Bits and Whatnots, Everything else, Writing

Ache.

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I hadn’t seen him in nearly two years. The last time was difficult. I had to leave his place before he even touched me. He apologized, but that’s how it had to be, and I tried to understand.

Yesterday I stopped by randomly. I’ve been in a lot of pain, and needed to know if his touch would help. I haven’t been able to sleep. My stress level is through the roof, and I needed… something. In the past, his hands have done for me what no other man’s hands could do.
The door slammed behind me. He looked up, and our eyes met.
I’ve changed my hair since last I saw him and it took him a second to recognize me. He was glad to see me. A bit startled, perhaps.
We didn’t talk much as he led me to his small back room. “Lie down,” he murmured. “On your stomach, first.” And I did.
He started out slowly, and I began to melt. Then he was rougher, and I felt a bit frantic. The pain was so intense I wanted to cry out, but bit my lip instead. Repeatedly, he slammed me against the bed. “Don’t stop,” I whispered. “More, more.”
He leaned over me, and in a deep, commanding voice said, “Turn over.”
I did. I always do what he tells me to do. It’s how our relationship has always worked.
He moved my hair so that the long curls hung off the edge of the bed and began to knead my tight neck muscles. I relaxed and let my head drop down. “Mmmnn,” I mumbled. His hands moved to my shoulders. I kept my eyes closed.
I felt the joints of his thumbs press against my ears, and tried not to panic. He cupped the back of my head in his hands. I breathed deep and slow, preparing for what I knew was coming. It was going to hurt, but it had to be done. He always insisted on it.
He pressed his palms against my head and twisted, hard.
I felt the crunching in my neck, so loud it seemed to echo across the room.
It startles me that I pay him to do this to me. Still, when we are finished, I hand over the cash. I assumed his rate hadn’t gone up in the two years I had stayed away, and he didn’t correct me.
When I left his place, I was sore and my entire body ached, but he told me to come back Thursday, and I am. Hopefully my shoulder is better by the weekend.
I missed not being able to see my chiropractor when I didn’t have insurance. He’s the only one who can work my bones this way.

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Everything else, Grief

Another Year in the Rearview Mirror

I blew out my candles (placed carefully in the shape of a smiley face) in a pecan pie last night. Thankfully there weren’t really forty-three of them or we might have had to call the fire department.

It was a nice birthday, as far as such things go. I mean, there was work, but I like my job and my boss brought in a chocolate cake so I had that for breakfast which felt mildly rebellious.

Once upon a time, wearing ripped jeans and a motorcycle jacket and staying out past curfew felt rebellious, but those days are so far in the past they’re no longer really visible in the rearview mirror.

There was an odd sort of sense that I was shifting in time last night… my daughter’s boyfriend invited us to his house, and the two of them made us a delightful dinner with my favorite things. The kids put the candles in my pie and carried it to me, singing. It was wonderful, truly, but I felt somewhat cockeyed for a second. For so many (many, many) years, I’ve been the one planning and making the birthday dinners, lighting the candles, initiating the obligatory belting out of the birthday song. The role reversal was cool, for sure, but it just felt a bit odd for a second. Three of my kids are adults now. When did that happen?

The night before my birthday, on Mother’s Day, my uncle died. I hadn’t seen him in a few years, but I cried over the loss. When I was young, we spent a lot of time at my parents’ cabin up north. (That might be a Michigan thing, “Up north.” Basically, it means anywhere above the Zilwaukee bridge, not necessarily in the upper peninsula.) This particular cabin was about two and a half hours from the house I grew up in. In the winters, we would go up on the weekends to head out snowmobiling, but the summers were the best time. Memorial weekend, Labor Day weekend, and several weekends in between we would go north and family would come in for the duration. The cabin was small but the yard was big and when we ran out of room for bodies to sleep on a couch or the floor, tents would pop up in the yard or relatives would drop a rusty tin can-style camper in the front yard. With my siblings and their families, aunts, uncles, and cousins, it would be nothing to have forty relatives or more hanging out for the weekend. The uncle that passed on Sunday was my dad’s closest brother and best friend. They were two peas in a pod; the same mannerisms, same expressions, same grunts of affirmation or disgust. Uncle Vern was always there on those weekends. He and my dad would get up before sunrise to start the massive breakfast for the family, scrambling a hundred eggs and thirty pounds of potatoes while the rest of us woke slowly, took turns with the only bathroom, and stumbled outside in the early morning light. Plates in hand, we’d wait around until food was done then sit in folding chairs on the lawn, reminiscing, planning, laughing. I’m sad that those days are gone, and I’m sad that so many of the people who were there have passed away now.

