All Things Magestic and Peaceful

Spring is finally here!

It is dusk as I write this and my doors and windows are opened, welcoming the fresh early April air. That honeysuckle brush that so many Lexintonians dub "invasive" has almost done its job at surrounding my home with a natural screen that I quite honestly love. Don't touch my honesuckle, as I find it simply awesome. I can just barely see the homes behind mine now and in a few more weeks they will be gone for the season. Chloe The Troublemaker (Boxer-Chow mix/mutt that we so love) is now almost silenced from her inability to see the goings on in the neighborhood from our deck to the street. This is compliments of that invasive honeysuckle. Grow, baby, grow.

There are many things that I love about spring. After the barren representation of winter, the spring season symbolizes rebirth and renewal. Much like the emerald ring that my husband presented to me at our engagement. I was also born in April, so let's get to the truth of the matter: I love this season. I always have. Even as tragedy has befallen me at this time of year, I can never deny the peace or the elation that I feel when the daffodils, the pears, and the dogwoods bloom freely and profusely in Kentucky. No matter what has happened, each season brings me more peace and I am definitely feeling it tonight. The hawks are the absolute best, and I will save the best for last.

I must admit that I miss football season incredibly because football is so much like life. You take your hits, but you get up and do it again because you want to; because you have to. And you do it again. Moving the chains...yard by yard and at times, inch by inch to reach your goal. And after four quarters of blood, sweat, and tears, you might still walk away a loser. I'll save further anecdotes and explanations as to how I came to love football so much for the fall season, but I had to make brief mention of it now - if only because the return of the most blessed time of year for my psyche also symbolizes the longest wait of return to my favorite game.

The reference to tragedy of this season: well, my dad died on Easter Sunday. I was 27 then and it rocked my world. I will never forget that day, that time; that moment. I will always remember the pear blossoms swirling in the breeze outside of the funeral home as my first crush from junior high told me how sorry that he was. I remember tuning him out completely, feeling glad that he was speaking to me so frankly, and thanking my lucky stars that I did not marry someone who was grossly underweight with bad teeth. Okay, I was admittedly a bit numbed during this experience. That was 4/4.

A couple of years later on 5/5 (Cinco de Mayo), the most beautiful woman I've ever known died suddenly in her sleep. She was my grandmother (whom I had always called "Ma") and she had class like no other. We always have regrets when loved ones pass. My regret with Ma was that I had momentarily set aside my absolute pride for the fact that in her seventies she had completely mastered computer technology and would e-mail me regularly. Most of her messages were so healing in nature as she was in fact a licensed therapist and had counseled many throughout the years, including myself. I got wrapped up in my life, in my new job, my new husband, everything...and I let the communications lapse. I sent her a long e-mail the morning she died. Just a couple of hours later, I received the phone call and was booking a bereavement flight. Of course, she never got to read my message. If only I had sent it one day earlier.

A couple of years later (yeah, I know - are you sensing a pattern here?), I had my closest brush with death on 5/10. Just hours after I discovered I was pregnant, I was carried to an ambulance and rushed a hospital for emergency surgery of a ruptured tube. I think that was my only "good" tube left after the first ectopic pregnancy that was "corrected" with an outpatient procedure seven years prior. I lost roughly 2/3 of the blood in my body that night. It was all in my abdominal cavity, but no one knew it until the pain set in. Another hour or two later, I could not have been saved say the doctors to this day. As I understand it, I am still used as an example (a case study) of the worst case scenario of an ectopic pregnancy gone wrong.

All of the tragedy and the pain associated with each aforementioned date that is forever etched in my memory will never override that blissful state of mind that signals the beginning of spring. The daffodils and the dogwoods continue to bloom. The honeysuckle continues to "take over" and I love every minute of it. I can even remember how sweet the center of the blossom is when tasted as I did as a child. As an adult, I can smell the sweetness of those blossoms and will forever appreciate the screen those invasive plants provide. Grow, baby, grow.

