will get here (in Clearwater they make hedges out of hibiscus and I am jealous every time I think about that) but even smallish, I think it's striking.

Also, we have a new friend in the garden. I admit it. I have a weakness for funky animals scattered about. Also for chickens and tall skinny birds. Yesterday, my mama gave me this perfectly perfect tall, skinny chicken. His name might be Roger...but maybe not. It's early yet. Watch for him in new places, too, because I also like to rearrange things.

Daybreak

2009-06-26T07:19:00.003-04:00

I love being out in the garden early in the morning. Everything looks its best...ready to greet the day. There's a whole lotta optimism right before the sun finishes coming up and I like to wander around and try to soak some of it up and take it with me out into the world.

The agapanthus are blooming....I just love those lily-ish flowers and I thank my friend Marta, again, for identifying them for me. They are not your every-day-run-of-the-mill agapanthus (at least not in these parts; I see a lot of a smaller variety with their tiny purple flowers that make perfect round bunches) and I wonder about the woman who planted and tended this striking speciman. I hope she'd be pleased that it's moved and divided and having a second chance at being the star in someone's garden. The plants themselves still look a little ragged from their move. Marta advised chopping the leaves to a third of their length to give them more energy to settle in. I think it paid off.

And here's a shot of the new garden plot right before it started to rain. There are flowers on all the new cherry tomatoes and the sad little bargin-bin romas are recovering nicely. (Notice the last of the marigolds are inside the garden...I finally decided my nasturtiums weren't going to sprout. Next year, I'll plant them earlier.)

Growing Things

2009-06-23T21:50:00.006-04:00

Let's just talk about the garden, shall we? I think we should.

This weekend I found some beautiful marigolds that Britt would have loved. Here they are, marching around the edge of the new plot. Notice that the peas are still crazy...and the second set have sprouted. Madness. And the zinnia's have sprouted...but I have no idea how long it will take them to flower.

There's also a Beginning Eggplant. Eggplant in training. Yum.

I also found a lovely salvia, called Black and Blue...because it is. I like it when things are called just what they are.

And, there are buds on the agapanthus I moved...and that's a good sign, yes?

Finally, I am am saddened by Ed McMahon's death. Years ago (1996/97-ish), we lived next door to his sister-in-law (sister to his current wife, Pam) and her daughter. Amanda was a member of my Brownie troop and she adored Britt in the way that all younger girls did. About two years after we moved to the burbs, Amanda's mom passed away (she'd been in serious motorcycle accident a few years before we met them and had many complications) and Amanda went to stay with Aunt Pam and Uncle Ed. Somewhere, I have a beautiful picture of Britt and Amanda and Amanda's mom, Deborah Hurn, taken at our Christmas Day Open House ca. 1997; I'm not even going to look for it, though. It's too sad. Britt and Deborah both gone and little Amanda lost to us through the passage of time. I hope she's well today, and surrounded by enough love to see her through another loss.

More Evidence of Random Chaos

2009-06-23T07:06:00.002-04:00

I've talked a little bit before about my ever increasing surety that the Universe is governed by nothing but random chaos. Attempts to find order or reason in things that happen just make my head hurt.

For instance, this headline that was sent to my in-box from the Atlanta Journal Constitution on Sunday: Mother arrested for locking 4-month-old twins in car while shopping.

REALLY?? THIS woman gets to have not one, but TWO, children?? I don't have the words to tell you what I think about that. Seriously....WTF??

So, I am happy to report that a passerby heard the babies crying, saw them, and called the police. The babies were checked out at a local hospital and released to the their father and the so-called mother is cooling her heels in the jail house. I was nauseous for two days and am reminded, again, while I gave up watching and reading the news.

A Short Tour on a Long Day

2009-06-20T09:33:00.005-04:00

Today is Midsummer's Eve, one of Britt's favorite days. She liked to be outside for as much of the daylight as possible and on into the night. In years past she'd have a bonfire and invite her friends to hang out and dance and sing and celebrate the changing of the seasons and the coming of the longest day of the year. It's going to be a very long day in more ways than one, I think, and one that requires keeping busy.

I've mowed the grass in the back yard (what's left of it) and done a little weeding and trimming in the places the mower won't go. I've taken some pictures to document the eggplants that are forming now that they can breathe and the pepper that's growing and growing but refusing to turn red. Also the second set of peas which are beginning to sprout, right on schedule. (Still amazed by that, I am.)

Also, for those of you who are far away - which I think might be everyone except my mama - (Hi, Mommy!) here's a short video tour of the backyard. It's not fancy, but it's home and I love it.

Victories and Disappointments

2009-06-16T22:12:00.006-04:00

First, lets talk about disappointments. Sometimes, as I know all too well, things don't work out as planned. Sometimes it's big important things and sometimes it's just squash. The squash are, as Britt would say, no more. They are former squash. I'd like to blame their demise on the copious amounts of rain that fell in May (20+ inches!) or the aphids or, you know, anything but me. But, since honesty is the rule here, I am compelled to tell you that I simply planted the original garden plot too thickly. I choked the squash out...and today, in an effort to keep the eggplants alive and to save the peppers which were being threatened by the leaning eggplants, I was forced to rip out both the zuchinni and the crooknecks. They were never going to bear and they were taking up entirely too much room. It was a little nauseous-making and I am trying to take comfort in the knowledge that they would soon have rotted where they sat. Let's all hope the eggplant will be happier, shall we?

In better news, the peas are off to a most amazing start. Pictures really are the best way to get the full effect, so here you are:

Friday, as the seeds begin to break ground:

Saturday morning, before I left for the beach (10 AM-ish); you could watch the seeds popping out of the ground:

Saturday afternoon, when I got home from the beach (2 PM-ish), there were leaves...in 4 hours !! This picture was taken early Sunday morning.

Moday:

And, finally, this morning before work:

You'll notice I managed to get the permanent edging around the new plot (thanks, Dave!) and bought a few solar lights to test them out in the garden. Also, the Buddha Frog has migrated again. He's a mover, that guy. The peas are in need of thinning and I'm still waiting to see progress of any meaningful sort from the other seeds. They are starting to come up, but nowhere near as hurriedly as those peas. Those peas are a little crazy.

Dirt...Plus Some Stuff

2009-06-12T18:38:00.002-04:00

So, the new garden is coming along. Definitely a work in progress, but we have tomato starts and seeds are in the ground. The paths are dug and waiting for mulch. The boards are a temporary boundary until suitable fencing can be found. The Buddha Frog has migrated. A storm came through last night, which accounts for the leaves and debris...but soon I hope to see all sort of green things sprouting.

Just Dirt

2009-06-08T07:59:00.002-04:00

Right now, it's just a big patch of dirt. Roughly 17' square and a little wobbly around its edges. But soon, it will be an actual kitchen garden. It will have tomatoes and lettuce and white acre peas. Also some flowers, just because they are pretty. There will paths to walk on and - eventually - some sort of fence around it. Hide and watch.

Time Passes

2009-06-05T21:12:00.005-04:00

...and carries us along with it. Indeed.

Then (4/25):

Now (6/5):

Also, there are cucumbers. Well, there were. We ate them.

tempus fugit

Fits of Unreasonableness

2009-06-01T21:29:00.006-04:00

Do you remember being young enough to say 'it's not fair!' and really believe - while you were saying it - that fairness mattered? I truly don't. Being one of the youngest of seven children I don't remember fairness having much to do with anything. Being older and bigger counted for a lot. Being the littlest counted sometimes. I wasn't either of those and I remember realizing at a pretty young age that sometimes you win or get or have, and sometimes you don't and that's the way life worked. I do remember Britt's struggles with fairness, though, and I think of them on days like today when I'm searching for some small measure of balance in a tilted universe.

