The shape of life

Yesterday, I attended a play. My nieces were in it. They were the stars of the show.

Comedian and I arrived early, as I so often do for events and were ushered upstairs to wait with their mother and another friend. Their mother (D.), also featured in the piece linked above, is extraordinary. And, for all that we have lived together (as in been in the same room at the same time and saw the same things...) we have apparantely not seen the same things, or, at the very least, not remembered the same things about the event.

I have just come to realize that. It began at the memory walk...

I could hear her voice in the background, a beautiful sound carrying me as I buzzed with intention from one tent to the next, responding and directing each part of the event. But she remained, in one space, calm and focused, one-with-herself, talking...about me. "What a blessing" I heard, "She allowed me to be part of this", and "I feel so lucky to have been on her journey."

Stunned, I stopped moving, listening now with intention. What I heard threw me even more. She spoke of events that I wasn't sure I recalled, but -wait - yes, I do remember, just not quite like that. She spoke of the 'before the next baby' era, a time still foggy for me, requiring focus and energy to recall details. She smiled as she shared our beginning with others. But the most astounding part of her words were the uspoken ones. Were you to have laid eyes on her in that moment you could have seen it, she was truly thankful, enternally grateful, that I welcomed her into my intense grief.

Can you imagine? All these years I have said, then said again, then re-itteraited my thanks for her as she shared her kids with me without abandon, opened her world to me without question. I nearly bowed at her feet thinking that what she did must have been a sacrifice, but still felt that nothing would ever measure the gift she gave me.

And yet, it turns out, that she felt similarly gifted by my presence.

Astounding. Heart-Healing.

Just being around her calms me. Our connection allows her privilidge that others are not allowed. Like yesterday, in that waiting room, when introductions ensued.

It sounded like this:

D: "Friend, this is one of my nearest and dearest friends, Cara, and this is Comedian, her second, third daughter."

ME: "Nice to meet you."

Friend: "How old are your others?"

ME: "Bear is 6 and Emma would be 8 and half."

D: "Yes. Cara lost her first and that is how we met. Actually, I think it has become a blessing for she has grown into a beautiful, strong woman as a result."

The conversation evolved from there and quite nicely. There was no drama. There were no shocked expressions or quick 'i've go to be goings' as there often are when Emma is introduced. And as I look back on it two things strike me:

1. She introduced Emma, not me. That is rare.
2. Phrases that are allowed only to me when I'm in the right emotional space like, 'second -third child' and 'it has become a blessing', roll off her tongue with ease and feel right to my ears as I hear them.

She respects my daughter. She acknowledges her place in our family. She recognizes the emotional growth that has occurred.

I have been known to say that she "saved my life". From now on I will say, she "shaped my life" and apparently, I - hers.

Life Terminology

Do you Effectively Multi-task OR Neglect Effectively?

Personally, I don't think there is much inherent lingusitic derivation between these two phrases. I mean, I thought I was doing the former with grace, maybe even style - micro-managing the countless focuses of my life: the dropping off to school, creating a column worth reading, the house, the seasonal switch of car tires, the food, the laundry, this blog and, of course, the non-profit that has become my life.

In fact, yesterday during the whirlwhind that was our memory walk (note: I hope the only person that felt whirwindish was me...) when I was being approached with linguistic questions both in person and over that confundeled walkie-talkie thing (why on earth do they say 'roger'? - seriously), my dad heard someone say, "Women can multi task, Men can't."

Of course this statement could be debated for I know a great many men who do numerous things at the same time, but regardless of the gender overextending themselves, my question stands: Effectively multi-tasking or Neglecting effectively?

Twenty-four hours after the most intensive event I have ever planned (with much help!) I am forced to admit I have done the latter, perhaps - with just a little of the afore mentioned 'grace' and, maybe even a smidge of 'style' - maybe.

And before you start pumping me up with accalaids and emotional cheers - know that this is a plain fact, not a self-degregating statment. The facts are clear:

• My car is a mess - again - in record time
• Dishes sit in the sink
• Piles of laundry seem to pop up around my house: needing to be washed, needing to be hung, needing to be folded, begging to be put in drawers (um..yeah - right)
• My exercise cd sits, figurative eyebrows raised, where I laid it...5 days ago - or something
• My husband says things like, "I feel like I haven't seen you in a week"
• My fridge is pretty bare
• My kids, *sigh*, I miss them and they are right here
• My google reader mocks me as I hope you haven't felt neglected too

Even my body is crashing, a not-so-slow deescallation of all the muscles that cranked themselves tighter and tighter all week long. It's acually painful. I didn't expect that.

See, this tightrope I walked for the last week, trying not to mis-step or the food might not all be there or the port-a-potty was missing, or would the generator power the mic without over powering it...has affected every part of my life. And, of course it would.