Finally, the hawks have returned to me and that has to be the most special gift of all as spring returns to Kentucky. Just beyond our property line there lives a 100-year Sycamore that is quite possibly the most magestic tree I have ever seen. Its huge branches tower above all others and its strength is amazing. The hawks live in this tree. Even now, I can see their statuesque silouettes towering in this tree and I wonder how many seasons this hawk family has returned to this very spot. I have personally seen this occur for at least four spring seasons now. They gather here. They live here. And they sour around my home in the most beautiful manner that a human being could ever hope to witness. I can sit on my deck and watch them for hours on end. Many times throughout this season, they will fly directly overhead and even make eye contact as they pass. When this happens, it is as if I am touched by God.

It's a ritual when they come (and when they go). For days, at least 20 of them circled the wooded area behind our home where the giant Sycamore lives. It's almost as if they would not nest; they would not settle in, until they were sure they were ready; until the time was right. I can even lie on my living room couch and watch them pass over the skylight above. This is bliss. This is the true return of spring: the return of the hawks.

I felt so at peace with the hawks (as I always do) that I did some quick research on animal totems before I started this particular blog entry. First and foremost, it must be noted that one does not choose her animal totem; the totem chooses you. I read this on multiple sites. Then I came across a site that compares the Zodiac signs with corresponding Native American animals. I am an Aries. I am a Ram. The corresponding Native American symbol for this is...the red-tailed hawk!

Coincidence? I think not. Everything matters. Receive every message. The hawks always mattered to me, a great deal in fact. Now I feel even more connected, if that makes any sense at all.

All that I care about, all that is dear to me, can be reflected in the nature of the hawk. Trust me on this, because I have looked into their eyes. They are not without pain, the same as me. But what is most precious about these majestic birds is that I can see that they have resilience. In a glimpse, I can see their wisdom, their triumps, their failures. Yet every season, they return to their spot and they grace me with a presence that is beyond what I can express.

Oh yes, I am so grateful for the return of spring.

Baby Showers Suck - Elevator Rides Are Worse

Okay, I said it! It had to be said.

Baby showers truly suck for the infertile woman. So do pregnant coworkers. Combine the two, and you have recipe for disaster as far as the infertile is concerned.

I've been in any number of places over the past ten years. Sometimes I can deal with it. Other times, I simply cannot. Sometimes I can take the off-the-cuff remarks made in the elevator. Other times, they make me tense beyond even my own comprehension.

Take the most recent exchange for example:

"I hear congratulations are in order," says my dim-witted male elevator companion.

"Congratulations for what?" I innocently inquire while I rack my brain in an attempt to conjure up my latest promotion which was at least 18 months old.

"I hear you're expecting!" he replies.

"Nope. Not here. Sorry. Not me."

"Oh." Uncomfortable silence until we were both saved by the bell.

I see her less than a week later at an after hours work function. She's dancing around in response to another male coworker's comment that she must have eaten one too many watermelon seeds. Her name is Susan. It's perfectly understandable how that got mixed up with Sunny. Oh, well. Not me.

I must admit I hated her at that moment for dancing around about it. I swear she was shoving it in my face. Thank god I didn't have to attend her baby shower.

But I did have to attend the baby shower that was recently thrown for a coworker. I had this erroneous impression that I could go through life as an infertile without exposure to an event that could easily send me back into the darkness that I struggle every day to overcome. What do you do in this situation other than grin and bear it?

I think I did okay. That's all that I can say. Seeing her with the blessed life growing inside of her every single day is enough of a reminder, so I guess I can deal with 30 minutes of my life devoted to doting upon her when it was the furthest thing from my vision that I even wanted to see.

Dancing With...

My favorite movie of all time is Dances With Wolves, and that's no secret. I'm watching it now. Kind of. I know how it goes, but the spirituality moves me like nothing else can.

I discovered many years after this movie became my favorite that Lakota meant Sioux. Once I discovered this, the language in the movie made so much more sense. Listen to it the next time you see it on cable...every time there is talk of the tribe, they speak of Lakota, not Sioux. That's special.