Most days, I find the balance, usually only in my head and usually only after giving myself a stern talking to along the lines of 'life's not fair, Deb' or 'no one ever promised it was going to be easy.' Some days, though, I just don't feel like lecturing myself and I allow myself to wonder out loud if perhaps the universe doesn't think it's heaped enough huge piles of crap on my head...it has to also do things like make parking near the bookstore impossible while it's storming (I've seriously considered asking my doctor for a handicap tag for my car but I don't think emotional handicaps count) or infest my garden with aphids (really? What's next? Locusts? Hmm?). In the interest of fairness and balance shouldn't I - just occasionally - get a pass? Shouldn't I be able to ask the world in general "Are you KIDDING me?"

Well, of course not. And I know that. If things worked that way, well, life would would be a whole lot different for all of us. So, I don't give in to fits of unreasonableness often, or for long, but I do occasionally have them. I figure I'm owed that much.

Finish Line

2009-05-31T20:06:00.006-04:00

Here we are, on the 31st of May and this is my 31st post of the month. By my unofficial blogathon-record-keeping that makes me an official runner and not a water-girl. Imagine that.

It's been quite a month in some respects and quite ordinary in others. Spring finally came and has started sliding slowly into summer. Work is busier as it is this time every year. Dave is busier too, as the summer travelers descend upon us. The garden has taken a lot of time...but it's good to be outside and occupied and to go to bed most nights genuinely and honestly tired.

I've spent more time really talking to people this month and am grateful beyond measure for the good, true friends in my life. Even though most of you are far away, you remain as close as my keyboard and my cellphone and I am lucky to have you in my life. And, I've spent more time - some every day! - writing, which is probably the best gift I could have given to myself. Special thanks to are due to my friend Sue for the nudge that finally worked and to dearest, darling Lisa (Happy Birthday, honey!) for being my Tag-along Blogathon Buddy.

I intend to keep this up. Maybe not every day, but most days...just because I like being here and I like knowing that you're all out there. I'm learning new things every day - about the world and about you and about myself. And those are all good things, yes?

To close out the month, here are some pictures of how the garden looks today:

Garden from the front

Garden from the side (note how the cucumber has escaped!)

Garden - Right Side (I really love that frog.)

Garden from the middle

Garden - Left Side

And also, a picture of Mojo, who loves being outside almost as much as I do. He's a good dog.

Noise In My Head

2009-05-30T22:21:00.007-04:00

Some days, there is a lot of noise in my head. It's there when I wake up - a low buzzing chatter of 'what ifs' and 'if onlys' and 'whys.' The noise can be deafening and also crippling. I've found there are only two ways to deal with it: constant motion or surrender. To surrender to the noise is to spend the whole day in my pajamas, curled up and alternately crying and sleeping. I do this occasionally and think it helps keep me sane. Today was not about surrender, but motion, and I am tired.

I slept for twelve hours last night and woke with that buzzing in my head. I made coffee and went out to inspect the garden. Not nearly enough work to do there these days...the garden has reached the 'watch and wait' stage. So, instead, I starting moving. I grabbed my mom and we headed downtown. The original plan was bagels and the library. I missed the turn to the bagel place about the same I remembered the new Farmers' Market in The Big Park downtown. So we revised our plan (okay, I revised and Mom - who's very good at going along for the ride - said okay) and headed there instead. The market was small but had a great assortment of vegetables and plants, mostly organic, and the marvelous egg-farmers I met at the GreenFest a few weeks ago were there. I bought a few tomatoes, a bibb lettuce plant to add to the garden and some patty-pan squash which I've heard of but never seen before and they are fun-looking, like flying saucers:

Then we hit the coffee shop at the edge of the park. The Sentient Bean may be the best-named coffee shop ever, particularly since it is also a totally organic vegetarian cafe. Also it's local and they display art from the local art school and have a diverse clientele and it's just all around a better experience than going to Starbucks. Mind, I love Starbucks, but Starbucks is the Disneyland of coffeehouses - too smooth around the edges and I wish I lived closer to the Sentient Bean because I would hang out there on the funky purple sofas and watch people and write more.

After coffee, we scooted back up the street to the library. I found several books about kitchen gardens (always good to read up AFTER you've begun a project, yes?), a good bird-guide for Dave, Christopher Moore's Fool and a couple of Haven Kimmel novels. (I've never read any Kimmel but I am inclined toward liking her work). Mom found some books she liked too, and you cannot ask for much more out of a library trip than that.

I took mom home after the library but I didn't stop moving for long. Home to stash the vegetables and books and then back out to the salon where I got a new, much shorter do. I like it...no pictures yet, though. Then an early supper with Dave, a short exploration of the fancy-pants nursery on the corner across from the restaurant, back to mom's to show off the hair and then home.

My sister, Stephi, came by - which is always nice - and then a little later Anna and Jack and the Parental Units brought their dog to visit Mojo. And on and on and on...until I finally sat down to write this. I'm finally tired enough to sleep, I think. I hope it will be quieter tomorrow.

Family Portraits

2009-05-29T20:32:00.004-04:00

Tonight, it's pictures again.

Christmas, 1989

Noon Day Baptist Church, Swainsboro, GA
Harbuck Family Reunion, 1990

Britt's High School Graduation - Effingham County High School - May 21, 2004

The Antidote to Feh

2009-05-28T20:27:00.007-04:00

In the last couple of days I've been doing a lot of thinking about what it means to be the mother of a gay child. Musing a lot about the obligations and responsibilities inherent therein, above and beyond the already overwhelming ones that come with with motherhood in general. And the magnification of those obligations and responsibilities now that my girl is gone and cannot speak for herself. It's a lot to get a handle on and when I posted on Tuesday about my disappointment in the California Supreme Court's decision in the Prop 8 case I was feeling more than a little discouraged.

The two days since have been a little bit of a marvelous discovery, though, and also uplifting. First, there's been the response of my nearest and dearest friends. All predictably - but not inconsequentially - supportive of equal rights for the GLBT community. I am fortunate to be surrounded with their love. Second, there has been the willingness of people to discuss the issue and voice their support in some very public spaces: here and at Facebook and at work. And there has also been a lot of wonderful writing on the subject and I rejoice, once again, to be living in the Information Age, where words can travel around the world in an instant and access to them is unfettered by time or location.

The Atlanta Journal Constitution emailed me a news update that was actually NEWS (rather than celebrity gossip or sports statistics) for once: Two of the three major candidates for Mayor in Atlanta unequivocally support the right of gays to marry. The third openly supports 'civil unions' (I'm pretty sure we've tried 'separate-but-equal' before and it didn't work...) but his past comments and actions suggest he personally supports gay marriage but hasn't quite worked out being comfortable saying so on the campaign trail. That's pretty huge for Georgia and I am very pleased. Salon and the SF Chronicle have, of course, had some excellent columns. But the best thing I've read yet is this blog post by author Haven Kimmel.

I encourage you all to read it, especially and particularly those of you I haven't heard from or talked with. Because this isn't about religion, or what you think about homosexuality. It not about what you fear or don't understand. It's about civil rights. Plain and simple. Yours and mine and Britt's.

Think about it.

New Things

2009-05-27T21:01:00.005-04:00

This has been a month for trying new things. In addition to the vegetable garden (which is revisiting an old but good thing), I am growing herbs. I am excited about roasting chickens seasoned with my own rosemary and thyme. I am looking forward to bolognese made with the oregano I am growing (and that smells just like Nana, really). Also, I made pesto.

