Just for Fun

I learned a new poetic form today. It's called the clerihew and is meant to be humorous. While I can't post my poetry in here if I have any plans to try to publish it elsewhere (publishing laws are strange in this electronic age), I was just having fun this morning. I thought, after all the heaviness of most of my posts, I would send a little lightheartedness your way. Enjoy! :)

ALEXANDER
His mother named him Alexander.
He speaks with such refreshing candor.

His brain is packed with lots of facts.
He is, by gosh, a class A act.


KATE
For short, we all just call her Kate.
Clearly now that is her fate.

A princess she was meant to be;
that's plain as day, for all to see.

BRENDAN
My baby’s name is simply Brendan.
Christmas Eve was homeward bendin’

on the day he came to stay,
decided he would join the fray.

My Safety Net

I am truly a fortunate soul. I've realized that in a new way the last couple of days. I think sometimes we get so caught up in the demands and challenges and ordinary pursuits of life that we forget what really matters. Many people go through their entire life that way and only wake up to the fact at the end -- if at all. I am among the lucky ones; Mark's illness has stripped me of so many external things (financial security, career pursuits, the hunt for something bigger/better). I've been driven to a point where I have two options: I can curl up in a corner and become a bitter, stagnated lump, or I can cultivate that which is eternal -- friendship and love. If I had to chose between what I have now (even with all the challenges included) and a life of wealth and career opportunity without genuine friendship, I would choose the former, without a microsecond of hesitation. Let me tell you about the last couple of days, and you will see why.

Yesterday I went to my dear friend Andrea's house. She already had six kids there: two of her own and four that were "borrowed." I added another. It was chaos, but a good kind of chaos, the kind that makes you feel like the life is bustling at your feet. After awhile we decided to take them to the park. It took us half of forever to get them all out the door. They all had to go potty and find shoes and jackets. We had to arrange car seats and lunch. It was quite the endeavor. And when we finally got there, the kids took off in several different directions, and we spent a good ninety percent of the time chasing them down. I would be surprised if Andrea and I exchanged more than a half dozen sentences that contained anything of substance the whole morning, but one of those sentences was, "I'm so glad you came over today." I also know that some day (sooner than we'd like to think) the kids will be grown and gone. Andrea and I will sit with our coffee in our quiet house and reminisce about those crazy days, and we will be partly so glad that those days are over and partly sorry that they are gone. In the meantime, there is such reassurance in being able to reach out to a kindred spirit in the middle of the chaos and say simply, "I'm so glad you're in this with me."

Today I was granted several more reminders of this sisterly camaraderie in my life. The first was from my actual biological sister, Becca. She called to tell me that she had activated my support system for me. She has set things rolling so that I have people in place to provide meals two evenings a week and to be on call for child care four days a week. One person has even volunteered to take a 24 hour shift once a month so that I can get away for some respite. I don't even know how to thank her. My heart is just so overflowing that it defies being put into words.

And then, in the midst of all this, I had an email exchange, back and forth several times, with a woman who is quickly becoming a dear friend. We chatted about the weather. (I laughed out loud when she told me it was snowing again and added, "I can't believe people pay good money to play in this muck.") We talked about her cat and her bread making endeavors. We talked about illness and pain, about feeling swallowed up by the needs of your family. She sent me links to poetry websites and a picture of herself in a darling pink hat. I sent her pictures of my kids in the snow. It was a simple thing, just an exchange of words and images, but it was so much more than that. It was friendship. It was her saying to me and me saying back to her, "I'm so glad you're here with me."

As if that weren't enough, I got a phone call at nearly three o'clock from Amy, who was having a party and had forgotten to get out the invitations. "It's at seven o'clock. Can you come?" Four hours from then? I was dressed in my duds, cleaning house and taking care of kids, but Mark was feeling relatively well yesterday (yea!) and I thought, "Why not?" So after dinner I put on a nice sweater and some earrings and some fresh makeup and set out. I have to tell you ... I lost track of time. I was having such a great time, sipping my red wine and eating the most scrumptious chocolate cake and talking (and talking and talking) with Cynthia that when I looked up, it was suddenly nine o'clock, and I knew I needed to get home. When I said good-bye and walked out the door, I felt lighter than I have felt in a long, long time.