But the part I really didn't expect was the 'after'. I couldn't sleep last night. Well, I crashed...then at 1am awoke out of a sound sleep and couldn't go back. The thoughts of who I forgot to thank and recognize, the 'what we will do differently next year's, and the haunting image of a woman I never saw but was told - arrived late and left early - did we upset her more than comfort?

Be assured there will be more posts about the highlights of our day. Pictures and videos will come, when I get them. It was a very affirming and successful day and I do feel that the all-encompassion life-debris was all worth it. I just need to acknowledge it. And, so there is a chance I might be able to get some sleep tonight...

Thank you to ALL the volunteers that gave their time and energy, manning tables, babysitting the kids tent, blowing up balloons, taking picutres, capturing video, and breaking down.

Thank you to my amazing, astoundingly gorgeous husband and his 'always there' loyal cousin who single (or double) handedly erected and broke down five tents, six tables, built a performance platform, set up and manned the sound system, and said all those cute, but totally over my head things over the walkie talkies. This event would not have happened without you.

Thank you to every single brave person who came, cried, smiled, laughed, hugged, and shared their story. Your children are well loved and well remembered.

Thank you the beautiful gang of children we had, who even in the midst of tears frolliced in the green grass amidst a sea of yellow dandelions. You were such a welcome sight. We live for you.

And, Thank you to all our angel babies for filling us - eventually - with equal measures of longing and inspiration. Because of your short lives we change the world.

*Phew* - That feels better. Time to do laundry, and dishes, and play with my kids, and kiss my husband, and go food shopping and...

The Great Divide

Rivers meet the ocean - that's what they do, without effort they gurgle in one consistent direction until the mouth appears and all become one.

Each river has its own easy assignment. It has no concerns or questions about speed or destination. It's job is easy and when it deposits into that great ocean, well - then it's the ocean's responsibility to deal with misplaced sticks or stubborn boulders.

Lately, I feel as though this is my life with one main exception. I am the ocean. And, the process works backwards.

I feel as if somehow each role I play in this life is one of the feeding rivers, except I cannot just sit back and allow them to rush over me, sustaining my momentum and creating new pathways. No, in this aquatic metaphor, the ocean feeds the rivers working against the current, if you will, like a salmon in search of a mate.

Here are my rivers:

My home: its general cleanliness and state of calm
My family: that they may feel equally important as all the rest of my endeavors
My book: enough said - writing means everything to me
My online family: that connections may strengthen and new ones create
Share Southern Vermont: its conception, the memory walk, and the quest for 501 (c) 3 status
My interpreting career: that I finish my testing process and get to work!
Myself - (and don't be concerned that this is last, be glad it's on the list at all. A few years ago it wouldn't have been) That exercise, meditation, and yoga continue to effect me in such a postive way.

I am the ocean swaying from one small mouth to the other, consciencly choosing which path needs me more today, to be fed, to be lifted up by inspiration, to be given direction with full understanding that something else may fall short.

This is not my optimal lifestyle. This is 'biting off more than one can chew' as they say. However, I do not think this ocean force-feeds rivers phenomona would feel so overwhelming if my endeavours were related, in just the slightest of ways. But each, so independent of the other, requires countless hours of research and training, none of which can be overlayed into the path of another.

Perhaps I am not the ocean. Perhaps I am a boat on that ocean; an indecisive vessel unable to commit to the quest of land, or treasure, or pirating, or searching for my one true love. I spin in endless, untraceable circles within my vast watery abode with no bearing of finality.

No, that cannot be entirely true either, for I know what I envision for that final moment. It is the space in time when all rivers have their marching orders. When each current has been set and flows independent of me, to me, without my constant attention.

When my family feels so settled in their home that we work as a team, sharing every experience, negotiating every conflict to a viable solution.

When Share Southern Vermont has multiple trained volunteers working with families in crisis and running groups.

When my book is published, touching and inspiring others in their time of desperation.

When my weekly schedule is planned out by job site and client, knowing I will be - once again - consistently using my American Sign Language skills.

And Yes - When I feel one with this life, ready to meet any experience that presents itself with perpsective and grace...

That's when the tide will turn.

Eight years ago you couldn't have convinced me that life had the ability to inspire again.
Today, it's bursting with Emma's name and the promise that when I am able to stop, admire, and take a breath; no doubt I'll invent a few more rivers.

The Shaping Power of Grief

The fourth grader acts out. The teacher admonishes, but thinks – Oh, he has such a hard life. His parents…his peers…his siblings… I can hardy blame him for the way he behaves. And she doesn’t, for now. But where is the responsibility line: fifth grade, the day he steals for the first time, or worse? At what point will the world start to judge this young boy for his actions as opposed to pitying him because of the environment he was born in?