I grew the basil and then I harvested the basil and then I turned it into pesto. All by myself. With email help from Lisa, of course, but she's in the Bronx..not here...and I think that qualifies as mostly by myself. I was smart enough to email her before I started, and I thought of that myself. Or, as Britt used to say, bymyownself.

This is the bowl of basil leaves, after the harvest:
And this is the finished product...yum!

This is the basil plant (sharing its pot with the parsley), after the harvest. Also, after I moved it out of reach of the encroaching cucumber plant.

Feh.

2009-05-26T20:45:00.005-04:00

Today I find my disgusted with the entire state of California. Exemptions are granted, of course, to the handful of people I know and love there. Also to the turtles at a particular pond in GG park, because I love them, too, even if they are not quite evolved enough to love me back. All the rest of it is on My List.

The reason, of course, is the decision the California State Supreme Court announced today in which they declined to overturn Proposition 8. They also declined to invalidate the 18K marriages that took place among Gay & Lesbian couples during the short period of time during which equal protection under was actually recognized in California (for which I applaud them, even as I consign them to My List), and thereby paved the way for another referendum/ballot intiative/vote on whether or not California - like so many other state in this country - will continue to deny the rights guaranteed by the 14th Amendment to a portion of its citizens.

Britt did not live long enough to see her country rise above this bigotry. She died knowing that there were people in her own family who thought she was good enough to be in their weddings...but not good enough to deserve one of her own. In her memory, and because I know it's the Right Thing to do, I'll continue to support equality for all Americans. I hope I live long enough to see it.

Memorial Day

2009-05-25T22:24:00.005-04:00

I never know what to do with myself on these sorts of holidays. Though I love everything about cookouts, my family are not really 'backyard cookout' sorts. We don't have a Memorial Day parade here in Savannah (why is that? are we not sufficiently recovered from St. Paddy's Day?) and I don't live in an actual neighborhood, so there weren't any block parties to wander to or neighbors' porches to hang out on. An extra day off work (a holiday my company actually recognizes!) and nothing special to do with it.

So, I puttered around the yard some, cleaning up the debris from the rain. I puttered in the garden some, finding new things for the cukes to climb on and moving the pot that holds the basil and the parsley out of reach of the cukes. I inspected the rose bush and cut a few dying fronds off the small palm out front. And, I harvested basil and made pesto from my own garden. (That's a special excitement that involved a lot of Googling and a few emails to Lisa.)

I hung out with Dave a lot and- of course - stayed up too late. Tomorrow, it's back to work.

Under Water

2009-05-24T22:30:00.006-04:00

Britt loved a good storm. Long ones, short ones, violent ones, quiet ones. It's been raining for almost two weeks and though it's starting to make me a little nuts, she'd be loving it. Not that she didn't love the sun, mind...being on the beach or in the river on a sunny day was one of her favorite things. But, seriously...she would have loved these puddles.

Cousin

2009-05-23T21:32:00.004-04:00

Britt has a lot of cousins. There are a cool dozen of them and she loved each one of them* in the way that perhaps only an only child can. But, though she had so many cousins, she had only one Cousin.

Cousin was what she called my nephew Christopher. Christopher is nine months older than Britt and for years they were inseparable. They went to school together, played together, and got in trouble together. And when she died, his heart broke right along with ours. The years since have been hard for him.

Today, I spent a few hours editing Cousin's college application essay and talking to him about his plans for the future. Britt would love the idea of him off at college...of him making plans. I love it, too.

*Britt never met her littlest cousin, Jack, but she would have loved him to pieces.

Memories

2009-05-22T21:24:00.003-04:00

Sometimes, a picture (or five) really is worth a thousand words.

This Is The Story

2009-05-21T22:14:00.004-04:00

Today's post is brought to you by my friend, Lisa, normally found over at Mappa Mundi. The rules say we have to blog every day...but they don't say where!

This is the story of how Debi and I got to be friends. We met for the first time when I came down to Savannah for her wedding, which I realize is kind of an odd order to proceed in – usually you're friends with someone first and THEN eventually you go to her wedding.

We knew each other online in a casual way for a couple of years through Readerville. We had corresponded, but I don't think either of us could have picked the other out of a lineup. Still, when she put out the informal invitation, something called to me. That year I was single after a long spell of being attached and I was rolling in the freedom, the feeling that I could go wherever I wanted and do whatever struck my fancy, and that after a long stretch of child rearing the child in question was not only old enough to fend for himself for a long weekend but take care of the dog as well. I was ripe for an adventure.

And since I had no money, that expanded the definition of adventure because it meant… ROAD TRIP! I don’t even remember how the details got worked out. The whole thing snowballed, and suddenly I had plans to meet up with friends in Philly and drive down to Savannah from there, and hook up with a fourth friend who was flying down from Massachusetts and who had enough Marriott points for a free luxury suite. I could wear stockings with seams and maybe have a fling. It just sounded like fun: that was enough. I made her a marzipan wedding cake topper. I made a road trip cd. I was set to connect.

When I cut out of work that Thursday evening a blizzard was brewing, and took a bit too much time at the post office mailing off a package of books to a guy I liked. By the time I hit the road it was snowing like crazy, and I can honestly say that ride down the New Jersey Turnpike was the scariest drive of my life. I played the road trip cd nonstop for the entire 2½ hours it took me to get to Philadelphia, singing along the whole time, much of it in a tiny, quavery, scared voice.

But I made it, and we hit the road early the next morning and sailed down the eastern seaboard. I had driving amnesty for most of the day because of my horrible trip the night before, and I sat in the back seat, joyously eating Cadbury Crème Eggs and feeling really pleased with the world.

We hit Savannah sometime after dark and met up with Debi’s party, and there was no drama, no heavenly chorus. We’d all had internet friends before and eventually gotten together with them face-to-face, and we were all, as I remember, pretty blasé about it. The first time I ever met an online friend in the flesh we had to make the requisite jokes about axe murderers and crazy stalkers and all that, even though we knew we were both normal as could be. But by 2005, sitting in a smoky bar in Savannah, where I’d never been before, talking to a bunch of people I considered friends but had never seen before, it felt normal.

And I think that normalcy is what cemented things for us. We didn’t have to waste time fussing around with axe-murderer jokes. There was nothing strange about meeting Debi’s family – her mama, her wonderful Nana, and Britt. Looking beautiful in her robin’s-egg blue dress, with her tattoo and her irrepressible smile – in retrospect, I’m just thunderstruck with thanks that I got to a chance to talk and laugh with Britt on such a bright, happy day. In retrospect, what was great about all of it – and why I think Debi and I are friends now – is because it was all rolled up into a solid ball of slightly sweeter-than-usual averageness. A special day, but at the same time it’s just what we DID, out of a freeform desire to have adventures and make friends and have some stories to tell.

So when things did get very bad, we had that bridge – a combination of unexceptional motivations and at the same time, that desire to connect.

And here we are. These are funny times. We have the tools to relate deeply and at the same time to hold each other at arms’ length, our choice. Me, I’ve done a lot of connecting. I didn’t have a fling at Debi’s wedding but now I’m living with the guy I mailed those books to, and it’s probably a good thing that none of us know the future. It’s definitely a good thing when we take the chances we’re offered. That’s all it is, really – taking chances. That leap of faith. Going on a crazy road trip to somebody’s wedding, laughing with her daughter, driving home again. And here we are.

(I don't have a picture of us either! We need to get together and fix that.)

