Noel

Come, thou long-expected Jesus,
    born to set thy people free.
From our fears and sins release us;
     let us find our rest in thee.
Israel's strength and consolation,
     hope of all the earth thou art.
Dear desire of every nation,
     joy of every longing heart.


Peace to you all.

Forward

It's December 1st, a date that makes me happy.  I love the Christmas season (even the shopping, yes) and this year feels quite different from last year.  Last year I was dazed and numb and a little mad about it.  I felt angry sometimes that I could no longer enjoy all the things I usually liked, that I didn't even care about some of them at all.  The mall was full of corners where Ramsy and I had spent time over the previous year and it was so strange to be there without him.  Everything felt strange.  The trade-off, though, was that I was also full to the brim of deep thankfulness for the reality behind Christmas: that Jesus came to help us, that he will make everything right, that Ramsy is well and whole because of that, and that I have a place here for now.

This year some of the old excitement has returned to me, and I have energy to put into the traditions around here.  Here's what we're looking forward to:

• opening a little Advent gift today instead of chocolate Advent calendars this year. And opening the little windows on my paper Charlie Brown Advent calendar!  
• the kids' school Christmas concerts.  
• decorating the house.  Paper snowflakes and vintage ball ornaments suspended from thread in our living room; stockings hung by the window; real wreath on the front door and real tree in the house, covered with the eclectic mix of ornaments we've assembled over the last 20 years, including some from Ramsy's and my childhood.
• eating the fruitcake I baked with a friend a couple of weeks ago.  Yes, I actually like fruitcake.  A lot.  
• baking sugar cookies with my kids, cut out in fun shapes and decorated with icing and sprinkles.  
• seeing family and friends who live far away.
• hearing all 3 kids sing in our church Christmas Eve choir.  
• getting cards in the mail.  (I love mail!)  Maybe reading or hearing some new Ramsy stories.  
• watching A Charlie Brown Christmas, Elf, A Christmas Carol, Holiday Inn...
• filling up a mini-scrapbook that I made (thanks, aliedwards.com!) with pictures and memories of all this 

The other thing I am preparing for with great anticipation is the start of a half-time teaching position from January to June.  One of the teachers at our school will be on maternity leave, and I've been hired to teach Language Arts every morning (my favourite subject!  Woo hoo!) to the Grades 3-5.  Subbing has been a great way to ease back into work, and this feels like a very natural next step.

I've also been invited to speak at a couple of events in the new year, sharing our family's story and the way God has met us in the midst of all the chaos.  

I feel like I'm back.  For now, at least.  Even when I miss Ramsy so much, even when I feel the hole, I'm ready to celebrate.

Spiral curriculum

Don't you love it when you learn something in a work setting and then discover that it also applies to other aspects of your life?  When I was in the Education program in BC, one of the terms we learned was "spiral curriculum".  In a spiral curriculum a topic within a subject is repeated from grade to grade, even through to Grade 12, adding more complexity each year.  For example, the topic of "community" might be part of the social studies curriculum in every grade.  In Kindergarten the kids learn the basics about what a community is and about neighbourhood workers such as doctor, fire fighter, store clerk; in later grades the topic is examined again, expanding to include citizenship, how geography affects community development, economy, and law. When we learned this term, I found it interesting, but not particularly relevant outside of the school setting.

But over the past 17 years, this term has come to mind often in my personal life. Where it has been significant to me is in the realm of life lessons and character development.  You go through any experience once, and you learn something (or lots of things).  You go through it again, and you carry that new knowledge with you and build on it and end up with a different level of understanding.  Each experience will be slightly different, even if they happen in the same setting or with the same people, partly because you are different.

As I've come into the beginning of the second year after Ramsy's death, I've been surprised to find myself in the middle of another spiral curriculum.  (Go figure- you'd think that by now I'd stop being surprised by anything....)  Around the middle of October I noticed a return of the mental fog, nausea, dizziness and weeping that set in last October, right after Ramsy died.  I had expected, certainly, to feel emotional this October as we approached his birthday, the anniversary of when he had first noticed troublesome symptoms, and the date of his resignation from church; but I was absolutely not expecting those physical symptoms of grief to revisit me.  The good thing about having covered this "topic" before in my experience last year was that this time I didn't have to wonder if the dizziness and nausea were signs of something wrong, and I knew that these things would eventually pass in their own time.  This time around, they are an expression of the understanding I have of the wider implications of the loss of my husband, rather than the first bewildered shock of being here without him.  It's the same thing, but with wider meanings this time around the spiral. 

Now we're on to November, the month of his first seizure and trip to emergency and biopsy and diagnosis and all I know to do is remind myself to expect the unexpected. 

Hey, birthday boy

That was one awesome cake-bakin' mama you had!

One year

And missing you is just a part of living,

missing you feels like a way of life.

I'm living out the life that I've been given

but baby, I still wish you were mine.

-Amy Grant


and

Peace, peace!  
He is not dead, nor doth he sleep- 
He hath awakened from the dream of life.

-Shelley 

Around here

Here's a little bit about what our life is like right now, written in response to a general invitation by Ali Edwards.

Around here, the weather is transitioning from summer to fall.  Mornings and nights are chilly, and daytimes have ranged from bright & nippy to blustery to rainy to sunny & hot.  That means putting away summer shoes, bug spray and garden hoses and bringing out jackets, gloves and the hot chocolate mix.

Around here, our schedules are transitioning into the school calendar activities: classes for kids (including the first year of high school for our son) and subbing for me; band & choir & dance & music lessons; youth events & Sunday School; the frequent question, "Can ___________ come over after school?"

Around here, Ramsy's name comes up a lot as we approach the first anniversary of his death.  We love to remember him, to tell the stories connected with him, to see pictures of him.  Lots of times we laugh or smile, and sometimes we cry.  It's dauntingly difficult to know how to parent these three very different kids through their grief.  Sometimes I feel assured that it's going well, and other times I'm positive that I'm doing everything wrong.  That's how it goes.  We are preparing for an event we have planned for Saturday to mark the day, and that helps give direction to all the memories and feelings swirling around right now.

Around here, I'm spending a good chunk of time each month on memory-keeping.  Last year I chose a new format for keeping our photos, memorabilia and stories all in one album.  I felt that if I did not consciously make an effort to do this as a project, I would lose a whole year of memories- it's hard to drum up any "I wanna" feelings for taking your first family photo when one member isn't there anymore.  I am delighted with the results, with all the little conversations and events written down in this album, and with the fact that I periodically find the kids paging through it.  I'm absolutely going to continue doing it this next year.