I feel like a tightrope walker these days, but lately I have realized an important fact. Between me and the hard floor of the circus dome, there is a net, constructed of the clasped hands of my friends and loved ones. I may teeter in this challenging balancing act. I may even fall and have to climb up and start again. But I will never hit the ground with this net between me and the floor. And truly ... what more could one ask for in life?

Painfully Ever After ...

Today was hellacious. The doctors, while they cannot find the cause for Mark's pain and cannot offer us any kind of alternate treatment, want to wean him off the morphine completely within a year. Today, when I took him to the ER for some bleeding, his pain spiked while I was out stretching and making a couple of phone calls. When I came back, he was sobbing and shaking and writhing in pain. They gave him an anti-inflammatory, but they wouldn't give him any narcotics. He and I and everyone else know that he is physically addicted to these meds, but they told us when he went on them that that would happen. Now they want to take him off of them? without offering him any other kind of treatment? or even any hope that eventually things will -- or even might -- get better? What are we supposed to hang onto to keep us going? It all just feels a little overwhelming tonight.

Camouflage and Stripes

Brendan dressed himself yesterday. I had to step out for a few minutes, and when I got back, he was dressed. My pride at his initiative was quickly followed by a sense of mild horror at his choice of clothing. I may have very little fashion sense, but I do know that camouflage and stripes do not mix! And yet I bit my tongue and resisted the urge to make him change. Maybe it was nothing. I mean, kids get dressed every day, right? And eventually they do need to learn how to pull together an outfit that doesn't leave everyone snickering. But to me, more was at stake yesterday.

First of all, I felt it was important to reward the fact that he got off his skinny little duff and got himself dressed, without a bit of help or prodding from me. We mothers often undermine our kids unwittingly when they do something that is a stretch for them, and then we come behind and tell them (usually without words) that their effort is not good enough. Why should they bother trying if we are going to come along and undo it?

Secondly, I want my kids to have a feeling of control over their own lives. Of course, that control is limited. At five years old, he is not ready to wander the streets alone. He's not even ready to pick his own bedtime! But kids need to have control over age appropriate things -- like picking out their own clothes. If they are not allowed to make some of their own decisions, they begin to feel like life is happening TO them. A healthy amount of control over one's own decisions leads to empowerment, while being acted upon by "superior beings" leads a child to grow up passive, distrustful of the value of their own thoughts and wishes.

I feel strongly that it is important to empower all children, but it is especially important for mine. With so much of life careening out of control around them, they simply MUST know that they have some power to affect their own lives, that they are not merely plankton, being tossed around in the vast expanse of a merciless sea. And so I try to let the little things go. I let the boy leave the house in camouflage and stripes, praising only his effort, knowing that there will be plenty of days down the road for fashion lessons.

Staying Behind

It's almost 10:30. I am numb. The ambulance just pulled out with my husband in the back, and I cannot follow them. I just cannot.

I took a hot bath after I got the boys to bed. When I came out after staring at the ceiling for nearly an hour, Mark was in pain. I went to bed anyway, but it only got worse. He started having sharp pains, in his chest and shooting down his arms. We called 911, and I DID plan to follow them, but the aspirin and the nitro helped him a lot. I can tell he's not in danger. (What if I'm wrong? I just can't think about that.) I just can't drive without a little sleep. I seriously don't think I would make it. I feel horrible, though. Sleep. I have to sleep.

Not Your Usual Rainman

Alex is an unusual kid. I couldn't tell you if he's my easiest one or my most challenging. Often, he's both.