Fearless

2009-05-20T21:33:00.004-04:00

My friend Lisa and I were talking about bugs earlier (we're odd that way) and it made me think about all the times that Britt, who was my self-appointed bug killer, dispatched large - and sometimes flying - creepy-crawlies that had made their way into our house. That made me think of all the many ways in which Britt really was fearless...in ways that sometimes scared me when she was young and that I learned to admire as she grew older. Those thoughts, in turn, reminded me of a conversation I had last month with one of her professors (who has become a cherished friend) about some of the ways in which the experience of losing has changed me.

One of the biggest changes is the absence of run-of-the-mill anxiety in my life. About 12 years ago (give or take a few years...time is so fuzzy these days) I was robbed at gun point right in front of my house. A horrible experience all the way around that left me with intermittent panic attacks and a random free-floating fear of almost anything. Being alone, strange places, strange people, new situations, large crowds, being out after dark...you name it. I was just afraid all the time. These days, not so much. But I never really thought about it until last month when I went up to Statesboro to have lunch with Laura. Our conversation was somewhat disjointed - we see each other rarely and tend to hop from subject to subject, trying to say everything all at once - but at some point she mentioned getting nervous about something and I heard myself tell her "That doesn't happen to me any more. After all...what could possibly happen to me that could be worse?"

Ever since, I've been turning that over in my head. How should you live a life when the worst possible thing that could happen has already happened and you're still standing? What might be possible when you really do know that you can survive the worst possible thing? And what obligations come with that? It's a lot to ponder and I welcome your thoughts.

One other thing: I mentioned earlier in the month that I was jumping on my friend Sue's coat-tails this month and unofficially joining her blog-a-thon by committing to posting once a day during May. My friend Lisa, who posts over at Mappa Mundi, is coat-tailing with me. Sue's post for today alerted us to the blog-a-thon's 'Guest Blogger Day' tomorrow and Lisa graciously invited me to swap with her. So I'll be posting at Lisa's place and she'll be posting here. I hope you'll visit both and say hello.

More Gardening

2009-05-19T21:47:00.004-04:00

Today was one of those days. One of those took-everything-I-had days. So, in lieu of anything deep or pithy, here are the shots of the garden today. (Yes, I take pictures of the garden every day. Doesn't everyone?)

This is the first beginning eggplant - Britt would say 'eggplant in training.' Look at the beautiful color on the backs of those leaves.

These tomatoes are destined for caprese-land.

Future squash...

The tiniest hint of a bell pepper:

And, an extremely rare shot of Mojo, being still. (Mo is part Border Collie and part German Shepherd. Stillness in not in his genes.)

Twenty Questions...Or Even Just One?

2009-05-18T21:48:00.003-04:00

Lots of people read this blog. Not I'm-gonna-get-a-book-deal lots, but way more than ever post responses. I know this because you write to me about a particular post or I start to tell you something and you say 'I know...I saw that on your blog.' Which is fine, better than fine - it's great. I know you're out there and you know I'm over here and it is, as Britt would say, all good.

But, still, I'm over here sometimes wondering what it is you're not saying. What it is you're thinking about all these words I'm throwing out there. Is there something you want to know that I haven't talked about? If we call it 'free pass' day, is there something you want to say? I'd really love to hear. So, I'll make you a deal: if you can be brave enough to ask the question, I'll be brave enough to answer it. Or if want to tell me what it's like to live over there with me over here...go ahead. I'm all ears.

Anyone? Bueller?

And, because I've become addicted to posting pictures on the blog, here's a picture of Britt's 6th birthday party. She lived her whole life this way...surrounded by people she loved who loved her, too.

Tantrum In My Head

2009-05-17T19:13:00.003-04:00

Here's something you might have guessed: some days, I am very angry. Pissed off, perturbed beyond all reason, beyond annoyed with absolutely every one and every thing. Inside my head, I am a three year-old in full blown tantrum mode and I want to scream and hurl myself to the floor and kick things. I want to say out loud all the angry, hurtful, hateful things I am thinking and smash things into a million little pieces.

Of course, I don't do any of those things. I get snappy and snippy and start fights with Dave over what's for dinner or the current temperature of the air indoors as opposed the air outside. I mow the grass at a breakneck speed in the face of an approaching storm and ponder, abstractly, the odds of being struck by lightning. I do laundry until there isn't a single thing left in the house that needs washing. Then I wash things that aren't dirty. And I cry. A lot. Because it has to come out somehow and that full blown tantrum isn't going to cut it.

People will forgive a lot, I know. But there are lines that really cannot be crossed, words you cannot say because you can never unsay them, things you cannot put together after they've been broken; and so there are times, and places in my head, where I'll always be alone. And that is just one more thing that pisses me off.

On a cheerier note, here's a picture of Re-bar Chicken. I bought him at a roadside junk store about a dozen years ago. I saw him and just had to have him. Britt was the only person who ever understood the attraction. I miss how she really got me.

Best Laid Plans

2009-05-16T23:29:00.004-04:00

I had given myself permission to make Saturday my Wordle day. So, I made a wordle...but I cannot make it show up here. It worked last week and now it won't. So, instead, you get more pictures of the garden, which is fine. This time in the vegetable garden was Britt's favorite: every day something new has happened. We have itty-bitty cucumbers; she would like that.

Modern-Day Dilemmas

2009-05-15T21:11:00.003-04:00

Today I heard a bittersweet story about an old man and a digital picture frame. The old man in this story has early onset dementia and having pictures around helps him to remember faces he might otherwise forget. It also helps his caregivers to have a glimpse or several of the wonderful life he lived Before. So, in this very modern age, his daughters thought a digital picture frame would be a wonderful gift for him. Makes sense, yes? After all, space is limited in those assisted living places and there are only so many surfaces and so much wall space to accommodate frames. With a digital frame you can have hundreds of pictures...perfect. Only, not so much. One day, the daughters noticed that the old man had covered the picture frame with an article of clothing. Not one casually tossed, but one carefully placed to hide the pictures. When questioned, he explained that the picture frame made him uncomfortable. He'd look and see one picture and them look at it again and it was changed. And then changed again. He thought his mind was playing terrible tricks on him and he couldn't bear it.

I have one of those digital picture frames, too. I mostly love it. It was a present from Dave and he has loaded it with hundreds of pictures from the last last twenty-something years. It sits on my desk at work and every morning I boot up my computer and turn on my frame. Like most things that are there all the time it's mostly background after a year; like the pictures on my bookshelves and the framed certificates on my wall, I don't spend a whole lot of time just looking at it. But, every once in a while, I happen to glance over at it and am struck by the image on the screen. And every once in a while I am just felled by one and have to leave my office and go outside to the little smoking patio in the back and talk to the lab cats and collect myself. Like this one, of Britt crabbing on Kilkenny Creek. This one gets me every time.

Some Days, That's All You Get

2009-05-14T21:28:00.002-04:00

Today, I am wiped out. Hintings and hauntings and trying to keep my wits about me. Some days are easier than others, but today was a hard one. So, while I take myself off to bed early, here's another picture for you. This is one of my favorite pictures of me and Britt:

What It's Like

2009-05-13T21:26:00.004-04:00

I've been spending some time looking at old pictures lately, partly because it's something to do while I wait for the garden to need me and partly because pictures are a good way to remind me of the many things I want to say here. (Also, they make my posts look longer and give you something to do here if I'm babbling.)

