Hello, Lion. Saw you in the street and was glad for your iron sculpture stationary nature. Happy you aren't chasing me up a mountain, or ARE you?!?!!

Creme de la Creme for 2011

December is another kind of season for the blogger in the land of adoption, infant loss, and infertility. Tis the season of "Creme de la Creme" from Stirrup Queens.  Melissa Ford, author and blogger and all around good person, each year requests bloggers in the "Land of IF, cities in-between, and points beyond," to reread and choose their best blog post, and then submit it for the list.

Melissa, then reads each blog, writes a description and gives back to our community by posting a list with her annotations. And that list is the "Creme de Creme." It provides us with months of reading posts and meeting and connecting to new bloggers or rekindling our e-friendships.

If you'd like to participate go here:


The Best of the Adoption/Loss/Infertility Blogs of 2011

Of the six years of "Creme de la Creme," I've participated in three:

Creme de la Creme 2008 Click here for the post: The Refining Fire
Creme de la Creme 2009 Click here for the post: "Mildly Retarded" is Not a Punchline
Creme de la Creme 2010 Click here for the post: The Moon

And soon a fourth . . . Looking forward to e-meet'n'greet that is Creme de la Creme!!!

Word Portrait

She's

Transparent, perhaps

Sincere, certainly

Tentative, likely

Unique, maybe

Constant, clearly

She's

Clearly transparent

Perhaps sincere

Certainly tentative

Likely unique

Maybe constant

Clearly . . .

A Mountain, A Hut, and a Lion

I have always been a lucid dreamer. From the time I was a child, I had nightmares and storymares and such. I remember that the nightmares sometimes sent me flying to my parents' room for comfort. And I remember that one of those nights, after my father sent me back to bed, I went back to sleep, and the nightmare continued. And I knew within the dream that I'd have to take care of myself. A feat of gargantuan effort for a four or five year old, I managed to perceive during the nightmare that I was dreaming. I didn't like the way the story ended. Then, I "re-wound" the gruesome story and changed the outcome. Over the years, I developed many ways to navigate the dark and terrifying creations of my mind. I became an active player in my stories. I learned to "run," a special fly-like-deer-running that I created especially for dreams that helped me successfully escape from what ever was chasing me. And I learned to step out of the action like taking a seat at a theatre. And from my seat I watched my mind-movie.

And sometimes these mind movies come in sequels, the latest of which was "A Mountain, A Hut, and a Lion," the sequel to "A Tree, a Door, and a Lion." The first Lion-flick I saw was during the first year after Caitlin died. It was a surprising dream because it contrasted the emotionally draining and soul-trembling creations I was experiencing at that time. In the opening scene, I exited a doorway and was startled to see a lion. This enormous lion with a full main, a healthy shining orange coat and rippling powerful muscles made eye-contact with me. Instead of charging, as I feared, it made pierced my heart with its gaze and blinked like a yaw--only with eyelids. And with a slow nod it remained under the tree. And I remained an active player in my dream, and stood there in the grass with a transfixed on the lion. I perceived that it was content, that it welcomed me to its green space, and experienced its intended shared tranquility. Eventually, I walked on, the scene faded, and I was plummeted into another dream that took more rigorous work. I woke up exhausted, but with the memory of the lion's shared tranquility. Odd.

Two nights ago, the sequel. I am hiking a mountain. The trail is steep and it's getting dark. Others tried to keep up with me, but could not, and I would not slow down. Far above the treeline, I reached the hut and threw myself inside. It was small like a closet with hard dark wood walls. Grandparents of grandparents made this place from old trees; I knew this because the wood planks were wide. The wind howled and progressed to wild gales. But I learned quickly that sounds I heard wasn't only wind. I heard the lion. He was ragged and angry. His rage toward me had fueled his pursuit of me up the steep and rocky trail. Our eyes locked briefly through a thick dingy window at the top of the heavy door. From my seat, I saw my eyes fly open in fearful recognition. I was terrified. He dropped from the window and broke through the wall behind me slamming his massive body against the wall I was hugging. I rolled slightly to avoid being pinned.

This event threw me out of my passive role as an audience member of my personal mind-movie, and into my self-preservation role. I became an active player in a dream state of fight or flight. Fly-running wasn't an option inside a hut on top of a mountain with a dangerous tawny lion inside. I was too alarmed to rewind, after all there was no where else to go. No haven, no fortress, only an ancient hut atop a mountain. I squeezed myself out of the door, as the lion lunged, slamming it closed. I fled up--or was it down?-- the same rocky trail that led us there.

What does it mean? I don't know. I only hope that this is a trilogy. Because, our heroine is lost and directionless, and there's a lion on the loose.

A Second Wave

The second wave of grief threatens to overcome me. I can feel the sand move beneath my feet. As it shifts, I become more fixed in place. I am watching the water move farther and farther away from me and in the distance I can see a tidal wave forming. It will come crashing down upon me. I'd like to move to higher ground, but my feet have sunk into the sand so deep that I cannot lift them. I am helpless. Only able to stare and wait for the second wave to come while gulls shriek above me.

