Temperance

A temperance movement is a social movement urging reduced use of alcoholic beverages.

Self Portrait

Her Name

When your child is gone, what you have is her name. Her name is tangible and in a small way, writing it places her here in this place with me.

Early Bloom

This is far to early for the season Caitlin's tree to bloom, but one lone bloom showed herself in this oppressive heat. Blooms are supposed to occur in November!

Performing in Summer Pops in the Park--My Perfect Moment

I took this picture from the top of the choral risers before our gig began. It was a lovely evening.

There was a moon and I thought of Caitlin. You can see it in the upper left hand corner of the pic below.

If you'd like to check out more Perfect Moment Mondays go to Weebles Wobblog by clicking here.

What we Seek

"C'hello" Kitchen Concert

For "Perfect Moment" Monday, I share my kitchen concert for DH. You can't see it very well, but Caitlin's blue bracelet is on my bow hand. This avenue for music making for me continues to provide some healing. I'm grateful.

Go to Weebles Wobblog for more Perfect Moments

Joy Possible

Caitlin was remembered by her Grammy and Godmother this season. It was so nice. Many people avoid saying anything about the children who have died; it's too sad perhaps for the season. As a bereaved mother, acknowledging the sadness in the beginning makes way for the joy that's possible during this season. Our family remembered Caitlin and we hung her ornaments on the tree. My camera didn't capture her name and the tiny angel that hangs from pink hearts, but my heart did.
Thanks family. Love you.

Wishing all Peace This Season

She Holds My Fragile Heart

During a visit to the cemetery, I take a walk through the stones of the loved ones of others. And I see this statue. I didn't interpret it the way others might perhaps, that the angels hold the souls of our loved ones who leave their bodies for what is unknown to the living. I saw instead my child holding my heart with care.

I am so very tired.

I Think This is What We Do

Stand on our own tails to prevent ourselves from falling into the pit. ((((((Hugs))))) fellow bereaved parents.

This Space is Not For Me

I am immersed in my profession at this time. The profession that "pulled me back in" just when I thought I was out. I thought I was embarking on a new road, where I would grumble about the not enough sleep, the troubles with feeding, and difficulties in running those errands with baby in tow. I'm walking to an office store just shy of a deadline by a few hours to get this big project off my hands, and I stop at an empty parking space. And I study the painted yellow blocks with BABY spelled neatly, but the pavement is cracked with an attempt for repair and the pavement is stained. "Fitting," I think, and I continue to stare. Sadly. It's quite fitting that it's empty because this space, this parking place for a road that I thought I would be on, is not for me.

[This post is part of The 73rd Circle Time: The Show and Tell. Click here to see what others are showing.]

Pic for ICLW

I don't have any big thoughts on this, 'cept that the alley is public and empty. Hmmmmmm.

Birthday Visit to the Cemetery

A Gift From Kay

I saw the ocean first when I was very young, that was pretty cool, as I was a landlocked child. My shoes got washed away with the Pacific tide. That was cool, except the part where I didn't have any shoes to go home with. The next time I remember seeing the ocean, I was an adult. And the first thing I did was write my name in the sand and watch the waves wash it away. Each time thereafter, whether I visited the Atlantic or Pacific (Those were my two choices.), I found a stick and wrote messages and drew flowers and such. Sometimes I would add a stone or leave the stick to help me out.

Though, I must admit, the writing didn't hold a great bit of meaning for me, other than it's what you do when you see undisturbed sand of any size that begs to bear a message. And now that simple activity of writing in the sand has become a sacred ritual of sorts for me and many other bereaved parents.

After Caitlin died, I was struck by how profound it was to write her name and know that that seeing her name in print was tangible evidence that she was here. If felt like that's all I had left of her. I saw her name in stone where her body lays, and I was overwhelmed.

I wrote her name in the sand on a visit out west; at the family beach week on the east coast; on a beach on the Cape, the town beaches that are close to my home, when there wasn't/isn't a beach I write it by arranging stones, or I draw her name in the snow. When I discovered Carly's site and requested Caitlin's name to be written on a beach in Australia. I wrote her name again and captured the tide as it came to wash the letters back into the Atlantic. Most recently, Kay at "Eternal Names by the Sea" sent me these photos of Caitlin's name on a white sand beach in Australia.

Thank you Kay, for your kind gesture. I'm always comforted to see her name. I'm grateful.

At The Beach

The Light of a Child

My sisters and I visited the Phoenix Art Museum, and I was drawn to this painting. (I forgot to note the artist's name and will credit the painting as soon as possible.)

The image of mother and child is universal. The Madonna and Child is the image I see most frequently in my experience, likely because I recognize the figures, because of my religious background. Though, every culture that you might explore will have this image as a prominent feature in their Art, both Folk Art and High Art.

As I studied this "Mother and Child" painting, I noted that the light of the child is where my eye is drawn. And my mother's heart and mind rest in there. I note this darkness that seems to be hung around the mother. I find it meaningful that where the light emanates seems ambiguous. Does it come from the child? Or the mother? The brightest light is found at the center of the child, but that light blends with the body of the mother and so, to use a not very pretty analogy, it's like a flashlight. The light comes from the flashlight, but the brightest light you see is where you aim the beam, the flashlight itself remains dark. (Yeah, I know that ruins the beauty of the painting. Sorry.) Or perhaps the child is the light and it permeates the mother's body and becomes part of her.

As I study this light of a child, I see the painting transform to fit my experience as a bereaved mother. I envision another painting like this one, hung to the right of the original, with the same mother and the same light. Only in this painting, the child is gone. The light of my child has permeated my body, mind, and soul and though I no longer hold her in my arms, I know that light. I have not forgotten. I still love. I am still a mother.

Put Your Head on My Shoulder