This is a great picture:
It's Britt (second from left, for those of you who didn't know her when she was small) with her cousins, Chris, Bobby, and Megan. In case the giant mouse head on the lawn didn't clue you in, it was taken at Disney World where the cousins (and my sister Stephanie and I) had a grand time, marred only by the approximately three minutes that Megan - the youngest of the bunch - was lost. At Disney. The story had a happy ending (Megan's off at college preparing to be a doctor now) but anyone who's ever lost a child at the mall or the playground or in the house or at Disney knows what those three minutes were like. Panic. Fear. Dread. The overwhelming need to do something, to fix it, to make it right. The knowledge of the rightness of knowing that everything else must. stop. until this nightmare is over. The surge of adrenaline that makes you know you would do, could do anything...and then the crashing waves of relief when you see that tear-stained face, rushing towards you. You can breathe again and the anvil that was on your chest disappears and life. is. good.

Now, imagine - just for a moment - that the crashing wave of relief never comes. You will spend the rest of your life just inches from that place. Panic, fear, and dread live just below the surface of every minute of every day. And the world doesn't stop and the nightmare is never over but you have to find a way to breathe anyway. That's what it's like.

Riding the Wave

2009-05-12T21:47:00.005-04:00

Not long ago, I was completely undone when I spotted a ladybug in my garden. My girl loved ladybugs and used to bring them to me whenever she found one so I could make a wish on it before she let it go. I never knew where she got the idea for making wishes on ladybugs. I asked her once when she was about eight and she just shrugged and said 'I've always known that.' It's been a long since I've paid close enough attention to spot something as small as a ladybug and that one took me by surprise and not in a good way. For the first time, though, the aftermath of a sneaker wave wasn't all bad. A lot of good memories came in on that tide. I think that's progress and to celebrate, I'd like to share the gift that David gave me for Mother's Day:

Take that, Wave. I'm learning to tread water.

Camping

2009-05-11T21:32:00.005-04:00

Recently my friend Lisa mentioned camping and I realized how very long it's been since I slept outside. Back when Britt was young, she loved being a Girl Scout and we camped a lot. Her high school years didn't leave a lot of time for camping; she was busy singing and dancing and acting and writing. But the last time I talked to her, two days before she died, one of things we talked about was camping out on the dock of the new house I was moving into that day. Summer was coming and the time for sleeping out and laughing and talking into the night was nigh. It never came but I wish it had. She was an excellent camper.

Perfect Timing

2009-05-10T19:46:00.007-04:00

In mid-April, as my least favorite time of the year hit with a vengeance, I threw myself into making a garden in the backyard. I broke sod, dug a plot, shopped for plants, and hauled mulch. I borrowed tools and robbed Peter to pay Home Depot. I raided my mom's yard for odds and ends and statuary that she's been holding on to for me for years.

This is where we started, four weeks ago on April 19th:

And this is where we are today:

Mother's Day is drawing to a close. This year, I did not scream at anyone except Dave (who understands and whose turn is coming); I did not hear from everyone I thought I would and I heard from a few people who surprised me in the best possible way (that happens every year on these hard days and I probably shouldn't keep that tally in my head but I do, and I probably shouldn't be surprised and disappointed each time, but I am).

Darling Anna and Jack came to visit me, courtesy of their parental-units; here they are, sitting on the coffee table with their beautiful mother:

Every one is at home now, and the planting is finished. After four weeks of spending every available minute of daylight working/digging/moving/sweating, there's nothing to do now but water when the rains are delayed and wait. Couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it.

Mother's Day

2009-05-10T08:58:00.005-04:00

If ever there's a day that's fraught with landmines and potential sneaker waves after you've lost a child it's this one. So far, this particular one has been pretty smooth. (It's early and I hope I haven't jinxed it.) I've been bustling about, catching up on the chores I've been neglecting while I've been obsessing over the vegetable garden and just letting the memories come as they will. One is especially sweet.

The year that Britt was seven she asked if she could throw a party for 'ALL the mommies' in her life. She invited me (I was flattered), both her grandmothers, my grandmother, and her aunts who lived in town. Everyone accepted and she was very excited about hosting her first grownup party. We had pastries and coffee and iced tea. There was lots of laughter (she graciously allowed her father to attend and eat some things but not some of everything because, after all, he was NOT a mommy). The best part, though, were the gifts, because she'd worked so hard on them and was so proud. She presented each of us with a strawberry pot filled with impatiens. Mine was larger than the others (flattered again), but they were all lovely and I was very proud of both her accomplishment and her sweetness.

Being Britt's mom is still the best gift ever. This pot was a pretty great one, too.

Lots of Words...But Random

2009-05-09T21:41:00.010-04:00

My friend Sue over at A Life Divided had these cool Wordles on her page today, so I made one, too. I tried to make it bigger, but finally gave up. If you click on it, it's easier to read.

Marigolds for My Girl

2009-05-08T07:25:00.004-04:00

Britt loved marigolds. She used to call planting them 'growing sunshine'. Our early flower gardens were mostly shaded and not particularly suited to growing them. She nurtured them in small pots in sunny spaces and wished for a huge, sunny yard. Then, that wish came true and we spent four years with a huge yard that got lots of sun. Every year, after we planted the vegetable garden, she and I would make a special trip to the nursery and gather some of every sort of marigold they had. Orange, red, yellow, small and big and even the giant African marigolds came home with us. We'd plant them around the vegetables like sentinels and she loved that her Growing Sunshine also helped to kept the pests away.

So, last night, in the last empty space in the vegetable plot, I planted a row of marigolds for my girl. We could all use a little extra sunshine, yes?

It's The Little Things

2009-05-07T07:22:00.004-04:00

This looks like a mess. What it is is a victory. This story began two years ago when I first moved into this house and could not, after two weeks of searching, locate an outdoor water spigot. I finally stopped looking. About a week later, the crew I'd hired to clear the yard (which looked like it hadn't been touched in many many years) showed up and got to work. At the end of the day, they tamed the hundred year-old azaleas, uncovered two gorgeous hydrangeas, and found a small water spigot in the middle of the grass, just to the right of the back porch. On the other side of the fence. So, I bought a really long hose and that storage box to roll it up in...and mostly didn't use it.

Boo came to stay and we built a bigger fence and the hose was even more inaccessible and I didn't care. Until now. Because, really, you cannot garden without water. Even in southeast Georgia, where the rainy season is sensible enough to coincide with the growing season, there are going to be times when the rain does not come on the garden's schedule. And so I began searching for a solution. I've been haunting garden stores and hardware stores - both big box and local - for over a month. And, finally, during a lunch-hour trip to Home Depot, I stumbled across a box marked "Hose Holders - with and without faucets."

I'm sure the man at the Depot thought I was deranged, but I made him unpack it right in the middle of the aisle and I squealed with glee when he pulled out the Hose Holder With a Faucet. And I swear I heard Britt whisper 'Yessss!' And then, after work, I brought it home and insisted that we set it up before dinner. There's a 15-foot connector hose that runs through a crack in the fence (yes, I did break the newish fence and I don't care) to a feeder hole on the back of the holder. And another, small connecter from the faucet to the storage box. And I can turn that pretty blue handle and there is water in the backyard.

Yes.

Important Things

2009-05-06T07:08:00.004-04:00

Last night my friend Lisa and I had a conversation about the pros and cons of random capitalization: why we do it, whether or not we should encourage it, possible cultural influences, etc. You know, just a regular Tuesday night conversation between word freaks. She told me that in German one capitalizes Important Things so as to mark their importance. I don't know if there are specific rules about what qualifies as Important or if each writer gets to choose for themselves. I hope it's the latter.

Assuming so, and if I wrote in German, these are some words I would capitalize. Always.