And I’m not trying to dwell on the past or anything like that. The right now time is good. It’s solid. Every day holds some measure of joy, and my family is happy and growing. We’re making our own memories. But there’s a weird ache in my gut every time I realize most of the people who shared those days with me are gone. There are very few people alive who remember the same things I do. I have no siblings to reminisce with. Nobody else who remembers Christmas mornings, sitting at the top of the stairs while our parents fixed coffee and opened a can of Tab before we were allowed to run into the family room to see the tree and presents. I sort through photos and laugh at a memory, then remember the faces in the picture have all passed away now. Those weekends up north at the old cabin were pure happiness. I miss them, and the people who shared them with me.

Last Friday, I left work early and spent three hours at a local tattoo shop. My left forearm is now decorated with the ink of a memorial for my lost family. It turned out beautiful. I thought long and hard about what symbols to choose for each family member. My dad’s was pretty easy: a sunflower. He always had a garden out back, and bordered the perimeter of the vegetable plot with tall, vibrant sunflowers. To this day, every time I see a sunflower, I immediately think of my dad. For my sister, I chose a sun/moon. She used to buy all sorts of decorations with the sun/moon on them. Something about it really spoke to her, so I chose a bright, happy style with crinkly eyes in the face of the sun and rosy cheeks. Even the face of the moon sports a tolerant smirk. My brother loved all things Viking: history, television, exaggerated lore, random facts. For him I chose a raven. Odin, the Viking god, has two ravens, thought to represent “memory” and “thoughts.” Seemed fitting, to me.

The words are impossible to see in a photo because they wrap around my arm, but they are lyrics from a song called “Less than Whole:”

“The grey clouds have departed

The stars light up the night

Now I can see through darkness

The river shines with life

I’ve waded through the water

My soul is comin’ clean

I’ve held my breath forever

But now it’s time to breathe.”

Here I am, another year in the rearview mirror.

And I’m finally breathing.

ink

 

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Everything else, Grief

Milestone Days

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It’s the milestone days that hit the hardest, I think. It sneaks up on me and quite often I can’t figure out why I’m extra emotional until all at once, I remember.

This week has been a big one in terms of milestones.

Yesterday, my biggest little girl turned twenty-two. I was eleven days shy of turning twenty-one the day she was born. I’d had an all natural birth plan written out, which was promptly tossed in the trash when, a month before she was due to be born, my gall bladder decided it needed to come out. I was feverish and in extraordinary pain, and when my doctor told me they were planning an emergency C-section, I was terrified. Family came up immediately, of course. In the end, everything turned out all right. My sister was beyond thrilled to be an auntie. My brother was ecstatic – he and his wife had just welcomed their son two weeks prior. I have the cutest picture of my husband and my brother holding the babies in the hall at the hospital. They both look so very young.

Yesterday was also my last day at a job I really loved. I hadn’t been planning to leave and then all at once, the situation changed. I’d been half-heartedly looking to pick up a second part time job, and an amazing full time opportunity fell from the sky. I couldn’t NOT take it, but man oh man, it was painful to give notice at a job I truly enjoyed. More than the work, I’ll miss my coworkers terribly. It was a difficult decision to make, and I keep wondering if I made the right choice. I know that I did, for the sake of my family, but it still hurts. Lots of tears the last several days, especially yesterday, packing up my desk and walking out for the last time.

Today is my son’s Junior prom. We picked his suit up yesterday – in the brief window of time between when I left my former job, sobbing, and when we were meeting at the restaurant to celebrate my daughter’s birthday – and wow, does my little boy look grown when he puts it on. He’s taller than I am, now, with facial hair and a new (adorable) girlfriend. Time, man. It marches forward at a ridiculous pace. I wish sometimes I could catch moments like this in my hands just so I could hold them for a while longer.

These are the times when it really strikes me that both my siblings are gone. I have no brother or sister to invite to my kid’s birthday party. Or to call and tell about my new job, or how hard it is for me to leave the old one. No siblings to come tonight and see my son all dressed up, looking sharp and posing with his girl for pictures. It feels so wrong that this is the reality. They should be here. 