We knew early on that he was different from other kids. He didn't talk, for one thing. Until he was three years old, he didn't say a word. He's sit there and smile at us, friendly as a puppy, but he didn't seem to feel any need to try to communicate. And he didn't play, not really, not like his older sister, who would create her own imaginary world to inhabit. He liked to organize things -- to line up his beloved videos, for instance. Autism, the experts speculated.

I still wonder if the term fits. It's a spectrum, I know -- a very LONG spectrum -- and my son is definitely on the higher functioning end of it. He hasn't given us the horror stories that I've heard from many parents. He didn't stay awake for the first few years of his life, for instance. He doesn't rock and bang his head when he's agitated. He doesn't shriek when he is touched. He doesn't find his own feces fascinating (any more so than a regular boy!), and he doesn't come completely unglued when his routine is disturbed.

His challenges are far more subtle than that. His speech is still delayed, for instance, while his mind races far beyond his years so that he speaks often in three and four syllable words while listeners struggle to decipher his meaning. He loves to engage in monologues on his topics of interest. His brain can hold copious amounts of factoids, which he loves to share with anyone who will stick around, but he seems to have no understanding that others may not share his enthusiasm. And do not ask him to break off in the middle of a thought. It cannot be done.

Recess is a struggle for him, largely because he doesn't know how to play. Well, that's not entirely true. He lives to play video games, and he enjoys board games. In fact, he is a formidable opponent in games like chess or Sequence. But in these situations, he is fitting himself into an established structure, and his mind is oh-so-fond of structure. He cannot put himself into an imaginary world, become a dragon (or a dragon slayer), the jungle gym his castle, the wood chips a mote or an expanse of bubbling lava. He cannot jump into the middle of a ball game -- and wouldn't want to. The limbs on his extra large body hang loosely and do not work well together, except to get him from point A to point B.

Alex is fond of rules, to the point that he will not break them, even if given a chance. I offered him one such chance the other day when we were playing Sequence together. He had forgotten to draw a card, which puts him at a disadvantage for the rest of the game. I told him he could take it anyway. He replied, "Isn't that against the rules?" I told him that yes, it was, but that it was okay this one time. He said, "No. I'd rather not." The downside to this is that he expects others to be equally conscientious and tends to play policeman, annoying his peers and siblings to no end with his attempts to get them to do what only seems rational to him; i.e., to obey the rules. Alex is a black and white child in a gray scale world.

Despite all his challenges, Alex is truly the sweetest child I know. He loves to hug people and gets genuinely upset when he hurt people (which, sadly, he does often!). He is often the target of bullies, and I have been trying to teach him comebacks, but he refuses to use them. "That's not nice," he says. And he's right. It's not. But if I could get him to say, even one time, "If I'm weird, you must be totally crazy," life with his peers would be so much easier for him. If he could bring himself to kick back when he's cornered in the bathroom and tormented ... If he could bring himself to hurt those who hurt him, perhaps he wouldn't be the one on the bottom of the dogpile so often. And yet ... I cannot practice what I preach, either. I understand his logic. Meanness is vile, even if it's deserved, and I'd rather be at the bottom than claw my up at other's expense. At least my beautiful boy will be there to keep me company.

Riding the Rollercoaster

Driving home from the emergency room yesterday evening, I felt such a surge of hope. We had made it four days without seeing the inside of a hospital -- a feat we haven't managed in a quite awhile. Also, the iron infusions seem to have helped Mark's severe anemia, and he's putting on weight. At 6'5", he's finally 159 lbs. They actually got to use an adult sized blood pressure cuff on him today! As if that weren't sufficient cause for celebration, the medical staff managed to get him reasonable comfortable without narcotics in a mere 2 1/2 hours. I was, to say the least, pleased.