Around here, we are reading lots: The Five Love Languages of Teenagers by Gary Chapman, vintage British detective fiction, and James Herriot's vet stories (me); Margaret Peterson Haddix, Suzanne Collins, John Green and Fox Trot comics (the kids).  We are watching The Mentalist and YTV's That's So Weird and anticipating the next season of Downton Abbey.  We are listening to Anthem Lights (Katy), Taylor Swift (Jane), and a lot of vocal and instrument practice.  We are eating delicious cherry tomatoes brought to us by gardening friends and (new discovery) mango-peach applesauce.

Around here, life feels pretty normal a lot of the time.  We're thankful for that.

Mish-mash, flip-flop

Since I began writing this blog in 2010, it has been rare for me to feel that I couldn't compose a post.  This last month, though, I have felt like that.  I really haven't had the same feelings consistently for enough days in a row to write about any of them.  I do much of my draft writing in my head, before I ever sit down to put words on paper (or screen), and that requires me to stay in the same mental space long enough to observe myself and recognize things and ponder them.

This summer's schedule turned out to be fuller than I had expected, with some travel and lots of chauffeuring, the kids' friends coming over, and some visits with family.  Most of that stuff kept me engrossed in the present, which was fine but unexpected.  Sometimes I felt like the one-year anniversary of Ramsy's death was speeding towards me; sometimes I felt it was lurking just at the edge of my range of vision; sometimes I felt happy and contented; and sometimes, out of the blue, a friend would ask a question or make a comment and tears would instantly choke me.

It's so strange to me that we have the capacity to host all of these vastly diverse emotions in ourselves in the same space of time, and yet most of the time they don't actually occupy the same space together.  The "real-life example" that most reminds me of this is something I am really new at: photo editing software.  I am new enough at it that I'm not even sure if different programs use different concepts for this- I only know Photoshop.  (Uh, kind of  know Photoshop.)  So this is the concept, as far as this newbie can describe it:

You open a blank canvas, like opening a blank document in a word-processing program.  This blank canvas is your background layer.  On top of that, you place a digital photo.  That's your second layer.  Then you can add, on top of the photo, different items like text, little illustrations, or whatever.  These items are in still more layers.  Down the side of your screen, you have a little menu of all the different layers, and if you click on one of the menu items, that layer will pop up on your screen, with all the others out of sight behind it.  They are all still there, but you can only see one of them at a time.

See where I'm going?  That's how grieving has been for me lately: all these feelings and thoughts and moods and so on are all here inside, but even I can only see one of them at a time.  Sometimes it looks to me like the others have gone away, and this puzzles me.  But then something will happen (a question, a memory, a kindness from someone) that clicks on a different layer in the menu and up pops this other completely different emotion.  So after a couple of months of this, and a very wise comment from a woman I met this summer (thank you, HH!), I have come to a place of acceptance that this is so.  When I feel one way, I don't need to waste my energy asking myself why, why, why I am sad instead of happy or peaceful instead of distressed; it just is what it is, and I can be sure that it will change again in a short time, or even a longer time.

So that's where I am right now: all over the map.  OK.

Wish you were here

My sweet Rams,

Once again I am confounded by conventions of speech and the limits of language.  Time and time again I catch myself wanting to say, "I wish he was here."  I don't always mean the same thing, though, even though it comes out the same every time.

"Man, I wish Ramsy was here."  What do I mean?

I mean that I wish for you to be beside me in the van.
That I saw a meadowlark and want to tell you.
That I need your help around the house and yard.
That I am not used to being in a certain setting without you.
That I want your perspective on something I am thinking about.
That I'm cold.
Tired.
Doing something out of my comfort zone.
That I ran into someone you were friends with.
That it's no fun watching our favourite show without you laughing beside me.
That you would have words of encouragement for the people in the group I'm with, where I am at a loss.
That I wish our kids could feel your hand on their shoulders and hear you saying again how proud you are of them.
Or that they are driving me craaaaaaaaazy!
That they want me to take them to an action movie and you would enjoy it so much more than I would.
That I drove past Starbucks.
I heard a choir sing.
Ate some chips.

Sometimes I mean, "You did this thing better than me.  I'm not good at this."
Sometimes I mean, "The sound of your voice on the phone made me feel better."
Sometimes I mean, "It was so much fun watching you have fun."

Always I mean, "I miss your presence."

xoS.

Headstone

A little while ago I wrote about choosing and designing Ramsy's headstone.  After I had mulled the design over for a bit, I showed my sketch to the kids, and they had input or not, as they chose.  The girls and I spent some time walking around the cemetery one evening looking at the different styles, fonts, edges, wording and so on.  (Not a mother-daughter activity you'd find as a suggestion in, say,  a Today's Parent article, but the girls didn't seem to feel it was weird, and we had a good time together.)  They had definite preferences on some of these aspects, and I was glad I had thought to consult them.

In the end, this is what we decided on:


Front

Back

I really like how it turned out.  I think he would like it.  I love that both quotes speak of the present life- the life he lived and the life I am living- and the life that he is living now and which is to come for me.  And, since I have this quirky sense of humor, I must say that I find it quite funny that the quote speaks of a "poor reflection" when the reflection the stone gives is so clear it almost looks like the headstone is made of glass.  Apparently the ancient Romans would have been better off using polished granite for mirrors instead of beaten metal...

Oakville Cemetery is a very pretty place, edged by trees, and very well-kept.  I have a new appreciation for the community people who spend so much time mowing and tending this place.  Thanks to them for making it a good spot to visit.  If you're in the area, stop by for a few minutes.  Leave a note in the book I have there, or just sit and then go on your way.  I think you'll like it too.

Balancing act

That's me in the red jacket.  Those of you who have ever met me may feel the tiniest bit of surprise to see me harnessed and helmeted and otherwise looking suspiciously like I might be doing some sporty-type activity.  And you can't really tell from this picture, but just to add to your mild astonishment, I will tell you that the log I'm walking on is around 25 or 30 feet off the ground.  You can see by my clenched fist that this is not quite in my comfort zone.  So why am I up there?

This activity was part of a year-end field trip that our son's class went on.  I got to go along as a driver/chaperone, which was really fun.  The first day involved go-karting, giant water balloon slingshots (even though it was only about 8 degrees Celcius!), bumper cars, and movies.  The second day we pulled up to Adrenaline Adventures, just on the edge of Winnipeg, and saw their gigantic climbing structure.  My first thought was that I would just give the rock-climbing wall a go, and if I couldn't get very far, that was fine.  I would spend the time cheering the others on from the ground. 