Tomorrow, my youngest daughter graduates from college. I’m so proud of her. She’s overcome a myriad of obstacles to get to this point, and to see her with her cap and gown, knowing how hard she’s worked to get to this point, fills me with such an indescribable sense of joy. My sister was a hairstylist. Five years ago, when she was on Hospice, my daughter was telling her how she was going to follow in her footsteps and go to cosmetology school. “Just like Aunt Char Char.” My God, would my sister ever be proud to see her walk tomorrow.

It’s been an exhausting and emotional week, all around. I’m overflowing with conflicting emotions. Some days I miss my siblings so much I can’t catch my breath. Tears well up over the smallest moments that trigger memories. It’s like being kicked in the gut without warning.

I didn’t plan it this way, but a while back I made an appointment to get a memorial tattoo for my dad and my siblings. My appointment is next Friday. This morning I was thinking how fitting the timing is. This week has been almost overwhelming in the feelings department. Next week, I’m taking this step forward in my healing process, honoring my lost loved ones with bright and beautiful ink.

It’s the milestone days that hurt the most.

It’s the milestone days that mean the most.

It’s the milestone days that bring me so much joy.

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Bits and Whatnots, Everything else, Grief

One Step Forward. Three Hundred Sixty Four Steps Back.

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People who know me keep asking if I’m feeling better.

I’m never sure how to answer that question.

What exactly is “better?”

Better from grief? From depression? Anxiety? I don’t know. It’s all tangled up in me and I can’t always pull the different emotions apart.

If the question is, Have you gotten over the deaths of your siblings? Then the answer is no, and I never will, so you might as well stop asking.

If the question is, Are you making any progress at all? Then the answer is, Yeah, I think so.

It feels like I am. In really, really, miniscule ways, I’ve made some progress. For a long time, I felt so raw I could barely stand most of my clothes, so it’s been leggings and soft shirts  most of the winter. But the last few weeks, I’ve been able to wear jeans.

Last Thanksgiving, I hosted the family dinner. My niece brought a turkey. It was too heavy to pull out of the oven, so I transferred much of the juice to a big Mason jar. I set it on the windowsill above the kitchen sink. I’ve been looking at that jar for months, disgusted with myself for not taking care of it, but too exhausted and overwhelmed to deal with it. Two weeks ago, I dumped it out and washed it.

Three weeks ago, as I was walking out the front door to take my boys to school, my youngest son said something funny and I heard myself laughing. Like, really laughing out loud. Hard. And I thought to myself, Oh my God, I’m laughing. How long has it been since I laughed last?

My therapist says she’s proud of me. I wonder how I got to a place in my life where it means so much for a therapist to tell me she’s proud of me for doing simple things like leaving my house or washing the dishes.

I’ve gone to dinner at a couple of smallish restaurants without having an anxiety attack. I told the psychiatrist I’ve been seeing about the anxiety attacks that hit when I’m in crowds and she told me to breathe into a paper sack. So that was just phenomenally unhelpful. Glad I’m getting charged nearly $200 for that bit of advice.

Still can’t watch television or read much. I’ve found a few more musicians I can tolerate the sound of, so my playlist has gotten slightly more diverse, but I still listen to the same songs every day. I have no idea what it is about these artists that makes their music tolerable, but for the moment, I’m just glad I can listen to any music at all.

But it feels like in more ways than I’m moving forward in, I’m stumbling back. Anxiety makes me more awkward than usual, and the usual is pretty damn awkward already. I work in a very small office, usually with three other people that I know pretty well. I have my own desk in a room with two other desks, but there’s usually nobody else there when I’m working. So I walked in last Thursday to find a new person had been hired. She seems entirely pleasant, but I was caught off-guard. I couldn’t think of what to do, anxiety had my brain all jumbled up, and even in the best of times, I’m not huge on hugging, especially with people I don’t know. But the new chick is a hugger, so she jumped up to hug me hello and introduce herself. Entirely inadvertently, I jumped backward and flung my hand out like “stop.” Immediately, I attempted to apologize and shook her hand, babbling incoherently about my own inadequacies and anxieties, and generally making the situation even more awkward. Anxiety ballooned this incident in my mind until it was nearly all I could think about. At the end of my shift, as I was walking out, I thought, I need to make this right so it’s not super awkward next week. So I stopped to shake her hand again as I left, and said the most inane thing I probably could have. “Sorry I’m so awkward, but I’m seeing a psychiatrist about it.”

I’m sure that helped matters. First impressions and all that.