***

The child psychologist sat across from me. He was kind, clear and direct with his words. I liked him for this. Why waste time when there is a solution to be discussed? A small desk, littered with papers that compiled her file separated us.

“Mmm…” he muttered, “so, and I’m just guessing here, that you were nervous during your pregnancy with her.” I nodded, mentally confirming the vast understatement he had dropped on the table. Neurotic would be a more accurate term. Obsessed, terrified, and borderline personality disorder made strong showings as well, not just for the thirty-eight weeks she grew inside me, but as we talked of creating her. They lingered, tailing me even as we left the hospital with a live baby, even as we walked through our front door. Even as we pretended to know how to parent a child after burying one into the ground.

“And this?” He held up a photocopy of the recent newspaper article documenting Emma’s death and our subsequent community actions in her memory eight years later. “I read through it. You have been through a lot. So has she. It seems a lot for a child to make sense of too, doesn’t it?”

Eyebrows raised I did not answer immediately. Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Is he equating her worries and social anxieties with the fact that we talk about Emma? That we make her part of our family and don’t hold back the sisterly connection.

“Having a sister in heaven is surely not typical.” I said, my tone more even and calculated than minutes before; a non-answer to be sure. As abstract as the concept is, it is our family’s norm and our children will continue to develop their understanding of her existence with every additional year of their growth.

***
I sat clicking through my blogroll, trying to catch up. A title caught my eye, Rainer Maria Rilke, a poet. The author spoke of her instant attachment to his poetry and the revelation that he was the child after a neo-natal loss. But it was her description of what this implied that struck me speechless. She wrote, “Rainer was his mother's rainbow baby. It all makes sense, he is someone who has been shaped by grief, raised by a mother who was profoundly impacted by child loss.”

Is that the fate our living children are left to sort out? It must be for I am, without a doubt, as profoundly impacted by my daughter’s death as the word allows. And so, I am left to wonder if my children are not that different from the fourth grade boy. If every action and reaction of theirs holds some measure of my loss reflecting back at me. I’m raising them day by day, year by year, paralleled through every stage of my grief. So how can they emerge untouched by it, unshaped by my emotions? They see the melancholic joy in my face when they mention her. They feel my arms around them at her headstone every year. They feel the shift in my ways during late August and early September. They see the tears that slide down my cheeks. “Are you ok Mama?” they ask, but the answer is far too abstract and complex for explanation.

“There is so much guilt in parenting after loss” I recently said to a fellow mourner with a half smile. I am starting to make sense of its origin, yet in doing so I am beginning to fear it will never leave me. I am fearful it will implant itself in the hearts of my girls and hold tight there too, an irreconcilable and foundationless emotion they must carry for the rest of their days.

After the death of my child, I was forever changed. And for so long after that my grief was exclusive. It was mine to feel, mine to manage, mine to fight or give in to. Tangentially others were affected, yet the gaping hole existed in my heart.

The troubled young boy, the child psychologist, Rainer Maria Rilke, and Anarcharist Mom all point to the same conclusion. Even before their conception, my children were too. Just by existing in our home, they are being shaped by both grief and love.

How does grief shape your life?

Life Linguistics

UPDATED: THIS IS MY 100TH POST! I DIDN'T EVEN NOTICE UNTIL AFTER IT WAS POSTED. THEN, I REALIZED IT WAS A VERY APPROPRIATE FIT: A POST ABOUT WHERE THE BLOG AND I HAVE COME OVER THE LAST 4 MONTHS AND WHERE WE ARE GOING FROM HERE!

Thank you to all of you for your your heartfelt comments on the last post in response to the RH article. My two worlds ARE colliding and my real life one is exploding.

"Man! Your wife is famous!" the cashier at the local building supply store said to Jeremiah as he hoisted a bucket of mud to the counter.** (famous is a very relative term as I live in a TINY little town)

He shrugged. "You saw the paper, huh?"

Everybody has and that was the point right? The ultimate goal here was TO GET THE WORD OUT and start helping people. But, I have to admit -- the phone ringing off the hook, my inbox being flooded with responses and my Share Southern Vermont to-do list growing by the hour IS a tad overwhelming.

So, I feel led to write this post. I do not believe that it is a linguistic conincidence that responsibility, accountability, and priority rhyme. They are interconnected in the most intimate sense.

RESPONSIBILITIES: I have many, and yes --they are all a result of my own doing. Regardless I take them very seriously, and so I map them out for you here.

• My family (they do like to wear clean clothes - occasionally)
• Growing Share Southern Vermont (SSV)
• Writing a thought provoking column for Exhale Magazine
• Completing my book proposal and Selling the book!
• Distributing Memory Boxes to families

ACCOUNTABILITY: I feel accountible not only to myself, but to you. You, both my bloggy friends and IRL supporters are the reason I have made it this far in the journey. I know how important it is to stay "well" within myself and so I break down this action into two steps.