Well, I couldn't get far at all on the rock wall.  My girlie fingernails were just too long to allow my fingers to properly curl around the grips, and I didn't really have enough upper-body strength.  Oh well. 

But then I saw the zipline.  It started at the top level of the climbing structure, about 50 feet high, and it looked really, really fun.  (Also I was relieved to see that no hanging-on-by-the-arms was required.)  I really, really wanted to try it.  Now, there are several ways to get to the top of that tower.  I couldn't do the rock wall, but I thought I could make it a different way.  Turns out the easiest climbing method (basically a giant fishnet you climb like a ladder- a really spiteful ladder) is, unfortunately, 60 or 70 feet away from the zipline.  If you climb up the easiest part to the second level, you still have to get across the length of the structure and climb up to the third level by another net.  And getting across the second level requires either walking across thin tightrope-like cables whilst desperately hanging on to two wobbly ropes at arm's length or walking across that log on the side while hanging onto your own harness after it's hooked onto an overhead cable and having empty space on your other side. 

I was frankly amazed and delighted that I had even managed to climb up that malicious net at all, that I had pushed myself and my little spaghetti arms to keep going a little further, and a little further until I was there.  After I heaved myself onto the second-level platform I stood catching my breath and watching some of the Grade 8 girls walk across those tightropes.  I knew I would not be able to do it.  To constantly have the ropes I would be leaning on whipping away in a different direction, startling me and throwing me off balance, as I walked over air, was simply too much of a stretch for me.  I didn't even try.  But...the employees who were supervising us were constantly leaping lightly to these logs, striding across them and leaping off on the other side.  That looked more within my abilities.  I knew I wouldn't be able to leap and stride but I decided that I could manage some inching, and that was really all that was necessary. 

The hardest part was this: in order to get to the log, you have to step around an upright post, lean against the post to get your balance, and then push yourself forward, taking your weight off of the support post and putting it more firmly on your feet and, in my case, also firmly on your harness, the one that is clipped to an overhead cable.  My right hand had to grab the harness straps and hang on in case I lost my footing. But what if my hand slipped?  My left side was completely open, nothing to hold onto at all.  As I stood there, my back against the post, it felt like an impossible task to swing my weight forward.  I knew for a fact that if I started to fall, my harness would catch me; I had tested this much closer to the ground so I would know it for a fact.  But I was afraid of the feeling of falling, of that moment when your arms windmill and you can't find the ground and your stomach crumples up inside. 

I stood there and stood there, considering, talking to myself, thinking that if I just waited a minute longer I would gather up the courage.  But by this time, there was so much adrenaline in my system that my whole body was shaking, and I was worried that my legs would not actually hold me up once I did step forward on the log.

Here's what I considered, standing against that post:

• the fact that I could not fall more than a couple of feet because my harness would stop me.
• the fact that I had just witnessed a whole series of frightened 13- and 14-year olds successfully challenge themselves on this structure.
• that the zipline, which was clearly visible to me, was providing a whole lot of fun for everyone.
• that I had made it this far and, although it would not be shameful to simply climb back down the net, it would be a shame to miss the fun at the end.
• that this barrier was purely mental.
• that I would be so proud of myself if I did it.
• that I could at least try stepping out on the log and then decide if I wanted to turn back, rather than give up before I started.
• that I just really, really did not want my fear or my love of comfort to stand in the way of this fun thing I wanted to do.

And I did it.  And it was worth it.  I wished I could go back and do it again, if I had any muscle strength left. And I was really proud of myself.

And I never would have done this before Ramsy died.  I would have let him be the adventurer, and stayed on the ground, and had fun cheering the participants on, and possibly not even have wished for things to be any different. 

But things are different.  I did things when Ramsy was ill, physical and emotional tasks, that I never thought I would be able to do.  I did them because I had to, or because he couldn't do them and I wanted to help him in every way possible, and I discovered that ways were possible even when I had never stepped there before.  So I'm different now.

And since his death, I have looked back at the time we had together, and seen the places where I chose not to push myself, and considered the reasons for this.  I've done this not in a spirit of regret, but in an attempt to understand myself and to learn.  He loved it when I would go for a walk with him; I loved not dealing with mosquitoes or humidity or icy winds or tired feet.  He loved trying new things; I loved enjoying familiar things.  To some extent, I am still ok with that.  He and I were not the same person, and didn't need to be.  But I am choosing now to ask "Hey, why not?" sometimes instead of "Why should I?"  I like it.

 



Mental gymnastics

What I expected to cause me pain and struggle after Ramsy died: missing him, feeling his absence, loneliness, running our household and family without him, feeling the weight of being solely responsible. That stuff.

What I didn't know would cause me just as much pain: all kinds of mental and emotional complications that are not at all directly connected with Ramsy but that show up during this time of upheaval and crisis and redefining.  Things like the way I hate to appear to be a troublesome customer and so fail to speak up for myself when institution after institution has made mistakes in renaming or closing our accounts, processing applications, collecting information, or whatever.  Like the way I hate asking anybody for anything and so put off important tasks.  Like the way I have rather high expectations of myself and keep forgetting that this is a time to lower the bar just a bit.  Like the way I tend to allow myself to be put-upon. That stuff.

But I remember learning, years ago when I was seeing a counsellor for some months, that these habits and tendencies that we need to fight against will continue to resurface in new situations even after we overcome them in a familiar situation.  These are all old adversaries, and knowing that I have put them away and chosen other directions in the past helps me be hopeful that I can choose differently now, too.  And I have found that the impatience which is a product of my grief is on my side sometimes.  There have been some occasions in the past months when I have simply not been willing to put up with the old way anymore, or couldn't spare the mental energy to do the usual adapting, and I choose a new way almost without knowing that I am making a choice.  I guess that's the good news.

And on a different note: this memory showed up in my mind this week and made me laugh over the course of two days.  It must have taken place early last spring, when Rams was in a wheelchair most of the time, his right arm paralyzed and his right leg on the way there, but he could still speak in sentences.  We were in our room, and I was puttering about, maybe turning down the blankets or setting out his clothes, or some other task which I thought would make things easier for him.  He thought I was fussing over him too much- a thing which was most abhorrent to him- and he looked at me and said in some exasperation, "I'm not an invalid, you know." Uh...

I'm still laughing.  He was the best.