My husband surprised me with a night away at a hotel and planned a night at a casino. He said I seemed overwhelmed and needed a break, which was true. The hotel part was awesome but the casino was crowded and smoky and I had to take frequent breaks from the people. I wrote part of my new book out on my phone while my husband played games, so I didn’t have to interact with anyone. The next day was release day for When Knowing Comes, and as I’d decided to go low-key and stress-free as possible, I’d planned a live video in my FB readers group for the event. We came home twenty minutes before the video was to start. My laptop decided to do updates at the last second, which left me in a panic. The FB app on my phone wouldn’t work for no apparent reason. Finally I grabbed my husband’s phone, downloaded FB, and started my live video twenty minutes late, which left me out of breath, anxious, and shaky.

I find I just really need a lot of preparation before I do anything. Time to work up courage. I hate feeling this way. It isn’t what I’m used to and I get frustrated with myself for not being able to get back to “normal.” Which, okay, with me is still pretty weird but even so. I used to be able to roll with the punches when plans changed. I want that part of me back.

Some days, I am anxious all day for no apparent reason. It feels like that sensation when you tip over the top of a rollercoaster hill, all day. All night. And I can’t link it to anything in particular, so I can’t fix the problem and by the time evening comes, all I can think about is going to bed so I can escape that feeling. Going to bed because you’re tired is a very different thing than going to bed because you can’t stand being awake anymore. Either way, though, I wake up over and over and over. I can’t remember what a solid night of sleep feels like.

But on the upside, I’m having less nightmares about my family and pets dying in front of me. So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

I’ve pulled back more on social media. I’ve unfollowed or left all the groups I was in except my own readers group. Weekly, I cull more “friends.” I’ll continue paring down until I get to what I feel is a manageable number. I understand it hurts people’s feelings, but right now all I can do is try to take care of my brain the best I can. My focus has narrowed to my household, my mom, my job, and writing.

And speaking of writing.

I’m writing. A lot. For so many months, I couldn’t write anything, and that was painful for me. Now, I can’t seem to stop. I’m nearly finished writing the third Windy Springs book, and my mind races with ideas for the fourth.

A lot of the time I feel like all I’m doing is treading water. But hey, at least I’m not drowning anymore.

One step forward. Three-hundred-sixty-four steps back.

But still, a step forward is a step forward. And even one step is better than none.

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Bits and Whatnots, Everything else, Grief

Can’t Go Over It. Can’t Go Under It.

 

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It seems simplistic to say that life is often like the children’s song, “Going on a Bear Hunt.” But like many things, I guess, we learned as children, it’s become a solid truth in adulthood.

With life comes much joy. We drink it up. We hold it tight.

With life comes much pain. We want to avoid it. We shrink away from it. We try to numb it in any number of ways. But the reality is, we have to go through it. Even when we know what we have to do, we run from the pain. It doesn’t work, though.

There’s no way over it. There’s no way under it. No way around it. I’ve watched people numb the pain. Avoid dealing with it. What happens is, they get stuck. No matter how you numb yourself, at some point, you’ll start to feel again. Then you have to decide whether you’re going to numb yourself again, or deal with the pain. Those that keep it numb are just spinning their wheels. They never fully go through it, so they can never get to the other side. Years can pass. A lifetime can pass. And still, there they are, trapped in a bubble of agony while the world goes on without them.

It’s scary to face it. I know it is. Standing in the void, peering into a dark, empty place. Unsure if there  might be sun on the other side. Unsure if it’s worth it to try to find out.

The ground is tilted. Your soul is crooked. It seems like pushing through the darkness will be too much. It might be safer to remain in the void, with your crooked soul and tilted earth. You know how to exist there. It might be cold and lonely, but you’ve gotten used to it. Reaching for a light you aren’t sure will be there is a gamble.

What if you get all the way through and find it isn’t there? Then what?

Facing the darkness, facing the pain, will be worth it. It will hurt, and it’s normal to want to run from that. But refusing to deal with it keeps the wound open. It can’t heal until it’s dealt with head on.

You can do this. Brace up. Stare into the inky blackness. Know you are worth finding the sun again.

Can’t go over it. Can’t go under it. Can’t go around it.

Just dive in.

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The Gift of a Song

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On occasion, I’ve experienced things that defy any simple explanation. I don’t understand how they happened, but I’m positive that they did. Cosmic mysteries, I guess, or whatever you want to call them.