Grief
Loss
My Girl
Silence
Heartache
Frog Band
Bereavement
Storm

And, of course:

Friend

Sneaker Waves

2009-05-04T22:43:00.004-04:00

When I first moved to the West Coast, I learned about sneaker waves. They are these little bastards of waves that come out of nowhere and suddenly, without warning, are HUGE bastards of waves that suck whatever (or whomever) happens to be on the beach out to sea. Scary shit, those sneaker waves, not least because you never see them coming.

Grief, my friends and I have decided, is a series of sneaker waves. Sometimes, after the wave has receded, you will know what triggered it. Sometimes not. Sometimes it's a Big and Obvious thing. Sometimes not. Like today. Today's sneaker wave was courtesy of this itty-bitty ladybug, perched on a cucumber leaf.

One day, I really ought to learn how to swim.

Flowers and Frogs and a Little Mojo

2009-05-04T07:23:00.007-04:00

Yesterday was another day spent noodling in the garden. I finally made it out to the county transfer station to pick up the free mulch I've been going on and on about (not here, maybe, but believe me...there are a lot of people in my life who reeeally tiiiired of hearing about Free Mulch!) and may I just say...Whoa! Those are some huge piles of mulch. I resisted the urge to give into aesthetics and opted for mulch from the oldest, darkest pile and have to say I am very pleased with the results. The only problem is I didn't take enough bags and so am a few feet short of having a fully mulched plot. (There's a metaphor there, I'm sure.)

Also, there are flowers on my tomatoes! Every single one of my Better Boys has flowers like this:

Mojo hung out with me, as usual, and actually consented to having his picture taken. He's hardly ever still when we're outside and I appreciated his willingness to pose with the Buddha Frog. Sort of. He's not sure he likes that frog and keeps his distance.

And, like always, spending time in the garden was also spending time with Britt. Nothing else I've done since she was killed has made me feel as close to her; digging and planting and tending this Earth she loved so much makes her present in a way I cannot describe but for which I am very grateful.

Marking The Day

2009-05-02T19:00:00.009-04:00

This year's special remembrance of Britt was the flower garden I made in the old fire pit that was half-buried in our backyard. When I first moved in and explored this yard, I thought I would make fires there and sit and think about my girl. We've passed two winters here, and never got around to that. First, the fire pit was poorly placed by it's original builder; situated under the overhanging branches of the neighbor's trees, it seemed more a fire hazard. Secondly, I'm not a fan of cold weather and if it's cold enough to sit around fires, well, I'd rather be inside.

She loved our gardens when she was small (though as a teen she was more enthusiastic tender than planter) and so all of the gardening I've been doing lately has been a good way to spend time with her in my head. Last Saturday's flower garden was special though - a bed of impatiens was the first thing she and I ever planted and she loved the way they would lay down when they were thirsty and stand up ('so fast you can see them move!') so quickly after she watered them - and I surrounded it with the Frog Band she gave her Daddy for Father's Day one year.

More Words

2009-05-01T17:58:00.003-04:00

My friend Sue over at A Life Divided is doing a Blogathon this month, wherein she will try to post everyday during May. I'm not going to promise to do that, but I am going to try to post more frequently about what the day-to-day is like. (Think of me as the girl intermittently handing out water during a marathon. Not a runner...a water girl.)

Today, I have hit a wall. It was a hard weekend, followed by a short but busy week at work and I am wrung out. I had planned to accompany Dave to his out-of-town gig tonight but instead I am sending him off with Googled directions and a cell phone. I've been smiling and being alternately charming and competent and efficient for four solid days and my well is dry. There is laundry and raking and watering and mulching - all are calling my name. But also the final pages of Ann Hood's Comfort and sitting on the porch and watching Mojo roll in the grass. First things first.

Time and Lies and a Little Piece of Truth

2009-04-30T20:43:00.006-04:00

Last Saturday, the 25th, was the fourth anniversary of Britt's death. It feels like forever. It feels like yesterday. At the same time. It is a forever of yesterdays ago. I have been thinking about time a lot lately: never enough of it; always too much of it; how to fill it; how to spend it; what to do with all the time before and after and since and until.

Time. I took time off from work, knowing that I would be distracted and ill-suited. Four days loomed ahead of me and I wondered how I would fill them. One day for Nothing. And I had it and I loved it and I hated it and I did not get dressed and I ate chocolate and drank wine and I cried and read and slept and I slept some more. Three more days that slipped by in a blur of manufactured busy-ness and chosen pauses. Sharp and bitter and sweet.

Time. And the lies that people tell you about it. Time heals all wounds. No, it doesn't. In time, you'll feel better. No, I won't. It will get easier, with time. No, it hasn't. Enough time. After a time. Given some time. In time. Time passes. Time haunts me.

And, then, last night, I finally read a truth about time, nestled inside Comfort by Ann Hood. I cannot really say I found comfort in the book (a beautifully written and unflinchingly honest memoir about losing a child), but I did find some words that rang very true. These were the truest: "Time does not heal. It passes. And carries us along with it."

Yes.

Along the Path Not Chosen

2009-02-14T10:06:00.005-05:00

Some mornings I look around and really take notice of all the things in my every-day life that are new or changed since losing Britt. There is this house, which she would have loved for its old-fashioned quirkiness, its location on the stable grounds, its proximity to her favorite restaurant but which she never saw since it did not become home until she'd been gone nearly two years. A different car in the driveway and a new couch in the living room. Daddy has an iPod and we both have succumbed to Facebook. There is Mojo, our new dog...here just a year, and the absence of our Boomer - a valiant SuperDog until the end of his also too-brief life. There's her littlest cousin, Jack, who charms us every day and a growing roster of first cousins once removed. Our beloved Nana is gone. And, then, there is her father and me, reunited first by our grief and then, slowly, by the discovery that in the face of such loss it simply wasn't possible to bear the loss of each other as well.

In the lives of my nieces and nephews and the children of my friends, I hear the faintest echoes of the many things her life might have been: graduations and trips abroad, commitments made and lives being forged, all while I stand here holding my breath. I'm almost, but not quite, ready to exhale and start wondering what the coming years will hold.

A Different Kind of Christmas

2008-12-25T19:08:00.003-05:00

Poor neglected blog. I really did think I've have more to say. I guess the words, like the grief, will come in waves. We'll ride that out, too.

Today is Christmas; my fourth without my girl. Much of the last two months has been consumed by thoughts of this day: what would we do? how would we manage? who would we see? would it still be so hard? Christmas stings especially because it had always been so wonderful. Christmas Eve dinner at the in-laws, midnight Mass, a few hours of sleep before we tumbled out of bed - too excited to wait - and dragged a way-too-sleepy Daddy to the tree. Presents (always too many, always beloved), breakfast, and then a large family gathering of grandmothers, brothers and sisters, and piles of nieces and nephews. In what I have come to think of as the 'good years' (and, no, I wasn't wise enough to call them that then) we hosted that gathering and the house was filled with laughter and love.

The first Christmas after Britt died, we opted out. Completely. No decorations, no gifts, no visits, no feasts. Just interminable hours wishing the day would end. The second year was worse. No longer marking 'firsts', reality was sinking in and the idea of Christmas after Christmas after Christmas with this huge gaping hole was almost more than I could bear. Last Christmas we decided to decorate, but I couldn't bear the thought of pulling out the ornaments she'd made or the Santa collection she'd loved. In one trip to Wal-Mart, I procured an entirely new Christmas look: blue and silver ornaments on a sleek and slender pre-lit fir, blue lights for the front porch, and a star to replace the angel who used to perch atop our tree.