May 23, 1992

from Andrew Peterson's "Dancing in the Minefields":

Well "I do" are the two most famous last words
The beginning of the end
But to lose your life for another, I've heard,
Is a good place to begin
'Cause the only way to find your life
Is to lay your own life down
And I believe it's an easy price for the life that we have found

And we're dancing in the minefield
We're sailing in the storm
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for

So when I lose my way
Find me
And when I loose love's chains
Bind me
At the end of all my faith
To the end of all my days
When I forget my name
Remind me

Well we bear the light of the Son of Man
So there's nothing left to fear
So I'll walk with you through the shadowlands
Till the shadows disappear
'Cause he promised not to leave us
And his promises are true
So in the face of all this chaos, baby,
I can dance with you

So let's go dancing in the minefields
Let's go sailing in the storm
Oh, let's go dancing in the minefields
And kicking down the doors
Let's go dancing in the minefields
And sailing in the storm
This is harder than we dreamed
But I believe that's what the promise is for -
That's what the promise is for

Turn, turn, turn

Suddenly it's summer here.  Actually, we kind of had summer in March for about a week, and then it got cold again and stayed cold until a couple of days ago.  Every year this seasonal switch results in at least one sunburn in this household.  Every year we seem to say, "Well, I didn't know it was going to be this sunny this early!" no matter how early or late the warm weather actually arrives.  And who knows; it is perfectly possible that we will have another snowfall this month.  Regardless, our grass thinks it's summer, and yesterday my brother-in-law came and showed my son (who did all the mowing last year) how to do the start-of-summer maintenance on the mower.  And then today my son showed me (who has mowed a lawn perhaps once before in my whole life) how to cut the grass.  I stood there, stunned into actual laughter at the incredible teaching skills he has.  He started by asking me questions to get me thinking about the process:  What do you think you do first?  No, what do you need to do before that?  Ok, what next?  Then he demonstrated each step for me, explaining as he went.  And then he made me do it myself, and provided feedback as I went.  After I had gone around the yard a couple of times, he stopped me and explained a few details he hadn't told me yet, and corrected a mistake I was making.  Clearly this child has an instinct for teaching, and clearly he has also picked up a few strategies from his parents over the last 14 years.  I was proud enough to bust, and I wished Ramsy could be here to bust with me. 

This is what I am finding is the thing that underlies the sense of wrongness over him not being here: it is not a feeling of injustice that he has been denied these moments or experiences, but the fact that he is not here for us to share the experiences with.  I would have had so much fun talking about our boy with him, giggling in that funny pride that we shared all these years.  Nobody else in the world knows what our son has always been like, his little habits, the peculiarities of his speech, the personality traits that he has developed or struggled against, and so no one else in the world will see a moment like this with all the same nuances that I do anymore.  It's just me.  It's a searing loneliness.


On a different note, the melting of the snow also brought me a sense that it was time to choose a headstone for Ramsy's grave.  On my first visit to the business I chose to work with, the owner was very careful to assure me that there is absolutely no rush to this decision.  He says that sometimes people feel pressured to have a headstone up by a certain date, or to appease people who might ask, "Have you put one up yet?"  I personally have not felt at all pressured, but it seemed so kind of this man to say that this is my decision, not the general public's, and I will know when I am ready.  We worked together on a list of decisions, and then I let it simmer for a few weeks.  On the next visit, I gave him a sketch to have made up into proofs; then I picked up the proofs and let it simmer some more.  Although for me this is not an emotionally difficult process- to me it feels like another opportunity to express something about Ramsy, and about me- I have noticed an underlying anxiety.  When I paid attention and listened to what my anxious thoughts were saying, this is what I discovered: I was worried that I would finalize the design and have it ordered and put up, and then discover that I really wanted to say something different.  It's like when I'm shopping for a new skirt, or whatever, and I have been to every store in the mall, and I have already found a skirt that I like-but what if in some other unknown store, there secretly exists The Perfect Skirt, and I don't even know it?

Once I realized that this was simply another form of that shopping worry, I felt a lot better.  But here's the thing that I find quite funny- you know how, when we are talking to someone about a decision and there is still some lack of certainty about it, we reassure them by saying, "Well, it's not carved in stone"?  Uh, this time it will actually be carved in stone.  In actual fact.  I get quite a few laughs from this absurdity every time I think of it.  Man, life is crazy.  And you just have to laugh.

The art of mourning

So.  Coming up on seven months of this grieving thing.  I have been mulling over something I learned a couple of months ago: grief and mourning are two different things. Huh.  I've always used those terms interchangeably, but Dr. Alan Wolfelt, on his website, informs me that grief refers to the feelings and thoughts we experience when we go through a loss (basically the internal stuff) and mourning is the outward expression of those feelings and thoughts.

It's surprising how much knowing this little fact has helped me.  As I have come to places where I need to make a decision about my schedule or activities or working or (fill in the blank), I have felt a tug-of-war inside, this odd panicky feeling.  Thinking about going back to subbing, for example:  I knew that I would eventually do this, I spent time in February volunteering at the school to re-accustom myself to being there, I wanted to work there and was excited about it- when I sat down at the computer to notify the school division, I got stuck.  "But what if..." was about as coherent as my thoughts got when I tried to figure out what was causing this sudden trapped feeling.  I have learned over these months that if I am feeling like that, there is usually a good reason for it, and so I went away from my computer to do something else and wait for the thoughts to percolate. 

About half an hour later, here is what showed up: What if going back to work says to other people that I am "all better now"?  What if  people think that Ramsy didn't mean that much to me?  What if it says to me that I am all done missing him?  What if it says to me that I can't have any more time to grieve? 

So often the thoughts that float to the surface seem silly to me when I look at them.  Of course people aren't going to think I didn't care about Rams.  Of course I'm not telling myself that I can't have any more time- why would I think that?  But recognizing that these aren't logical thoughts doesn't make me feel better.  What did make me feel better was the day I realized that these feelings are my heart's way of saying that it wants my outer activity and appearance to match my thoughts and feelings.  In other words, I want to mourn as well as grieve.  Ah.

Our society, I may have said before, does not offer a whole lot of options for expressing grief.  There's the printing of the obituary; there's the funeral; there's leaving teddy bears or flowers or cards at the site of an accident; there's bringing flowers to the grave, and maybe putting a notice in the paper on the anniversary.  And that's about it.  No wearing of mourning clothes, no black arm bands, no black-edged stationery or window draperies, no set graduated schedule for returning to regular activites.  We are certainly free from these conventions, yes, but what do we have instead?  We have to make up our own mourning rituals if we want them.