It's the holidays, I suppose, that pulls the water out to sea. Or the increasing isolation, as I become the only mother of only dead children I know. The pain of having no new stories is exhausting. Remembering has comforted me for four years and making meaning has aided as well. Reflection brings numbness now, rather than enlightenment. My feet sink deeper. The wave grows higher. The sky darker.

I want to talk and write about Caitlin and I don't. I'm stuck. Perhaps I should welcome this wave. It may take me out to sea. It may toss me toward new horizons.

My Show is On

What's the point?
This "life thing." I'm not being facetious or provocative.
No dark humor here--There are days, I truly don't get the intended point.

Driving across the DE bridge, I see the signs, "If you are in distress call."
But, I've been in distress for several years and wonder:
What call?
Call who?
Why call?
So they can save me?

I can't call, I'm supposed to pull myself up by my bootstraps.
You know: 1) dig deep, 2) have faith, 3) count my blessings 4) Accept that the Fault lies with me.
Always  . . . only unto the evil thereof.
You know, I deserve what I get an' such, and I've done nothing that deserves anything better.

Such tunnel vision . . . as if it were only about me.
What happened only affects me and was only prompted by me and can only be corrected by me.

More like funnel vision.

Eh, this line of thought . . .

Dull.
Overrated.
Selfish.

That brief moment of free flight, is but an illusion of liberation, a mere hope of eternity, an unanswerable question of significance.

Perhaps, seeking the answer is worth it?
If one knew that Chaos would end with an eternal caesura. Ah, but would Bliss follow?

And, what poses these questions?
It is the longing
the wishing
the hoping
the desire
for
peace
for stasis.

What's the intended point?
I need sleep.
A drink.
Or some effective anti-depressents
But, above all . . .
eh
what's the intended point?
I know better than to look somewhere without for meaning.

And . . . sorry to say, the God doesn't aid in meaning-making.
I'm better off speaking with Him personally than waiting for the unknowable answer. Or listening to others tell me what God means.


And my faith tells me that if he is a He, then questioning is a problem.
If we are to stick to the Patriarch then merely asking the question is problematic.
Silence from the original sinner is expected. So, best to forget about it, and Just Obey, right?

I am expected to have no thought. I am expected to be comforted with no explanation. I am expected to wait until death to discover the reason. And be assured that that reason will, in fact, provide the comfort I seek. "Wait till I'm ready to tell you," all the while I praise for keeping me in the dark.

Perhaps in the free fall the waiting ceases, or ---  the Bluff is called.

I'm done. My show is on. I'll think on this another day.

On Being

She walked
Chose a path
With no past no destination
Stepping grateful for
No sense of place
No thoughts
Nor haunting memories
Or Worried plans
Neither hope nor dread
She walked
Chose a path of mere

Breath and footsteps

Mother's Day

Wishing it would get easier, but it doesn't. I get older and my daughter is still gone. Took roses to her grave today. I couldn't bring myself to go yesterday.

Someone had left flowers for Dorothy's grave and the purple flowers were in full bloom. Fitting for Mother's Day. It was of some comfort, like a hug from the earth.

Shhhhhh......creeping in.......

Or should I say "slinking" back in. Please accept my apologies for the dramatic exit. Now that the dust has settled, I've found that I need this place. I don't need it to help others "check in" with me to see about my mental health--which, frankly is pretty shaky these days. Or for others to read the posts like the latest in a FOX news Megyn Kelly's "take down" with eyes rolling and those leading questions meant to judge the worth of someone. UGH.

Once again, Grief invited itself in and said, "let's talk about you." I wave him away, with a "eh.....I'm healed now." "Hah," he scoffs, "You'll need this when your brain goes and you need something to help you remember. So, tell me what'd'ya do today."

And this is why I creep, rather slink, back in to my space so I can write about my visit to Caitlin's grave site. That way when Grief brings me into the fifth season, I can click on my label, "Cemetery Visits" and remember the significant visits. Because, what if Grief is right, and my basal ganglia starts deteriorating and I can't remember the late-night-police-escort-out visit or the Christmas-dig-through-the-snow visit.

There isn't anywhere to share these kinds of visits. No one else but grief asks, "what'd'ya do today? and truly hangs on your every word of how you took a third angel to leave at your daughter's grave. Only Grief is interested and heart-warmed that the driver of a truck that drove by with fresh dirt thought to wave and nod as I was standing at her stone. Grief thought, as I did, that that was a nice gesture and what a relief to be recognized rather than turned away from so as to leave me to my "private sorrow."

There's no where to share that each angel seems to be telling a story of our mother and daughter journey. Cemetery visits simply aren't stories you share. Only Grief will listen.

Letting Go Takes More Than One Release

Many thanks for all the comments about ending this space. As one of my fellow bloggers states, "comments are the new hugs"!

My heart actually hurts with gratitude for your kind words.