This year, Christmas seemed to stalk me. Decorations started showing up in stores before Halloween, there was much tussle in the office about who was taking time off and who wasn't and what was fair; everywhere I turned, there was Christmas. And, really, I tried hard to be interested. I ordered wrapping paper and planned presents for the Little People in my life. I retrieved the Blue Christmas trappings from the attic...and brought down a few of our old things as well. There's a mercury glass Santa who looks gorgeous next to the blue & silver bedecked tree; some lovely spun-glass hummingbird ornaments that work nicely; even the chunk of lucite engraved 'Baby's First Christmas ~ 1985' found a place this year.

And yet. And still. Not so much with the 'spirit of Christmas.' That seems to have vanished along with my faith and it leaves an odd space to fill. When you have spent a lifetime celebrating the birth of Christ and you can no longer say with any certainty (or even any interest) that you believe God exists, Christmas becomes a bit of a boondoggle. Less about a celebration, and more about what to do with this day. This year, we tried minimal presents, a movie, and a nap. The seats at the the theater threw my back into a spasm and my nap included a heating pad...but overall, it wasn't a terrible way to spend a day. A different kind of Christmas, indeed.

This Day

2008-10-18T07:20:00.006-04:00

Today marks the fifth anniversary of the death of my cousin, Anastasia. She was a smart and beautiful young woman; a new wife and an even newer mother; a dancer; a dreamer; a librarian. Her death, at 23, stunned me. I remember thinking a lot about my aunt and wanting nothing more than to hold my own daughter close and keep her safe. There is comfort in not knowing what the future holds

Five years later, my aunt and I are an isolated group of two in our large and boisterous family. Inside our own griefs, we stand together and watch the rest of them and shake our heads. We ask questions there are no answers to; we keep putting one foot in front of the other.

And, on days like this - birthdays, anniversaries, holidays - we search for meaning and ways to both mark and pass the time that will somehow mitigate the pain, honor the lives ended too soon, make this day more bearable than the ones that came before. Each year we try something different: this time we'll stay home/travel/gather with a group/be alone/wallow/try not to think. And each time, I think, we come back to the same place. This day, like every other, we will remember.

ANASTASIA LYNNE IRWIN EDSON

August 16, 1979 - October 18, 2003

Everything Old is New Again

2008-09-20T21:48:00.003-04:00

A few days ago, in need of distraction, I was browsing my bookshelves, in search of something I’d not yet read. In between the Hemingway and Faulkner, old friends that I’ve traveled with many times, I spotted a copy of T.R. Pearson’s A Short History of a Small Place. Catchy title, I thought, and I like Pearson. That’ll do.

I settled on the couch and dove in. Somewhere around page 75, I found a receipt from Square Books in Oxford, Mississippi. It seems I bought this book on the same day I purchased Britt’s copy of The Odyssey for her sophomore Lit class. Small pause there, as that day came flooding back: classes for me in the morning, then off to work at the University Club. Britt walked from school to the club and spent a little time doing homework while I balanced out restaurant receipts from the night before. We skipped out a little early and wandered over the square; purchases were made at the bookstore, ice cream was consumed; we ran into my biology professor on the sidewalk and he was charming to my girl.

The clarity of that memory is startling to me, mostly because – to be frank – my memory is now most often like a fine Swiss cheese; there are holes big enough to drive a tank through and much of what gets poured in leaves just as quickly. That wasn’t always the case. Until Britt died, one of the things I liked best about myself was my ability to remember everything. Big things and little things and all the in-between things. I never forgot a birthday or a name. I could recite conversations verbatim, months after I’d had them. I knew all my projects at work as well as I knew my own phone number, both current and for every address where I’d lived since I was 16. This made me an excellent employee, a sometimes exasperating wife, and a formidable Mom. Now, I’m working on becoming a list maker and a note writer, and trying to come to terms with yet another side-effect of grief: trauma not only slams your metabolism into park, clouds your judgment, and steals your words, it short circuits your memory. Please don’t ask me to tell you where things are or what we did or when we did it. It’s a safe bet that I don’t have a clue and will only begin to recall after you’ve laid it all out for me.

Which brings us back to the Pearson. The book I’d never read, remember? Except, by page 264 things were feeling awfully familiar in those pages. And by page 370 I had remembered the ending. Of course, it ended on page 381, so that’s not saying much. Maybe this will get better and maybe it won’t: the literature is mixed and my doctor won’t commit. I suppose only time will tell. In the meantime, I own at least a hundred books I don’t remember the plots of, a shelf full of movies I can watch again for the ‘first time’, and stash of neon hued Post-It’s to help me muddle through.

Hey, Mister...Can You Spare a Minesweeper?

2008-09-05T23:25:00.007-04:00

It’s been a long, melancholy two weeks worth of convention-watching here and I’ve been feeling the loss of my girl quite keenly. Even in the midst of the Democratic convention, where it was easier to get caught up in Hope and Change and History, I wasn’t quite able to escape the sharp pointy sticks the speakers had no idea they were wielding: Everyone kept reminding me that we do this ‘for our children and our grandchildren.’** Well. Hmmm. Okay, then…I’m off the hook? Nonono, not really. And, yeah, I know I could read that as a universal “our” and yes, of course, I can do it for your children and grandchildren and I’m happy to, really, and yes I can do it in the name of Britt’s legacy …but, to be honest, I wish they’d find another way to describe the future, at least some of the time. Because even when you don’t see the sharp, pointy stick, sometimes…ow.

A dear friend recently compared navigating another’s grief to walking across a minefield. I know that she’s right and one of the reasons I love her is her willingness to walk that minefield with me every day. Most of the explosions are just as big a surprise to me as they are to anyone and often I’m shocked (and sometimes alarmed) at what brings me to my knees, what hurts, what enrages me. It’s often a struggle to maintain perspective and consider both the source and intent, - even though I know I should - especially when people insist on saying the most ludicrous things.

No, everything does NOT happen for a reason…some things are just random, meaningless accidents; and No, I do NOT believe this all part of God’s plan, and if you do then I most definitely don’t want to know your God as he is surely an evil, vile being and I'm not even sure I believe in God anymore so can we just give the whole God-thing a rest already?; and Yes I DO have a child, she just happens to have died and that doesn’t mean I “don’t have kids” and it Damn Sure doesn’t mean I’m willing to forgo taking time off around the holidays every year; and…you get the picture.

It’s exhausting and maddening and sometimes contradictory and absolutely like dodging landmines. Another thing I love, in a world where so many things are wrong, is how often my friends are right.

[**It also did not go unnoticed that there was precious little talk of “for the children” at the RNC; I can only assume they are taking care of their kids and you and your kids are on your own.]

It's All So Personal Now

2008-08-26T18:53:00.006-04:00

I have always been the sort of person who is passionate about politics. Raised in a military family, I took my patriotism seriously from a very young age. I love my country unabashedly; I cry when I hear the National Anthem and I wear red, white, and blue on all the appropriate holidays. Couple that with an adolescent love of historical fiction set in Revolutionary America, and it didn't take long for the ideals of our founding fathers to take root in my psyche. I joined the ACLU when I was 17 years old and have remained convinced that our constitutional freedoms are the backbone of this nation, worth defending at any and all costs. I voted in my first presidential election in 1984 and was sad, but not surprised, when my very first candidate - Walter Mondale - lost to Ronald Reagan. I still have a soft spot in my heart for Walter and I hope he's enjoying his retirement years in Minnesota.