I am entranced with the Native American way of life simply because it would seem that they made no apologies for who they were. Not at any point in time. Who knows if "infertility" existed in this time or place. All I know is that women are respected in the tribe above and beyond what they are today. I don't know if it mattered whether or not they had a papoose strapped to their backs. What I know is that in many tribes, including Lakota, women are regarded as dominent and the men take the woman's name at marriage. How cool is that?

I often wonder if in this culture a woman would be outcast for her inability to bear children or if she would be worshipped. Often I feel it must be the latter, based on what I know of these people. I think that our existing culture is more tribal than it would like to admit. I feel often that I would be more welcomed as a Native American than I could ever be as a white woman. I feel that I would be more respected and cared for by the natives than I am by my surroundings. It is what it is.

The natives are beautiful and I want to be beautiful too. I want to rise and set with the sun and be praised for who I am, not condemned or judged for what I lack. My college geography instructor taught that the translation of "wachichu" is not "white" but "greedy". I never want to be so wachichu that it is obvious to my fellow men and women that my heart is not in the right place.

I always want it to be right; pure and true. To be there is to be special beyond expression in the terms of Christianity. It is bliss, and it is truly what I seek.

Happy Birthday, Mom

Occasionally over the years I’ve given you grief about having been born on Groundhog Day. I suppose you’ve heard that for a good portion of your life. The blessing is that it’s easy to remember and your birthday is forever associated with a rodent “predicting” the return of spring. Or is that the rub?

Personally, I think it’s pretty damn cool to have your birthday at this time of year. Regardless of how you feel about the Punxsutawney Phil charade, simply having your day invoke images of a return to spring is quite awesome as that remains to this day my absolute favorite season.

In an effort to connect with things that I love and need in my life, I’m going to put some serious energy toward raising flowers, both annual and perennial, from seed this year. This is the time of season that I realize I need to get the seedlings started in my windowsill and in the garage, near the windows. I am feeling a bit desperate at this point in my life to find a way to nurture a life form and see it grow. If/when these seedlings grow to mature plants, the blooming can be associated with birth. Obviously, it is my hope that not a single plant perishes along the way but I fully realize and accept this risk. No, I am not signing any disclaimers but I am calling the shots in the game right now and simply do not see a need to lay my heart on the line.

Comparisons aside, this is a day for me to put my struggles on the shelf and focus my efforts toward letting you know how much I have grown to love and appreciate you as a person. When I look back on the photo albums that you so graciously lent to me immediately following my last ectopic pregnancy and near death experience, I see the most beautiful woman whom I have ever known, both inwardly and outwardly. I realize that you continue to grow every single day and that the gesture of lending me the albums was an attempt to help me to do the same.

I think I am finally “getting it”, though I fully realize I will continue to learn and grow every day that I remain in this body, just as you have and that you are. I think I am finally coming to understand the things that you wanted me to see in those photos.

You’ve always referred to me as such a beautiful baby but when I see my favorite childhood photo of you with your princess outfit and Shirley Temple curls; your radiant smile and your perfect pose, it always makes me smile. You really had to have been the pride and joy of your own mother. Perhaps she didn’t show you as she should have. Please don’t dwell on that but bask in the realization that you have shown me. I feel so loved by you right now and I swear that I couldn’t ask for a better mother. Not now, not ever.

I am finally seeing you for who you are as a person and you are magnificent. You were a little girl once with hopes and dreams; wishes and expectations. Perhaps your life didn’t turn out precisely as you had planned either. But I’ve heard you say countless times that you wouldn’t trade your three girls for a “do over” and I absolutely believe that.

My life isn’t turning out precisely as planned, but I think I can accept that and move forward. I can roll with it, just as you have. I can appreciate and embrace the victories; accept and learn from the defeats – just as you have.

I could probably never adequately express my love for you but I hope you now have a semblance of accomplishment for having had the capacity to raise a child that absolutely adores you.

Happy Birthday!

On Being A "Clean Parent"

I am hardly the authority on being a "clean parent", since I'm almost certain that I do not keep as clean a house as I should and I am definitely not a parent. This entry has to do with ancient history and my perceived ability to connect the proverbial dots after all these years.