I was relaxed, too, for awhile, because I knew my kids were all in good hands. Earlier, when I first realized that I was going to have to take him in, I made three quick phone calls. Becca, Jen, and Pieper all said, without hesitation, "Sure. I'll take a kid." The Spinks were even about to set out for Abby's Pizza to celebrate Scott's 37th birthday, but they both insisted that Alex was more than welcome to come along. The love and compassion of these three women and their families was a powerful tonic to my soul.

But on the way home, a line from one of my own poems came to me: "Hope is a four letter word, profaned by the mundane." I cringe in the face of hope. It is such a fall from there to reality, these days. And yet the lack of hope is far, far worse.

A few days ago, the doctor on duty gave Mark a new drug that sent him into severe anxiety attacks. However, no one put his reaction in his chart (despite my request that they do so). Once I thought he was settled yesterday, I took my new book of Franz Wright's poetry and went to the cafeteria in search of a turkey sandwich. When I got back, I learned that they had given him this same drug.

I think that's why I didn't bother to get undressed last night. I took off my jeans, but kept everything as is, climbed between the covers and dozed for a few hours. Sure enough, at 1 a.m. he woke up, agitated. Despite taking Benadryl to counter the previous medication, his state of mind continued to spiral up rapidly. I almost called 911, but our local fire department is volunteer and I couldn't bear to drag them all from their beds if I didn't have to. And I just couldn't bring myself to call Jason either. Not again. He would have been over in a flash, but there is only so much you can ask of one person. So I woke up Kaitlyn and had her get in my bed with Brendan. (He doesn't sleep well alone.) And we set out.

They tried not to give him an IV again. His veins are getting scarred up and starting to collapse, and they don't want to traumatize them anymore than they have to, but oral and IM meds were not working, even after several hours. In fact, he was getting worse, with pain and severe nausea added to the anxiety. Finally, they had to do the IV anyway. Phenergan and Dilaudid finally cut through it all. At 5:30, we headed for home.

I'm trying not to think too much about the day ahead. At least preschool will grant me two hours to sleep later this morning. Then I'm watching J.P. and Gabby for Becca. (I won't tell her about last night until it's too late for her to back out of her plans. She gives me so much. It's her turn today.) And then I have to take Mark back to the pain center for a routine visit. By 5:00, my day should be more or less over -- except for dinner. And kids. And homework and laundry and cleaning up the eternally mucked up kitchen. Sorry, Mr. President, but I don't think I'll be staying up to listen to your thoughts on the state of our Union tonight.

I've decided that television is really not good for one's internal well being, anyway. It is rather anesthetizing, but last night it seemed to me to reflect a world full of emptiness and despair. Mark had the TV tuned to Fox and Friends, and the commentators' arrogance made me want to duct tape their mouths shut. Then some entertainment show came on, where they were discussing anorexia and a new form of plastic surgery. When they went to commercial break, and a picture of filthy, starving children flashed on the screen. I left the room. "No starving children," I said over my shoulder to Jarod, the nurse. "Not tonight."

Speaking of children ... just the other day, after we had dropped Mark off at the ER and were pulling away from the hospital, Brendan asked me, "Mommy, why is Daddy like this?" I told him, "He was just born that way, honey. His heart has a bad hole in it, and his body is getting tired of having to work so hard." He said, "But ... why did Jesus make him that way?" I cringed, praying for the right words to say, but could only come up with, "I don't know." I could see him in the rear view mirror, thinking hard. I wanted to cry when at last he said, "Well, I still love Jesus anyway."

Just Wondering ...

I had a woman come up to me at church today and say, all in a rush, how much she had enjoyed a preview of the key speaker at our upcoming women's conference, how much I just absolutely HAVE to go. But then she stopped and said, "Oh, but ... you're not really a girly girl." I was more than a little surprised by that, since I have always considered myself to be ... well, womanly! I definitely have nothing against men, but I've never wanted to BE one, and I certainly don't try to act like one. I love colors and scents and soft fabrics. I like skirts that swish around my ankles; and if I need a pick me up, I wear earrings that dangle against my neck. I love dogs and cat and babies, unapologetically. I love my roses. (Love, as in "deep and genuine devotion"). So I'm a little confused by why I would be perceived as "ungirly."