TO SELF:

• Make time for meditation and exercise
• Finish each day pleased with whatever I have managed to accomplish

TO YOU:

• Stay current with my google reader. I have enjoyed following each one of your stories and watching as you grow within your grief. I don't want to lose that even as my life demands more of me here. I will do my absolute best to stay current, but if you don't see my mug pop up for a few days...don't worry -- I'll Be Back!!!
• Segragate my topics. Once again this blog is become home to so much more than my continued grief journey of Emma Grace. Soon you will see a post about a blog dedicated JUST to SSV! Once that is complete, you will have the choice to click to my grief blog, my parenting-after-loss blog, my angel wall, OR my Share Southern Vermont blog!

PRIORITIES: It feels like time to prioritize. I won't be able to run an effective non-profit if I don't. I won't be able to attend to every part of my life, every day. That is a fact I have to accept. (read: NOT easy for me to accept and even HARDER to do)

Again, THANK YOU to all of you for your never-ending support. WE will make a difference. I just have to take it slow...one effective step at a time.

** If you read the article then you know my families real names. So, the cat is out of the bag, as they say. Even so, I'll still be using Bear and Comedian cause...well - their just too cute to let go!

What hat do I wear today?

"Thank you so much for choosing (this bank) to begin your Share Southern Vermont account. We looking forward to working with you. By the way, what do you do for a living?"

The question hung in the air for a moment. Bear sat next to me, drawing, creating another five year old masterpiece. I looked at her, then back at the employee, "I am..." Again, I hesitated, so she inquired "Are you a stay at home mom?"

"Y-es." I said, clearly unsure, then quickly added, "And, I am a writer."

Saying this outloud has been a gift I haven't given myself this year. The facts all point to it:

• I spend most of my days on the computer
• I spend most of those same days with pajama bottoms passing as clothes.
• Coffee is always close.
• I'm mentally deprived if a day goes by without some kind of creative writing exercise.
• I think in opening sentences, segways and smooth retoric
• I'm not getting paid for any of it
• Oh, and yes, there is that column I write for Exhale Magazine and that manuscript my agent is selling.

Certainly sounds like the life of a writer, doesn't it? So why can't I just open my mouth and smile as I say, with pride, with affection for what I do, "I am a writer"?

It could be because I have been, because I am so many things. I am a Teacher of the Deaf. I am an Interpreter for the Deaf. I am starting a Share Southern Vermont group. I am an advocate for grieving families. I am a certified Reading Recovery teacher.

But, this year I am not teaching. I am not interpreting. I am home.

I think my inner struggle for labels is because I am home. Inanimate objects call to me. The laundry yells, "I'm still sitting here in the pile. How long would it take you to throw me in the washer?" The dishes squeak, "We are getting dried out. It will take you twice as long if you wait until later." The dust bunnies? I'm not even going to tell you what they say, it's not blogworthy. So, even as my hand hit the keys in a, click - clack - clickity-clack pattern, my guilt for not attending to the other pieces of my life builds.

Last year I taught full time. I wasn't here. The fact that my body wasn't present in my house all day as laundry, dishes and dust mocked me somehow made it easier to walk back into the house and find it in the same state. Now, I close my eyes and envision clean, crisp rooms that are clutter free and smell fresh every second of the day. But (and here is the good part) I do nothing to maintain the blissful status of our home. I mearly walk through each welcoming room to reach, my brand new ergonomic office chair (on my xmas wish list), crack my knuckles (yup - I really do) and breath deep as I look at the Angel Wall.

And then, I work. I write. Hence, I am a writer. But, I am also a mother. A driver of carpools, a packer of lunches. A rescue van when a child is sick at school, a scheduler and executer of doctors appointments. A cooker of dinner and, yes, a cleaner of the house.

Truth time? I often fantasize a world where I function very much like Carrie from Sex and the City. The world is my oyster, although I have no great love for shoes. Regardless, I would write when the perfect mood struck over a cocktail at an unmentionable hour. I would explore new ideas while walking the streets in a contemplative and introspective state. And, of course, the answer would always come, the last line - with just the right witty pun to leave the reader thinking, chewing for hours on my most recent ideas.

Reality time? That's not going to happen.

I am all the things I said and more. And, I am not balanced. I do not strive for balance for I know it only makes me feel more lopsided when I don't achieve it. I am, however, blessed for all my responsibility, for it allows me to grow into who I am becoming, after the loss of my Emma Grace.

It really bit me, this writing bug. It is part of my being now and I know it is the piece I was missing as I set and achieved every goal, then moved on.

This feels good. It feels right, flooding me with motivation, passion and desire to make a difference.

So, just in case you were about to ask...I AM A WRITER.