And I do want them.  But not in a morbid way.  You know how when a couple gets engaged or has a baby, they want everyone to know how they feel about it?  I just want to be able to let people know, in a non-alarming, non-intrusive, non-"oh crap, here she comes" kind of way, that I was crazy about Rams, that my entire life is inside-outed because he isn't here, that in many ways the world is a different place without him. So I make up my own expressions of grief as I go along.  Some of them I've talked about in other posts, some I haven't, some I don't talk about because they are just personal and talking about them steals away their secret significance.  But these are some of the ways that I show, to myself or to others, what's going on inside: listening to certain songs, reading old letters, looking at pictures.  Talking with people who knew him.  Drinking coffee, which I only kind of like, in places that I associate with him.  Wearing his wedding ring on a chain around my neck, wearing his T-shirts around the house.  Writing, both publicly (hello, blogworld) and privately (hello, journal and snail mail and email).  Choosing to do some activities that I might normally not do, because Ramsy was an adventurer, and why not be just a little more adventurous than I am inclined to be?  Trying art journaling.  Making experiments with piano techniques.  Being a little bit braver in certain conversations.  Telling people what I appreciate about them.  I think of him as I deliberately behave just a little differently.

And here's what I did this evening: took a cool hardcover notebook that was given to me as a gift, and experimented with decorating its pages in a bunch of different ways.  It's going to go in a plastic container, along with some pens and pencil crayons, that will stay at Ramsy's grave so people can write in it or draw or just read it when they visit.  It was incredibly relaxing to sit on my floor and putter with my arty-type stuff, and I got to put some of the stuff in my head onto the pages in another way besides just writing it down.  Maybe some visitors will get to do that too.  (I know there's a pretty good chance it will be stolen and/or vandalized sooner or later- but I'm going to put it there anyway.  And if it disappears- oh well!)

What I've found in the last couple of months is that when I can come up with mourning rituals, the panicky feelings settle down.  My outside cannot always match my inside- that's just how it is.  I can't go around looking like a hag all the time.  I can't sit on a chair and cry when my kids need to be fed and supervised and driven to lessons.  I can't scream and yell in public or refuse to turn the pages of my calendar as the months go by.  (Well, ok, I guess I could technically do all these things, but it wouldn't work out very well in the long run...)  But I can make other ways to say what I need to say.

The gift of eagles

Ramsy loved birds.  We had a bird book kicking around for years, one that had been in his bookshelf before we were married.  We would occasionally look up a bird that we saw, and eventually he took to jotting down the date and location beside the picture of whatever we had seen.  I was surprised many times by how challenging it was to distinguish between species.  There are a ridiculous number of types of sparrow, for example, some only differentiated by a stripe above their eye or a bar on a wing.  And sometimes we would glimpse a bird perching on our deck and rush to get the book, only to have the bird fly away before we could turn the pages.  What shape was its beak?  Was that white patch on its cheek or its neck?  Did the folded wings extend down below its body?  Shoot. 

Driving the country roads, Ramsy would often point out the window, excitedly indicating a hawk spiraling over a field, or a flock of snow geese glittering past, or a snowy owl biding its time on top of a hydro pole; but the best one, the one he most loved to see, was an eagle, and particularly a bald eagle.  Something about their power and wildness and the graceful way they move never failed to move him, and therefore me.  If I saw one while I was driving alone, I would always let him know later, confident that he would be really excited with me.  But seeing one was quite a rare event that might only happen twice a year or so.

So... it was a profound gift to me that, on the day of his funeral, when our family was all arriving at the cemetery, I looked up from beside the limousine and saw something flicker over the trees that line the north side.  A hawk, I thought, and then saw the flash of white.  A bald eagle circled several times over this borderline and then wheeled away north again.  It felt like God was letting me know in a very personal way that Ramsy was okay, maybe like Rams was coming for a glance at what was happening at the cemetery, coming to say hi.  It's difficult to explain what I mean- I am not talking about a sense that Ramsy was in the eagle, but that the eagle somehow represented him.  Anyway.  It made me happy.

That was October 6th, and the 15th would have been Ramsy's 50th birthday.  On the 15th my sister and I drove into Winnipeg together, and partway down the Number 1 highway I glanced out my window towards a field and saw a bald eagle circling over the loam.  How cool is that?  A birthday eagle!

But wait- again at the end of November, on one of those anniversary dates of which there are so many- the day of his first seizure, the day of his biopsy, the day of our first trip to Cancer Care, the day of his first treatment- I was driving to church with the kids.  Our church is about 7 miles away from our town, down a gravel road through fields and trees and farms.  Just before we got to church, as I was feeling the pressure of sadness over this day which was significant only to me, another eagle- this time, flying across the road right in front of our windshield.  The kids were excited along with me: Look, look!  and I bet Dad gets to see all the eagles he wants in Heaven.  I bet they fly all around him.  I bet he can fly with them!

Three eagles. Three significant days.  Three times when I needed to be reminded that God sees me, that he is looking after me, that he hears me.  And then another one:

A couple of weeks ago the kids and I spent some time at a ranch in Colorado with one of Ramsy's sisters and her family.  It was wonderful to be with them and make a ton of fun memories; but, as I had expected, being on a family vacation without Ramsy showed me new ways of missing him and feeling his absence.  And then it was my birthday, too, and everyone was so kind to me, but it just increased my wish that he could be there.  That morning, while they all went on a trail ride, I went for a walk with just my iPod for company.  Down the dirt lane, over the cattle guard to a meadow with a huge pond, set in the valley.  I was listening to the songs that say how my heart is broken, and realizing again that this thing that is wrong, wrong, wrong can never be set right in this lifetime, and I was weeping and praying Kyrie eleison as I looked up towards the mountain.  There was the eagle, soaring high above the meadow, a message for my heart: I see you, I hear you, I'm listening.  Only for a minute, but that's all I needed.

Gifts: words plus music

Can it really be three weeks since I last wrote something here?  Appointments, volunteering at school, trips to Winnipeg and Portage and Morden and Carman, chauffeuring my kids to events, and a week away with some family have filled up the days.  Now back at home, it feels a bit weird to have some undesignated time.  I feel a bit in-between, not yet ready for full-time work, but no longer completely occupied by my own mental activity.  Wanting to be with people, but sometimes impatient with conversation and eager to get home when I am out. An odd space. But really, there's not much about this stage of life that is not odd, so I'm not sure why I'm surprised.

