Friday, May 29, 2009
Last year we had a party the first of June to announce to our family and friends that we would be having a boy (we had found out a few weeks earlier). The deck was perfect (it was large enough for a hoe down to be honest). I had envisioned many parties out there, including Kellen's first birthday.
While I love our backyard now, I miss our deck. I miss walking out onto it and thinking about the work we put into it. I had thought often about Kellen playing on it, crawling on it, walking on it. And yet it is something he will never know.
This is the hardest part about the first year. Every season brings a new memory and new sense of loss for that time of the year. It's hard to believe that we are entering summer again, fire season. It's hard to believe it's almost been a year. We're home. And yet our home is a different home. In some ways it is easier that way. And in others, it magnifies the loss. I miss our deck.
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
I was just sent this from my yoga instructor (Yoga for Wellness), and I think it is so appropriate to how I feel right now. I am working so hard on being able to accept what has come our way and be ok with inviting in all that happens, even if it is a "crowd of sorrows."
From the Persian poet, Rumi
This being human is a guest house,
every morning a new arrival.
A joy, a depression, a meanness,
some momentary awareness comes
as an unexpected visitor.
Welcome and entertain them all
even if they’re a crowd of sorrows,
who violently sweep your house
empty of all its furniture.
Still treat each guest honorably,
he may be clearing you out
for some new delight.
The dark thought, the shame, the malice,
meet them at the door laughing,
and invite them in.
Be grateful for whoever comes,
because each has been sent
as a guide from beyond.
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
I've been thinking a lot about how to encourage more movement since it's been quite a while since the onset. I haven't had any improvement in at least six weeks, so I wasn't sure I would get anymore. But I've thought a lot about it. Today, as though my face was listening to my thoughts, my chin started to quiver. I've noticed some improvement in my smile too. I am hoping that the nerves keep regrowing and that by November, I will have my old smile back.
Friday, May 22, 2009
Monday, May 18, 2009
Thursday, May 14, 2009
Sunday, May 10, 2009
For mother's day, I decided that I needed to sort through the ash that was still in tubs from the fire. It has been eight months, and I was having a hard time thinking about looking through the stuff that was "salvaged." And I am proud to report that most of it is now in the trash can. I have mourned the loss of my things for eight months. There is no joy in learning that page 76 of my eleventh grade yearbook is recognizable (albeit burned). I can't read Outlander in that charred, water logged condition. And the quilt I made has burn holes in it (and is wet... STILL). It isn't coming into my new house. I have a few things from the house. Pearls. A letter from my grandfather. A couple of pieces of notes from my mom. Some burned pictures. And I think that's enough. Tokens of a previous life. Memories of a horrible event.
It's time to move on. And letting go of the ash, of the possibility of some lost letter or memory, is a good start.
My life now is different. It is different because of the fire. And it is different because I am a mom. That's what today is about.
Saturday, May 9, 2009
In case you can't read it, it says:
"The light of God surrounds me;
The love of God enfolds me;
The power of God protects me;
The presence of God watches over me;
Whereever I am, God is." [And all is well.]
I honestly couldn't tell you where this was in the old house. Probably in a box.
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
I have a B.A. in Political Science. I got cable because I needed CNN. I get excited about Meet the Press. And now, I can't watch it.
Do you know how much bad news is in the media? It's constant. A fire here. A murder there. Swine flu. Bad economy. Rumblings under Yellowstone. Melting glaciers. It's almost as if the collective media conscious is willing Armageddon.
My anxiety over fire has developed into a much more intense and generalized anxiety (so if I don't leave my house for a couple of days, don't worry). I can't do much without worrying about whether the worst will happen. And a lot of this has to do with the news. I think it's great that we are so interconnected. But do I need to know about the bad news in Georgia or Texas or Mexico? Canyon County has enough to hold me over, I think. So I've decided to stop watching the news (or visiting sites where the news might be- like Twitter or the Nest). My email is set up so that I can only see entertainment news and not the actual headlines. I don't want to know. Really, I don't need to know.
I was reminded it is news because it is unusual. But I just cut out at least a dozen articles from the fire where I was the news, I was the unusual. I was that person. So I'm taking a break. And you know, I don't miss it. I've found that my days are more productive without news, without TV (though I do watch movies and the Biggest Loser). I'm still anxious, but at least I haven't planned a grocery store outing to stock up on canned food in case of a mass quarantine this week. You think I'm kidding? It's a good thing we have two pantries!
Monday, May 4, 2009
One in a million. Those are better odds than winning the lottery. For that jackpot, I'm sure the odds were around one in 120 million. But even when the odds are one in a million, the assumption is that it won't happen, can't happen. And yet it does.
That is where I find myself right now. At the intersection of one and a million. And it is causing me incredible anxiety. I wish I could think about all the wonderful, lucky, amazing one in a millions, but instead I worry about the fires, the plane crashes, the swine flus. Which side will you find yourself on (I can tell you which side the insurance company is betting on)? And what happens when you are that one? How do you walk out the door like the millions when you know that disaster can be looming on the other side?
It doesn't even seem like that was ever our house. Since we rebuilt on the same land it feels like this is just what has always been here. It's really hard to imagine that our front yard was ever that big or that our house was that three bedroom. I suppose it is good that this is now our home and it feels like home more than that does. I don't really have much choice about it though either.