thirteen years later...

 It's been thirteen years since my last post. You have no idea the hoops I jumped through to sign in to this account. To be honest, I wasn't even sure my blog still existed after so many years.  A lot of tears fell as I read my last post. So much time.

My children grew up. All four of them.

Cool is almost 26.

Spicey is 22.

Jack is 19.

The Baby is 16.

I am 50. 

My world was turned upside down exactly two months ago with a diagnosis of multiple sclerosis.  It is because of that I find myself drawn to writing again. Reaching out into the great world wide webs for something. I don't even know what. 

Ecclesiastes 3

I don't know why I wrote about my stupid dress last week.  The need to write something - anything- came over me and so that's what I did.  I wrote about a dress and bunchy pantyhose and confessed how unladylike I am. In doing so I looked at my list of posts and saw this.  It's old.  I read through it a few times, let it marinate, then read it again. I tweaked it a bit and let it sit a bit longer.  It's not long or wise or particularly thoughtful. Just honest.


Wow, September 7.  It's been 5 months since I last wrote here.

And believe me, I've felt it.  Every wordless day, I've felt it.

So many thoughts and feelings needing to come out and still I can't find the words.  Some of them make me feel naked, some of them make me look bad, some of them tear scabs off old wounds, some of them are just blah-blah-I-did-laundry-blah-blah boring.

I've felt really lost for a long time.  Important people exited my life and in so many ways it's felt like processing deep, raw grieving deaths but repeatedly over and over because no one actually died. It just goes on and on.  Sometimes I feel angry, sometimes I feel hopeful, sometimes I feel so much sadness.  Sometimes I am able to go for weeks feeling really good, feeling like I'm moving forward and then a reminder pops up and I almost can't bear the loss all over again.  Then there are days like I had over the weekend where it feels like a giant truck smacked me down then flipped a u-turn and repeatedly did it over and over again.  And then one more time for good measure.

I'm trying to heal, I'm trying to lean on God, I'm waiting and listening and learning from what He wants to teach me from these experiences.  I'm seeing things differently, understanding my purpose in this season of life through new eyes.  God answers me in the most tangible, clear, nearly audible ways and I am humbled and amazed by His mercies. So it's not all for nothing, this loss and sadness, but it hurts in the healing nonetheless.

What I find so interesting is the timing in coming across this once-archived writing.  Another year has passed and while I feel further ahead in my growth and the process of grief, there are still times when these very emotions come up fresh and raw all over again and I scratch my head and think, "Really? We're back to this again?"  And so I begin the process again-  the confession of my anger, the recognition of my selfishness and pride, the release of my perceived control over the process.  I learn, I become a little stronger, I see events and situations in a way that I might not have before.  The plunging fall isn't quite as deep, or it might not last as long, and it's not the setback it used to be.  But I wonder if it ever stops hurting, really hurting.

A few weeks ago I went to a women's event at my church.  They showed a short film clip of various women of different ages and stages reading phrases from Ecclesiastes 3.  It was beautiful and exactly what my heart needed to be reminded of.  These experiences of hurt and healing are part of life.  There is a time for each.  I just have to trust in the Lord to help me MOVE through them, not become stuck in one place.

Ecclesiastes 3

New International Version (NIV)

A Time for Everything

3 There is a time for everything,
    and a season for every activity under the heavens:

2     a time to be born and a time to die,
    a time to plant and a time to uproot,
3     a time to kill and a time to heal,
    a time to tear down and a time to build,
4     a time to weep and a time to laugh,
    a time to mourn and a time to dance,
5     a time to scatter stones and a time to gather them,
    a time to embrace and a time to refrain from embracing,
6     a time to search and a time to give up,
    a time to keep and a time to throw away,
7     a time to tear and a time to mend,
    a time to be silent and a time to speak,
8     a time to love and a time to hate,
    a time for war and a time for peace.

9 What do workers gain from their toil? 10 I have seen the burden God has laid on the human race.11 He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end. 

In a Bind

Seriously. I just don't know how June Cleaver and all the other women in her era did it.  My grandmothers, my great grandmothers, I can't wrap my head around how they did all the things they did while wearing a dress.  They carried babies, vacuumed, did laundry the hard way, worked in their garden, canned veggies, cooked endless meals, and cared for every inch of their homes and children in. a. dress.  And pantyhose- or rather- stockings with belts and clips.  And in some cases a girdle.