I wonder if it's maybe because I don't like to sit around and chit chat? I can talk with a certain few people for the longest time, but not usually about things that most women want to talk about. I like to talk about literature and writing, about politics and religion. Or maybe it's because, with a serious shortage of swishy skirts on the market, I tend to dress in jeans and the same few sweaters that I find comfortable? Or maybe it's because I really don't care all that much about impressing people. I don't see the point in exerting a whole lot of effort pretending to be charming or gracious or coy. It's too hard to keep up the act after awhile, and beside ... if someone falls for that, it's not really you they like in the first place. They're infatuated with the character you are playing, and who needs that? It seems like a huge waste of time to me.

But I'm wondering now, in this age of gender equality, what makes a woman "womanly"? I'm so intrigued by the thought, in fact, that I think I'll email a few friends and see what they have to say on the subject. I'll get back to you if anybody has any profound thoughts on the matter. Or email me YOUR thoughts. I'd love to know what you think.

Keep On Keeping On

We had a moment last night, like a cooling breeze after a sweltering summer day. I won't give any details of our "moment," except to say that they didn't involve children, or laundry, or housework, or hospitals, that for a few glorious minutes we were able to push aside time and just BE. Afterwards, he stood in the glow of his computer screen, using his whole upper body to sign (his own invented sign language) along with Bette Midler's "The Rose." I laughed, and then started to sing with him. "It's the heart afraid of breaking that never learns to dance .... It's the soul afraid of dying that never learns to live."

I cannot say that I regret my choice to marry this man. In my naivety, back when I was twenty-one, fresh from college, with absolutely no idea what real life was like, I thought love would get us through anything. Besides, when I looked at the future, I saw life and death. I saw widowhood and single motherhood, and I knew it wouldn't be easy. But I'm a tough cookie, despite my sentimentalism, and I knew that I would make it. What I didn't realize is that there can be so many levels between "fully alive" and "dead," that death, for many people, is not the flipping of a switch, over and done, the soul transported in a flash to a better place. For some, like Mark, is a barrel of precious oil with a very slow leak. I step on the earth next to him, soggy with the runoff of his fading life, and know that there is nothing that can be done to stop it. I capture what I can -- words, pictures, memories -- so that when the barrel is empty, the essence of him will live on.

He's a fighter. He's not a saint! I'll tell you that upfront, but frankly ... is there really such a thing? I think anyone who lives within the same four walls as another human being eventually faces the fact that we are all marred in some way. And Mark is definitely human. But he is a fighter. He said the other day, as I drove him yet again to the hospital, "You've done this. You've had three babies." Yes, I experienced that kind of pain -- for three days, spread out over six years. And I wasn't all that brave either, taking the epidural the moment the medical staff would provide it, crying (with my second) when it failed to work effectively. I know what pain feels like, and I don't like it one bit! I can't imagine living with that body curling type of agony day in and day out, knowing that there is no hope of it ever going away this side of eternity. I'm not sure I would be able to go on. And yet he does. Some days, he truly amazes me.

Friday Night Fun

I'm afraid that guilt won out last night. I tried to give myself the night off, to sit and watch television with Kate and do my embroidery and just rest. Then, once I finally got the boys to bed, I was going turn in myself. It sounded delicious to me. But once the boys were down, I took a look around my house, which seems instantly to turn into something resembling a hurricane disaster zone the moment I loosen my grip on it, and decided that there was no way I was going to be able to go to bed with things in this condition. So I stomped around, loading the dishwasher, picking up toys and gum wrappers, moaning aloud. "WHY am I the ONLY ONE in this house who seems to know where the GARBAGE CAN IS?!?!?" Of course, I instantly felt ashamed. I thought, "Oh, dear. I sound like a mother!" Sigh ... And then, of course, when I mentioned going to bed, Kate piped up, "You're so boring!" And since I feel boring lately (compared to her and her friends with their boundless energy and enthusiasm for life) and I since I feel continually guilty for the extra load she has to bear in being the oldest child in this challenging family, I put off going to bed and painted her nails instead. In fact I didn't go to bed at all. After awhile, she got her pillow and laid on my lap, and we watched TV. Then the boys joined us, and soon we were sacked out across the living room: me on the couch, Alex on the loveseat, Kate and Brendan cuddled up under blankets on the floor. As I drifted off to sleep, I found comfort in their proximity as I know they found it in mine.