Once upon a time, I was a budding adolescent with a so-called friend that will be dubbed "Amy" for purposes of anonymity. My parents were hard working-class professional, college-educated folks and were running two businesses; one at home (with bona fide customers and hours of "dawn to dusk") and the other "in town" which was 30-40 minutes away from the old homestead (also serving bona fide customers). Both businesses ran seven days per week, and my parents were dedicated. I'm not certain that ethic was learned in college. It was simply ingrained in who they were.

So one night I held a slumber party and invited all of my girlfriends. Amy was there, and she was in rare form, as usual. But hey, we all had a great time playing games, building blanket tents, and giggling into all hours of the night. At this point, I must reveal my age range by stating that the games we played did not involve a console and a television. In fact, our family had only two working televisions. One was color and it resided downstairs in the living room. A smaller black and white version lived upstairs and my dad eventually hooked up the Pong game that was handed down to us kids to the upstairs set. Both televisions only picked up the three major networks via antenna. Pong may have even been in the picture at the time but if it was, none of my girlfriends were much interested in it. Atari was the new rage, along with Pac Man and Space Invaders. It was quite boring to "bat" a virtual ping pong ball back and forth on the old black and white...

There were at least seven of us in this slumber party. When I think back on it, I wonder how my mom even tolerated us for one hour, much less the entire evening. And of course this sleepover was held on a Friday night so we could all sleep in. I am certain that I am void of the tolerance required to put up with this number of adolescent girls on top of the business responsibilities, not to mention the child-rearing and oh by the way, the marriage.

So when Monday morning came and Amy was telling anyone and everyone at school who would listen that there was "an inch of dust" on everything within my home, I was mortified. Only mildly annoyed with Amy as she was who she was, I was more concerned with what everyone must think of me and my family in general based on this "inch of dust" (which I swear to this day did not exist - not an inch thick, anyway). Omigosh, I was sure that every student in the sixth grade would go home and tell their parents about the "filth" in my home (that wasn't really there). These parents in turn would visit one or both of our businesses and spread the word amongst all of our customers! Soon the entire county would know of our pig sty.

As only an adolescent daughter could, I turned most of my anger and frustration about this maddening situation toward my mother. She should have done a better job of cleaning the house, plain and simple! It's her responsibility. After all, Amy's mother obviously kept her home spotless (never mind that Amy's mother was a stay at home mom).

This blast from the past smacked me an hour ago after I had cleaned both the top of the refrigerator and the blades of the ceiling fan in the kitchen. I have put these disgusting tasks off for some time now, succeeding only in exacerbating the situation and making my task that much harder. I'm going to go out on a limb and say that it's probably been a good year since either place has seen a dust rag. And that quarter inch of dust that had piled up over that timeframe was a bitch to clean. Am I going to add it my list of weekly chores now? Not likely, as I can think of a million other ways to better utilize my precious time.

There are several things that I learned from this comparison between past and present, including:

• I have the utmost respect for my mother and fully realize that she did the best that she could. In fact, she was better then than I am today (with merely a professional career and no kids; minus the home-based business that practically required her attention 24/7).
• It took me over 20 years to see this by applying it to my own circumstances.
• I realize that Amy grossly exaggerated her nasty little tale about the state of my home.
• I should not expect any future child of mine to appreciate everything that I do and fully realize that it may take over 20 years (if ever) for said child to fully understand the crazy life of a 30-something living smack in the middle of the fast-paced Information Age.

I don't want to spend my days cleaning endlessly and certainly not obsessively in the hope that someone will notice and appreciate it along the way. I suppose my mom didn't buy into that either. There are so many other things in life that could be enjoyable (including having children to raise; or not) that I am now certain to endure, if I ever have a daughter, the same stigma that my mom received.

To that, I'm just going to have to give my best shrug of the shoulders and a hearty, "oh well". It is what it is. Just as my mom most assuredly did, as she absolutely should have. Just as all of the Amy's of the world simply are who they are.