A few posts ago I began talking about things that are helping me along this crazy road. I'd like to add music to the list.  As I have mentioned in other posts, music is enormously important to me.  It draws feelings out from under the surface, or focuses my thoughts, or expresses my emotions in a way that words alone cannot.  And the combination of words and music is unbelievably powerful for me.

In particular, I have been listening to a couple of CDs over and over during the last three months.  One is The Story, a collection of songs written by Bernie Herms (music) and Nichole Nordeman (words). Each song is a person from the Bible telling part of their own story, often from a slant that I had not considered before.  And every single song on this album contains at least a line, if not a whole verse or more, that resonates with me where I am at this place in time: Abraham wondering how his dreams can be fulfilled in the face of seemingly impossible facts, but knowing that he only sees a piece of the story; Ruth and Naomi speaking about beauty being rebuilt in their lives in a way they didn't expect; Paul feeling fired up about what he has to share but determining to wait for God's direction; Job's agonized, sacrificial hallelujah; and throughout the album, the assertion that Love wins in the end, that it is winning right now, that death and evil and pain will have to lie down and be quiet in the end.  I know that in a year, other parts of the songs will be important to me, because one of the things I love about the Bible- and about art- is that the exact same element will hold new significance at different times depending on what the reader/viewer brings to it from their own experience.

The other CD which has been on repeat in the last weeks is Fernando Ortega's latest album, Come Down O Love Divine.  It is beautiful and pensive.  I wept when I heard the first song, which consists of a set of words that has been a gift to me in these last months, my favourite prayer when my thoughts are so confused I can't verbalize on my own: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison (Lord, have mercy, Christ, have mercy, Lord, have mercy).  This ancient prayer, which was not part of my faith vocabulary growing up, has come to me in a video of Ramsy rehearsing with one of his grad recital choirs, in a favourite Christmas CD, and in this new CD.  It feels like God gifted me the words I needed to express myself to him.  Sometimes it means This is too hard, don't make me do it anymore.  Sometimes it is Please help me, and other days it is a prayer for comfort for other people I know who are suffering.  Another thing I love on this album is the addition of a gorgeous choir, soaring and plaintive.  And he does a beautiful, vibrant piano arrangement of "Of the Father's Love Begotten", which became the song I chose to play for offertory in church in January- the first time I had played there since Ramsy's diagnosis.  I had missed being able to express myself through music, but had not been ready. Singing is still sometimes- well, I won't say difficult exactly.  What I often find during our corporate singing at church is that when the words express so exactly what my heart is saying, my voice doesn't always work.  I'm afraid I'm not one of those people who can bawl and sing at the same time.  But my heart speaks through the music anyway, even if my voice is silent right then.  Another reason why it's so good to have the music in addition to the words.

I am looking forward to a concert I'll attend in a few weeks.  As you may know, Ramsy had a significant connection with choral music.  When he was in college in Winnipeg in the early 80s, he sang in a production of Brahms' Deutsches Requiem under Bill Baerg.  I have never heard this piece of music, but in sorting through some boxes last fall, I found Ramsy's copy of the score, full of his markings and notes and reminders from that performance.  I was very excited when I stumbled across a notice of the WSO doing a performance of this piece in April, with Bill Baerg as guest choral conductor.  It feels like another gift arranged just for me.  (But everyone else is welcome to attend as well.)  :)

I'll close with words from another song I found recently that says just what I feel: "Beautiful Things" by Gungor. All this pain- I wonder if I'll ever find my way, I wonder if my life could ever change at all.  All this earth- could all that is lost ever be found? Could a garden come up from this ground at all?  You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of the dust.  You make beautiful things, you make beautiful things out of us. 

Then suddenly...

Drifting off to sleep last night, after an enjoyable evening with a friend and a good talk on the phone with my sister, feeling calm.  Then I am startled awake by the remembrance that Ramsy used to be there beside me.  I can remember the exact feel of the sole of his foot as I massaged peppermint lotion into it, the thick, angled scar on the bottom where he once sliced his foot on a piece of glass.  The feel of his calf in the palm of my hand as we sat at opposite ends of the couch, watching Law and Order.  The smell of his neck.  I can see the particular way he would run his index finger over his thumbnail, checking for rough edges.  I can hear him stumping up the back steps, briefcase in one hand, coffee mug in the other, coming exuberantly into the kitchen and saying as if happily surprised, "Hey!  There's my lovey!" Hear him calling from the shower in the morning because he forgot- again- to check for a towel before he got in.  See the tilt of his head as he thanks me.

He's right there; where has he gone?

Gifts: words

Words have been some of the best gifts I've received through these months.  They come to me in different ways: in print, in songs, spoken aloud, written in a letter, popping into my head.

Sometimes the words are descriptions of thoughts and feelings that other people have had in their own experience with loss, which cause my heart to say, "Yes!  That's it, that's what it's like for me." It might be only at that moment that I realize what has been going on in the back of my mind, a cloudy, unformed thought that distracts or unsettles.  Being able to name it is such a relief.  Or I might read or hear a description of a state of mind that I am not in yet, but it helps me to feel prepared and not ambushed when that experience suddenly appears.  Then that experience is maybe only a landmark instead of a monster, something to expect and recognize as part of the journey but not a frightening thing.

These words can show up in surprising settings, like at a play I attended a few weeks ago.  The actor came out on stage after the performance to do a Q-and-A with the audience and very graciously answered what I considered to be some impertinent questions about the recent sudden death of her husband.  And in her answers, I saw myself, some of the same things that I am feeling: great sadness in missing a remarkable person; a longing to express what she feels through the written word; a sense of being at a crossroads in her life, uncertain which path she will now take; and awe at finding the good things that still grow in the muck.

Recently I found a poem that describes the mystery of how simply sharing in similar suffering connects people on a deep level.  It's called "Bees" and is by Jean Valentine.  Stunning imagery.

Words have also come to me, in letters or out of friends' mouths, which have directly answered questions I had: things I wondered about Ramsy, things I had asked God about, things I wondered about myself.  This has happened repeatedly, without these people knowing that I had been asking these questions, usually with them using the exact phrasing which I had used in my prayers and silent thoughts.