By the time the next presidential election rolled around, I was the mother of an extremely precocious almost-three year-old. She liked to do what ever Mama did and so I took her to the polls with me to experience democracy in action. Thanks to the kind-hearted women working the tables that year, Britt was allowed to accompany me into the voting booth. I showed her how to flip the levers and pointed out the ones we wanted. In 1988 we (or Britt on my behalf, really) voted for Dukakis. She was heartbroken when he lost and she vowed to "vote harder!" next time. We did vote harder, each year heading to the polls together and requesting (and getting) a booth for two. The next two elections gave her a taste of the power of the ballot. 'We voted for him and he WON!" Indeed. We also developed a shared crush on Al Gore and were thrilled to get to see him in person when he and Tipper campaigned in one of our downtown squares.

As the years of the Clinton administration went by, her admiration for Al Gore continued to grow. She embraced his environmental causes with the sort of fervor that only teenagers know and she campaigned hard for him in the 2000 election. She was stunned by the shadiness of that election and took to referring to the sitting president as The Shrub. Where she'd once been a Democrat by default, she had now embraced the party on her own terms. On her 18th birthday, in December of 2003, she asked only for a Voter's Registration Card. I was happy to oblige and I still remember how miffed she was to realize that Georgia does not register voters by party. It pained her that her card didn't label her a Democrat.

In 2004, we voted separately for the first time in her life and I voted alone for only the second time in mine. Her own booth. Her own vote. Her own voice. I really couldn't say which of us was more excited. We talked for a long time that night about how important so many things were to her: gay rights, women's rights, the environment, immigration reform, access to health care, the poor...and I remember her saying "It's all so big, maija, and so important. How can anyone not see?" And I reminded her that it's our job to help people see, in the way we vote and in the way we live.

This week, I'm watching the convention without her for the first time in 20 years. I miss her passion and her commitment and some days it's So Hard to summon the energy to keep caring. But, I made her a promise: I won't forget that it's still our job and now I'm doing it for both of us.

Not Enough Duct Tape in the World

2008-08-23T23:54:00.005-04:00

One nice thing about the Ostriches and Eggshells of the world is that they run away so fast; one is spared having to expend precious energy trying to explain anything to them. They’ve left skidmarks; they cannot hear you; save your breath. You’re going to need it for The Fixers.

The Fixers are not afraid of death. In fact, they’re not afraid of anything because they’ve never had a problem they couldn’t solve, a situation they couldn’t handle, or a relationship that wasn’t perfect or ended for a perfect reason. Of course, they’ve never had a child killed in a motorcycle accident either (a great many of them have never had a child at all) but that is, according to them, an insignificant detail. What they know is that something in my life is broken and needs repair. These are the fixers I’ve met so far:

What-You-Need Girl: What You Need Girl has no children and most often no significant other. She may have a cat, but that’s iffy. Her MO is being self-sufficient and self-contained and she’s the sort of friend you love to have around when you're newly, unexpectedly single (What you need is a night on the town!) or feeling your advancing age (What you need are highlights and a manicure!) or feeling stressed and overworked (What you need is a vacation…here’s the key to my beach house!), because she’s always been so great at distracting you and finding things to fill the holes in a life. In the last year or so she’s become prone to saying things like “What you need is a new hobby!” or “What you need is to volunteer!” What she really means is she wants me to find something to fill up this hole in my heart. She doesn’t know how to let an empty space just be empty.

2. Move On Girl: Move On Girl is fairly certain that we have exceeded the allowable time for mourning by at least two years. Her mission is to help us box up our remaining grief and get on with the businesses of living. She offers books and seminars and self-help tapes. She talks a lot about resolution and closure and most of her sentences begin with “Don’t you think it’s about time you….” She doesn’t know how to take no for an answer.

Hmmm…there doesn’t seem to be a number three. Maybe that’s because “What You Need Girl” covers such a broad spectrum. Regardless, it’s getting harder every day to know they look at me and see someone broken instead of someone broken hearted.

Hard Truths and the Occassional Easy Landing

2008-08-21T07:10:00.007-04:00

So, that last bit was a little harsh, yes? These days, I find it's best to get the hardest bits on the table early in the game. It's a fact that's not ever going to change and frankly I don't have enough energy to deal with people who cannot deal with that. The bad news is that's a lot of people. An astounding number of people. During the last three years I've met scores of them and have begun categorizing them in my head. So far, they break down something like this:

1. Happy Girl* – Happy Girl’s whole life is about, you guessed it, being happy. She likes to go to fun places, do fun things, tell funny stories. There’s no room for death in Happy Girl’s world because it is most definitely not fun. Happy Girl disappeared sometime between the accident and the funeral. We haven’t seen her since.

2. Eggshell Girl* – Eggshell Girl cannot bear it. It is just too hard for her and she doesn’t understand how we cope. In truth, she resents that we cope and rarely misses the opportunity to tell us how she wouldn’t be able to do it. She says things like ‘I’d still be in my bed’ and ‘I would have had to quit my job.’ Fortunately, her opportunities to say these sorts of things are rare because what she mostly cannot cope with is seeing us coping.

3. Ostrich Girl* – Ostrich Girl has reality issues. In short, she doesn’t like it. She spends her life pretending that bad things happen only to faraway people or people who deserve it and we are a constant reminder of the absurdity of that belief. Ostrich Girl doesn’t always avoid us but she avoids the topic or anything remotely related (motherhood – her own included – , traffic, college, etc.) as though it were the plague. The best we can say about this is that conversations are mercifully few and brief.

4. It Could Happen To Me Girl* – It Could Happen To Me Girl is convinced we are now carriers of some awful virus. If she gets too close she might catch Tragedy and then all sorts of terrible things will befall her and so it’s just better, you see, to keep as much distance between us as possible. She will call occasionally and we’re still on the Christmas Card List, but she won’t be dropping by. And just forget all about those holiday-party invitations and afternoons at museums and getting together for coffee. It might be catching and a girl’s got look out for herself.

The good news is that the people who are left are what my friend Kat would call 'Finest Kind.' And, if you're reading this, you're probably one of them; an easy place to land in a sea of rocky ground. It's pretty rare and I am grateful for every one of you.

[*This naming convention is not meant to imply that guys are any better at this stuff. I'm female and 'she' is my preferred pronoun default. There are plenty of Happy Guys and Ostrich Boys to go around.]

The Word I Won't Find

2008-08-20T19:02:00.003-04:00

Before I plunge headlong into the words I’ve found, I want to mention a word I won’t be talking about here because it doesn’t exist: What am I, now that my only child is dead? I cannot name it. I haven’t been widowed; I’m not an orphan. I’m definitely not childless (more on that another day); my daughter is just as much my daughter now as she was the day before she died.

Try to imagine being something, becoming something, so outside the realm of rightness that no word exists for it. Try to wrap a brain that has spent a lifetime immersed in finding just the right word around the idea that it is now nameless.

Yes, I am a mother and a wife and a daughter and a sister. I am a niece and an aunt and a cousin and a friend. I have a title at work and some funny nicknames known only to a handful of people. But I can tell you all of that and you still won’t have the most important piece of the puzzle: I am a mother whose only child is dead.

Finding My Words

2008-08-19T21:20:00.002-04:00

In the months after my daughter was killed, I often found myself at a loss for words. Not just the specific words for what had happened and who I had become, but the regular every-day words that had always come so easily to me. I could not describe what I was feeling or explain what I was thinking. I struggled to remember the simplest names for the most ordinary things. I pointed a lot and secretly wished everyone would stop talking to me just to save myself the effort of trying to talk back. Or that they'd at least have the compassion to learn to read my mind.

It took a long time for the words to start coming back. These days, I still struggle for the specific words (what am I now? who am I now?), but the ordinary ones have returned in a flood that threatens to overwhelm me. I will spill them here.