The First Test

Recently I wrote about balance, or the search for it, within my life for I often feel like I am leading two well-cast, yet parallel existances: one with the living the; other with the dead. Or more accurately, not with the dead, but because of them.

They don't intersect well.

More often than not I find myself faced with choices that lay on either side of the lifeline. Choices that leave me feeling like lose:lose is a guilt ridden understatement. For, regardless of which side of the line I land, someone will be negated, or left out, or added in when they didn't need to be, or over-exposed to the concept of death, or left behind while I go attend to that very thing.

This has been my delicate dance since I started Share Southern Vermont. I dove into the mission with a fire burning in my broken heart, finally feeling like I found a way to parent Emma while unconsciously burdening myself with the added dillema of choosing to spend my time with my living children or taking action in memory of my spirit one.

I repeat: without boundaries they don't intersect well.

And perhaps that is my real issue. Maybe balance isn't my holy grail of time management. Instead, I might need clearly defined, boldly outlined peremiters to keep me where I am supposed to be, when I am meant to be there.

Because babies will die everyday. No amount of wishful, child-like, kum-buy-ah thinking will keep it from happening.

My living children grow and learn everyday too.
My husband and I seem to see less and less of each other with each passing moon.

There is a memorial service for twins who perished inutero as a result of a car crash next Sunday at 3pm.

At the exact same time there is a couples class at our church, the first in a series of three, intended to strenthen how we, as husband and wife, listen to and communicate with each other. And, in turn, how we parent the little ones who look to us as models of social appropriateness.

I was temporarily stumped. I always make an effort to go to the services for infants in Southern Vermont. It shows the parents that perfect strangers do care because they too have lived those horrific moments. It gives them someone to cry out to through the computer. It often gives them the intense courage to walk into a support group meeting sooner, rather than later.

But my family unit is important. How we build our routines and work as a team is vital to our future.

It appears I am going to miss this memorial. It makes me sad. I hope and pray this family knows how much we have to offer them. But on that day, at that time, I will be doing something so my husband and I have more to offer our family.

Balance... boundaries...

I wonder, did I pass my first test?

A Moment of Silence

It's easy to be quiet when you are quiet. Right? It's simple to let our minds flow as we sit on the beach under the gentle sun, someone tidying up our rented room back in the village and prep cooks rotely pounding out the chicken that will become our dinner for the evening - whichever resturant we eventually decide to enter.

Perspective is a welcome visitor in these moments. We pat the patch of sand next to us, encouraging him to take a seat and chat. We listen willingly to his message, nodding, processing, sure that the sound of the waves crashing and ephiphinisitc thoughts will settle into our bodies - stow away, travelling back to our daily lives, when we do.

Yes - it's easy to be quiet when you're quiet. It's hard to be centered within the storm.

Today is Tuesday. Saturday is four days away: 96 hours. The numbers give the appearance of time being on my side, yet my energy - both mental and physical - seem to feel that it is evaporating before my very eyes.

My to-do lists grow. Sub categories expand. Random words 'ICE' pop into my head, reminding my ever-chugging brain of yet another small detail I have forgotten.

I am not in this alone. For that I am eternally grateful. I have competant and qualified people helping to pull this off. Yet, I am the one spun up like a corded top.

I was for most of my life, rigid and anxious and waiting for the next moment - only to get there and be dissatisfied with that moment, then automatically turn my head scanning the horizon for the next, and the next, and the next.

I broke out of that lifestyle. DH was the catalyst that put my slower, spontaneous, flexibile thinking into action. What a freeing time. A whole new world existed. I embraced each day. I really lived each day, enjoying my time. And the most astounding thing happened. When I looked back on those days I could remember every part of them, every emotion of connectedness.

I know this walk is a big endeavor. I realize it takes a great amount of planning and organization. But I can also feel it tugging me back to my old ways and that scares me. Because when I look back, say - on Monday, I want to remember all the prep and smile. I want to know that I lived the day of the event, not just lived through it. I want to feel that warm emotion spread through me each and every time I revisit those hours in my head. But most of all, I don't want to lose a week of my life worrying, obsessing, and what-if'ing something that hasn't even happened yet.

This is a choice. I choose calm. I choose fulfillment. I better go meditate.

(But PS - Mother Nature, if you are reading this I wouldn't mind just a little sun for Saturday - jsut saying...ok, I'm done )