The truth is, I sometimes feel like I have lost my sense of self.   I don't mean that I  "don't know who I am" without him, or that I have lost my identity.  I mean that none of us can be very objective about ourselves; we only see ourselves through the filter of our own thought life, and not as others see us.  Ramsy was my mirror. He reflected what he saw in me- telling me what he loved about me, saying what my personality looked like to him, letting me know that something I said may not have come across the way I meant it, helping me see where I had grown and where there is still growth to come.  To have this mirror suddenly vanish is hugely unsettling.  It leaves me craning my neck to try to see the back of myself, wondering if what looks like a giant flaw to me is as visible to other people, being overly critical of my emotional "neck wrinkles", trying to remember what it was that he said he liked about me.  So God shows up and says to me through other people's words, "This is how Ramsy felt about you.  This is how you helped  him.  This is what I see in you.  This is who I intended you to be."  Just like that.

And you know what?  Receiving these gifts in the last while has made me realize more than ever that other people need them, too.  It's important to tell people what I appreciate about them, the gifts I see in them, the things they have done that have impacted me.  One of my family members said, after hearing some of the lovely things people said about Ramsy, "Why do we wait until people die to say these things?"  So I'm working on that.

And finally, sometimes the words just say, "I see you.  I understand how you feel."  A friend telling me, "You don't have to go away to a different room- you can just be sad right here."  A school staff member looking at me with kindness as I picked up my injured daughter to take her to emergency and saying, "The first big crisis on your own."  A woman who lost her own husband to cancer saying, "It doesn't matter how long you had him; it's still never long enough."  Yes.  And thank you.

Love...

Patient.  Kind.  Not envious or boastful, not proud or rude or selfish.  Slow to anger, not delighting in evil but rejoicing with the truth, not keeping a record of wrongs.  Always trusting, hoping, protecting.  Enduring.  I think this is a pretty high standard, hard to live up to.  But it's what God says is the standard for real love.

When I would read it in the past, this description always seemed to highlight my shortcomings to me: I lose my patience with my kids; I tend to be selfish sometimes; I have been known to be rude to my family or lose my temper over nothing or keep score.  (Big surprise, I know.)  So did my dear husband.  So does pretty well everyone I know.  But when I read this again in the first week after Ramsy's death, what I saw instead of the ways we all fall short was how Ramsy really, truly did love like this.  Not every single second, not in every single incident, but overall; and his successes in reaching for these sky-high standards far outshine the ways that he fell short in his love for me and the kids.  He loved God, loved God's standards, and prayed every single day to grow in patience and wisdom and selflessness. And then he let God change him, which is sometimes the hardest part.  And we got the benefit of that.

A few years ago I bought him a card that said everything I wanted to say to him that Valentine's Day.  It said, "The moment I heard my first fairy tale, I began looking for you."

I'm so glad I found you, husband.

Thank you.

Some gifts

I've been thinking of some things that I've received as gifts (some in a more abstract way) that are helping me.  I'll talk more extensively in other posts about a couple of things, but here's a quick list of a few things that are making the hard things bearable:

• prayer shawls- these often wrap around me as I sit in our living room or on the bed.  One keeps me warm on cold nights.
• videos of Rams conducting wedding ceremonies, baptisms, church services.  Love seeing him in action.
• photos of him, some that I had never seen before.  Love, love, love that face.  
• letters and emails from old friends or people I have not yet met.  It is immensely comforting to hear stories and memories of Ramsy or to receive such kind expressions of sadness and encouragement.
• offers of rides to and from the kids' activities.
• an amazingly kind and supportive school staff here, where I worked in 2010, where two of our kids attend, and where I am always received with friendly smiles and understanding.  I feel happy when I am at the school.  You guys rock.  (Also must mention the Gr. 1/2 class, which has actually cheered on occasion when I have walked into the room.  Confidence boost, anyone?  And no, I was not carrying cupcakes any of those times.)

Those are just some highlights.  Thank you, thank you for the incredible support we have received.  Nothing can fix the ache, but the love extended to us helps to soothe it sometimes.

1 NOT-Frequently-Asked Question

In my last post (earlier today- read that one first) I listed a few questions that people ask often, and which I am happy to answer.  And here I also want to answer a question that does not get asked: What is it like?  What is it like to be without him now, to still be here but not have him with you?  This is a question that we don't vocalize because we are tactful or kind or afraid, but which is in our minds whenever we encounter a person who has lost someone, isn't it?  This is a question that, when I lived in the "Before" picture, I imagined would have one consistent answer.  The "After" picture shows me that the answer is composed of many realities, many facets, like a terrible flashing diamond, and that my particular answer is unique to me because I am different from that lady over there, and Ramsy was different from her husband.  This is a question that I still frequently ask myself, in attempts to describe to myself or to another person what grieving a spouse feels like; because, frankly, "I miss him" just doesn't cut it.  That's like a desperate, starving person saying, "I guess I wouldn't mind a little snack."  When I say, "I miss him," it makes me snaky inside because those limp, colourless words in no way reflect the enormous scope or the complex detail of what I feel.  So I keep trying, and I come up with various descriptions depending on the day, and each of them is only one facet.  These are some of them:

1.  It's like being in labour.  As the onset of contractions is unpredictable, and the length and intensity of them, so is the onset of a wave of sadness.  Sometimes it's a quick stab of pain, and sometimes it's a long, deep searing that requires me to actually stand still and hold on to the doorpost and clench my teeth and breathe.  It's an actual physical sensation.  And then it's gone, and who knows when or how the next one will wave through?

2.  It's like having a headache.  I don't know if everybody is like this, but I sometimes have a headache for a couple of hours before I realize it, and then I know what has been bothering me all that time.  A lot of days I will be going about my business but feeling in the back of my mind that something is wrong, that I am uncomfortable and maybe in some pain, and finally I become aware that the thing that is wrong is that Ramsy is not here.  Ah.

3.  It's like being restless.  Sometimes I have trouble concentrating, or finding anything to settle down to.  I feel like there's something nagging at the back of my mind that I've forgotten, or like I'm looking for something.  Then all of a sudden it clicks that I'm actually looking for Rams.  A few days ago I caught myself wanting the kids to get off the computer so I could see if he'd sent me an email.  Another case of "I didn't forget he's dead, my mind just entered a time warp."

4.  It's like being at the other end of a tunnel from everything else, maybe like being on Demerol.  I am sometimes dizzy, as I get when I have been up far too long- squinting at things, taking a long time to register incoming information, concentrating to formulate a response and send it back down the tunnel to whoever is on the other end.