Today I wore a dress to work.  This is really unusual for me.  I wear a dress or a skirt almost . . .mmmm . . . never.  If I do it's most often in the warmer months when I can do so without the self-inflicted torture that is pantyhose.

*shudder*

My job is not strenuous, not even a little.  I'm a receptionist.  I walk around a quiet, climate controlled office. I sit in a comfy chair, I answer phones, I make copies.  I help other people make copies who can't figure out how to run the machine themselves.  I take a one hour lunch break, sometimes with a friend.  If my shoes are uncomfortable it's not a deal breaker.  So I made myself a dress, mostly just to prove that I could, and I decided that I would wear it today.  It's my shortest work day of the week, surely I can get through a shortish day in a dress.  I'm tired of wearing slacks and khakis so I here we go.

I wore:

• A shift-style dress, no waistband to contend with.
• Pantyhose which I promptly ripped a hole in and changed into tights during lunch.
• A camisole both for an added layer of warmth and to prevent a peep show when someone looks down at me from the counter.
• A slip to keep the dress hanging where it should and not riding up my tights.
• Knee length boots.

In all not entirely uncomfortable, one would think.  But by the time I got in the car at 3:00 I felt like I wanted to crawl out of my skin.  My boots felt tight, my cami was bunched and shifting, the slip was riding up.  The tights were riding down.  My hair was flat and my bangs felt plastered to my head.  

Maybe I need to lose some weight.  Okay, yes, I know I need to lose some weight.  My clothes would feel so much more comfortable if I could drop about ten pounds.  But honestly, I just don't get how women held the world together wearing pantyhose and a skirt for so many decades.  My hat (and pantyhose, and slip, and flat hair) is off to you.

Hello Weekend

Hello Weekend, I've been waiting for you.  To celebrate your arrival I bought new shoes.  And a new blouse.  The clearance rack gods were smiling upon me today.  The baby behaved herself while we shopped.  She was rewarded with chicken nuggets on our way home.

I received a clean bill of health after a biopsy.  We subscribed to an Aflac policy anyway.

My sweet girl was approved to return to her old school.  No more tears at bedtime and feet dragging in the morning.  No more dread of Monday morning.

My number wasn't called for jury duty this week although there were a few days I would have welcomed the escape.  I may not fly under the summoning radar in the next three weeks, but for this week it was a welcome reprieve for my schedule and peace of mind.

I welcomed the return of the happy pill.  I refuse to feel like a failure because of it.  I was tapped out, empty.  I had nothing within myself to call upon anymore.  I needed help.  It was a good pill-free run while it lasted and maybe this won't be forever but in the meantime this is the way it is.  I'm thankful to have options.

I can breathe again. I feel like doing things again.  I feel relaxed. My house is clean.  I've cooked dinner every night.  I've played two dozen games of Uno with Jack in the last two days.  He has thanked me with better behavior.  I go to bed feeling like I've had a worthwhile day, even if it was long, tiring, and redundant.

I walked through my sewing room today and felt a glimmer of interest, a teeny itch of creativity awakened.  I answered it by buying a new sewing pattern.

It's all going to be okay.  At least for now.  And in that I rejoice.

Nat'l Sewing Month and Nina!

It's one of the most beautiful months of the year, September, National Sewing Month.  No joke, it really is. It was declared so (sew?) in 1982 by President Ronald Reagan.  While his wife was busy promoting the national "Crack is Wack" campaign, he was focusing on much more important events, such as declaring a month to honor sewing.  Clearly his priorities were exactly where they should be.

To kick off this month long celebration I would like to introduce you to my newest sewing darling, Nina.  The Bernina.  I know. My sewing machine names are not very creative.

I've been saving little bits here and there for awhile and when this came up on Craigslist for song I ran out the door with cash in hand and bought her on the spot.  She is lovely and does all sorts of fancy tricks.  We are becoming fast friends though the learning curve is a bit more complicated than my very straight forward Brownie.

Nina has all kinds of decorative stitches, lots of buttonholes and 3 different alphabets. She is quiet and steady and has some cool settings and features.  Nothing like celebrating National Sewing Month with a new toy!

Yay Me!