An Ordinary Day

8:15 a.m. -- I have no sense of humor this morning, no comfort in being connected to the struggle of humanity. Today it's just me, my husband (asleep in his desk chair upstairs), and my three kids, two of whom are trying hard to get themselves disowned. I suppose they weren't all that different from other mornings though. Alex started off agitated over a lost permission slip, which merged into distress over the fact that I took the little hot pink slip off his book order yesterday and now he doesn't know when it's due. Kaitlyn spat with me over a multitude of things, including eating her vitamin and wearing her coat . (It is, after all, 34 degrees outside, and she was in a Tshirt.) On little sleep, with no private time to buffer their demands, I did not find her attempts to "persuade" me charming, to say the least. I had to bite my tongue hard to keep from saying, "How can you do this to me, after the night I've just been through?" I am determined that I will NOT use their father's illness to guilt them into good behavior. They deserve the right to be children -- even if they happen to be high strung and difficult children at the moment. I will admit though, after awhile, I did turn toward her and say, in no uncertain terms, "YOU are being a brat this morning. A complete and total brat." Her silence was only momentary before she shot back, "Well, you're not exactly being very nice either!" When she finally walked out the front door, I have to admit ... I felt something awfully close to relief.

10:45 a.m. -- I just finished two rousing rounds of Candy Land with Brendan. I am a firm believer in the value of board games in a child's development for many reasons, and I'm usually pretty firm about them following the rules (although I will sometime "lose" if I can do it without them knowing). Today, though, I let Brendan make his own rules. They were wild and about as permanent as a drawing in the sand during a hurricane, but he had such glee in his eyes as he and I roamed all over that board. The only time I protested was when I got stuck in a spot that he had sailed over moments before. "How come you get to go right over the top, and I have to stay here?" He thought for a moment, and then stated the obvious. "Because my piece is magic, and yours is not."

I got a phone call while we were playing. We were supposed to get some money from a family investment, but it has fallen through. We were going to do several things, including getting a dog for the kids (and, to be honest, their mother!). I had even written to the Oregon Humane Society to tell them our living situation and to ask their help in finding a dog that would be happy in our home. The kids have been so excited. Only a matter of days, and we would have our dog! But now, we have to wait. We could pay the adoption fee, with a bit of a stretch, but there's no way we can pay the pet deposit. I will NOT cry. I will not.

5:37 p.m. -- The Humane Society just called! Apparently, Max just walked through their door. He's a 3-year-old black lab, friendly but protective of "his people," sturdy, fun, but not too boisterous. He sounds perfect! And they are willing to hold him for us for a few days AND wave the adoption fee. The catch? We still don't have the money for the pet deposit, and I'm not at all sure that our landlord (who is far more businessman than philanthropist) will agree to let us have him on simply our word that we would pay him when we get our tax return in three weeks or so. But it can't hurt to ask, huh? Just the possibility -- maybe, maybe it'll work out -- buoys my spirits.

Mark is not doing very well tonight, but we were in to the hospital the last two nights. Surely the Fates will grant a reprieve tonight. I'm choosing to believe it will be so. I'm going to label my fall/Christmas pictures that came today and do a little embroidery while Kate and I watch Sleepless in Seattle. But I'm not going to get TOO comfortable, just in case.