5. It's like a long-distance relationship.  For most of the time that Ramsy and I were dating, we lived 2 1/2 hours apart and saw each other once or maybe twice a month during the school year, and much less often when he was touring with school groups.  There was no texting, no email, not even any decent long-distance phone plans, for Pete's sake, and he was kind of a crappy letter-writer.  (That is, the letters he wrote were wonderful, it's just that there weren't that many of them over the year and a half.)  So, as my journals from those days remind me, I missed him All.  The.  Time.  He was constantly on my mind; everything reminded me of something he/we had done or said, or made me wish I could share it with him or tell him; nothing I did felt in any way interesting or exciting or engaging or meaningful; basically, I was suspended in a permanent state of waiting to see him or talk to him again.  Guess what?

6.  It's like looking at the Grand Canyon.  In 2009 I saw the Grand Canyon for the first time.  I thought I would be immediately overwhelmed by, well, the grandeur of the place.  In fact, my eyes and mind were kind of boggled by the scope of it.  The Grand Canyon, seen in person, looks at first like a painted movie backdrop of itself.  It is extremely difficult to get a grasp on the size and distances because my eyes are simply not used to processing anything that big.  I had to look for something smaller, something that I commonly see, like a person or a tree or a car, which I could use as a standard for comparison.  Same with this loss: it's just too monumental to be absorbed at first, and my mind has to keep finding small experiences to measure it against, and so...

7.  ...it is like learning the longest, hardest lesson ever.  Maybe I'll go through a good day or two, just be minding my own business and then- whap! I didn't know that losing him meant that particular thing! Like:  I see the breakfast sausages in Sobeys and there he is standing at our stove cooking them up; there the five of us are on sabbatical in Nanaimo, eating the sausages as part of the Sabbath "feast" tradition we started while we lived there.  And then I have to learn that him dying means him not being here to cook breakfast ever again, him never coming up with one of his many, many ideas for ritual or fun or adventure.  It means that I never get to bring him a treat from Starbucks again when I have spent the day in Winnipeg.  It means him not putting his feet in my lap while we watch a Miss Marple movie on the couch.  It means me never being irritated again by him telling me it was time to get up (hey, you're not the boss of me, was always my super-mature inner response), and realizing that being irritated occasionally is one of the privileges of living together intimately.  His death means literally thousands of big and small things, and I have to learn them one by one.

All of these horrible little surprise lessons are having this effect on me (and I knew this was coming):  I was prepared (as far as I could be) to let go of the Ramsy of September 2011, the one who could not speak or stand or hold a spoon or swallow very easily.  I loved that man, and would have kept him and cared for him longer if I had been allowed; but it was hard for him to be like that, and I am happy for that Ramsy to be released to where he is so alive right now. But the other Ramsy, the one who acted like a gleeful little boy when he brought me my favourite chocolate bar, the one who always wrote lists of goals on napkins on our lunch dates, the one who could figure out how to reupholster a chair, the one who took our kids camping, the one who suddenly started walking like a gorilla in Lee Valley just to make me laugh out loud, the one who was the moderator of our provincial church conference, who loved hockey and brought home hitch-hikers and spoke pidgin German with me and wrote songs... that guy I am not prepared to let go.  But the change from well-Ramsy to dying-Ramsy happened so gradually yet so inexorably that there was no time to feel the weight of what I was losing.  I knew it, and I knew I would feel it later on, but that does not make it one single bit easier now.

8.  And yet.  I have talked about this before: the extremely bizarre fact that being without my sweetheart is, at bottom, more okay more often than I imagined it would be.  It turns out that being without him is not impossible, only monumentally hard.  The diamond turns slightly and one facet is illuminated, but it doesn't stay that way.  There are more facets, and some that I have not seen yet, and the reality is constantly shifting.  Thank God that he understands this complexity.  Thank God that he is also multi-faceted, and that his brilliance often outshines the other.

4 FAQs

There are some questions that come up pretty consistently when people are talking to me, so I thought I'd share the answers with everyone here since I can't talk to all of you personally.

1.  How are the kids?  I asked them what the best way is to answer this question, and happily their response matched what I had come up with- always a relief to know that I am reading them correctly!  The kids are, like me, missing Ramsy but the sadness is not constant.  It comes and goes unexpectedly and some days are more intense than others, but they are managing.  I am so very thankful for the other supportive adults they have in their lives who help them to navigate their new reality and express themselves.  I am also thankful that each of the kids has said things to me (comments or questions or admissions) which show that they trust me with their feelings.  There is lots going on under the surface and it's good that they let that show sometimes.

2.  Are you staying in Oakville or moving?  Staying.  We feel at home here, and well supported, and it would be difficult to uproot ourselves at this stage and live in a place where schools, stores, church and everything else would be unfamiliar and the kids would become even more dependent on me for routine and support.  This is a good place for us.

3.  Did you know all along that Ramsy's cancer was terminal?  Yes, we did, and we were given an estimated timeline which, in the end, turned out to be reasonably accurate; but since each patient's case is unique, and in order to minimize fearfulness in our children, we chose not to talk publicly about "how long?" However, we did make it clear to our kids from the outset that their dad would eventually die from this tumor, and that we would be able to tell them when the treatment was failing so they could be prepared.  We hoped and prayed for a miracle but tried to live and parent our kids with the understanding that we might not be granted this one.  This seems to have eased their adjustment into living without their dad, and I am glad that we chose to handle it this way.

4.  What are you doing these days?  A mix of things.  I am so, so grateful that I have the privilege of choosing when I go to work again.  I know many people in my position don't have an option.  I was in a bit of an odd position when Ramsy was diagnosed: I stepped back into substitute teaching in 2009 after about 13 years away from it.  I spent 8 months in 2010 covering a maternity leave at our town's elementary school, and finished the term about a week before Ramsy went to Emergency.  This meant that I was immediately able to be at home with him full time.  We were so thankful for that!  My plan now is a little vague, but I am intending to start subbing again, likely sometime in spring, and then see what happens after that.

So for now, my days are focused on home, kids, and my own processing.  Turns out that feels like a full-time job right now, so I remind myself to use this privilege and not be in a rush to add commitments.

So unpredictable

How I felt yesterday at 4 pm:

normal
happyish, in a way
even excited about everything that I am learning right now
focused on the Big Story

How I felt today at 4 pm:


Dear Jesus,

I was not done with Ramsy yet.  I have questions for him, and dates to go on with him, and songs to sing with him, and kids to raise with him, and things to tell him, and kisses to give him, and trips to take with him.  So I am going to need him back for about 30 more years.  If it's not too much trouble.