Vending Machines and Other Tragedies

I have decided that if I ever tip over the edge, it will not be because of the big things. It will be because of something silly, something like the vending machine at the ER taking my coins and refusing to cough up my corn nuts. Times like tonight I get really myopic, refusing to look much further than the end of my nose. I give myself pep talks:

"Hey, self, did you notice how fresh the coffee is tonight? So much better than that stuff last week, eh? And the new nurse ... Aleya? She's a sweety, isn't she? We're so lucky to have her. And look! All this time you have now to work on your embroidery! This isn't so bad."

And then the corn nuts get stuck in the machine, and the dam that had held back a torrent of emotion cracks; rage and overwhelming sorrow spurt out. But we can't have this. Not here. Not now. Not tomorrow either because come 7 a.m., a new day will have begun, and the kids will be counting on me to be functional, to keep their life rolling along on schedule. So I grab some concrete -- a quick joke, a friendly chat with a nurse -- and I patch up that crack as quickly as I can, before the whole thing goes ...

He apparently had a reaction to a new medication that they tried last night. It caused intense anxiety. They had to give him so much medication to counter it when I finally took him back tonight that he is higher than a drunk squirrel on a power line. I'll spare you the details, except to say that when we got home, it was only my quick lunging for his jacket sleeve that kept him from landing face down on the sidewalk. He is passed out on the loveseat now. I want to sleep. I need to sleep. But I'm afraid to, afraid that he will wake up, that he'll try to get upstairs and will fall. But he's not moving. Not a bit. I think it's safe to try for a little shut eye, down here on the other couch.

Come on in!

I don't know why I feel such a compulsion to tell my story. It's slightly unusual, yes, but not all that much. Basically, I spend most of my time doing what most people do: paying bills and taking care of loved ones and trying to pick up a few nuggets of beauty and joy along the way. Being the mother of a high functioning autistic son as well as caretaker for a chronically ill spouse does throw a few extra challenges into the mix; but truly, in the grand scheme of things, I've been very fortunate. We have good doctors; prescription coverage for Mark's dozen medications; great teachers and therapists and counselors for our son; disability payments that keep us afloat; rental assistance that enable us to live in a simple but homey townhouse, back away from the street, where the kids can run and I can indulge my love of roses. I belong to a church that believes in active love, and I have friends and sisters who provide a steady stream of affection and laughter. Compared to millions -- perhaps billions? -- around the world who struggle merely to stay alive, we are truly among the lucky ones.

So why do I write this -- here, now? Why do I feel the need to allow you, the anonymous bystander, a peek into my life?

Maybe it's because I feel that nothing is quite complete until it is passed along, that a sorrow shared becomes lighter while a moment of joy multiplies.

Maybe it's because I have found that I get my greatest boosts from those who are open enough to share their true selves -- not the "fit for public" selves, all dolled up in silk and glitter. I admire many people, but it is those who allow me close enough to see their thinning hair, to smell their morning breath ... those who have called me in a moment of glee or written me in a flash of rage ... those who dare to cry in public, to sing in supermarkets, to laugh just a little too loud ... These are the one who have impacted my life most. I want to be one of those people.

Or maybe it is because my thoughts are often like children, turned loose on a hot summer night. They race round and round the cabin, darting in and out of the woods, filling the air with their laughter and squeals. Writing is the campfire that draws them in from the shadows, mesmerized by the dancing flames, by the sudden shower of sparks against the deep blue velvet of the sky.

But mostly I think it is simply because I am a storyteller. I always have been. I always will be. I wear many hats these days: wife, mother, daughter, neighbor, lover, sister, teacher, friend ... But my children are quickly growing up. My husband will not live forever. My parents will someday pass on to the Other Side. But no matter where I am or who shares my days, I will always be a storyteller above all else.

So come on in! Pull up a chair, and I'll brew us some coffee. I'm glad you found time to drop by.