My sister loved the song Wagon Wheel by Darius Rucker. If it came on the radio, she’d immediately start  smiling and singing along. When she was on Hospice, her son would sing it to her often. The night she passed, that same son sang Wagon Wheel as she took her final breaths.

We made a CD to play during the funeral viewings and service. Of course, Wagon Wheel was included.

She’d been gone just a little over four years when we learned my brother had cancer. He asked me to help him take his son on a promised trip to Nashville. Within weeks, we’d thrown a fundraiser, gotten time off work, and packed up our Yukon, Nashville bound. My nephew loves country music, and my brother had promised to take him to see the Grand Ole Opry. It took us two days to drive from Michigan to Nashville. My brother was quite ill at that point, and we had to stop often for him to get a drink or to rest. We had purchased tickets ahead of time for the Opry, for the same night we rolled into town. After dropping off our luggage at the hotel, we headed out. We had a wheelchair we’d intended to bring with us, but we couldn’t fit it in the vehicle, not with five adults and all the suitcases and bags. After literally hours of trying to get the chair into the Yukon, we left without it, as time was unfortunately of the essence. When we arrived at the Opry, we realized we had a problem: the parking lot was enormous and crowded. There was no way my brother could walk that distance, so my husband let the four of us out at the gates, and went to find a parking spot. If you’ve ever been to the Opry, you know how beautiful it is. The giant guitars, the plants and flowers, the lights. It’s utterly enchanting. And there is always country music blaring outside to welcome visitors.

It took quite some time for my husband to make it back up to where we were. Tickets in hand, our group entered the gates.

That’s when I heard it. Darius Rucker singing Wagon Wheel. It started playing just as we walked through. I nudged my sister-in-law. “Do you hear that?” I asked her. “It’s Charlotte’s song.” We all kind of stood still for a second, listening. A weird little shiver went up my spine and my eyes watered. How I’d wished she could have been there with us, and out of nowhere came her favorite song.

Which could always be a coincidence. But it meant something to me. It really struck my heart.

The show was fantastic. It felt good to know we had accomplished the biggest goal for the trip. We’d gotten my brother and nephew to the Opry. Anything over and above that was gravy. We hit a lot of touristy spots while we were in town. The wax museum, where my brother posed with his favorite singer, Reba McIntyre. We bought cowboy boots at a western shop. We laughed a lot. One day we drove right into the heart of the city, intent on taking my nephew to the Country Music Hall of Fame. Here in Michigan, I live in a town so small we don’t even get mailboxes. My brother and his family lived a couple of hours north of us, in another small town. You ever see the Uncle Kracker video for Smile? That was filmed in their town. Suffice to say, downtown Nashville was a bit of a shock to our systems. The noise, the crowds, the hella busy streets. First we had to find a rental place to get a wheelchair, which took time. Then we had to locate a parking lot, which was confusing. And by the time we had the wheelchair and had gotten parked, we weren’t sure which direction we were even walking. We went down one sidewalk, backtracked, tried another one. Finally, my husband told us to stop and he took out his iPhone.

“Siri, I need directions to the Country Music Hall of Fame,” he said, loud and clear.

Instead, his phone pulled up YouTube. And without him touching a button, Darius Rucker’s Wagon Wheel came blaring out of his phone.

That time, I did cry. In fact, my insides shook. The five of us stilled on the sidewalk, stunned. Staring at the phone in my husband’s upturned palm.

When the song ended and we looked up to try to figure out where we were, there it was: the Country Music Hall of Fame. Right across the street.

Another coincidence?

It feels like more than that to me. It feels like it was a gift, just for us. Two weeks later, my brother was gone. But the memory of that moment the five of us – or maybe the six of us – stood together on that sidewalk, listening to Wagon Wheel, has been a balm to my soul ever since.

I will treasure that fraction of time forever. Because I was given a precious gift.

The gift of a song.

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Everything else, Grief, Writing

Permission to Rest

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Once upon a time, I might have known what these three words meant.

Permission to rest. 

Somewhere along the way, I forgot.

It’s easy enough to forget things. I forget all the time. Most of last fall I was caught up in a frantic haze of activity. Keep busy, keep busy, keep busy. Holding still for more than a fraction of a second felt like failure. In the course of a session one day, my therapist told me I needed to give myself permission to rest. I nodded and said okay, sure, I’ll do that.

I mean, I’m a reasonably intelligent human being. And I’m pretty good with words. I thought I understood. But it turned out I didn’t. I understood the words individually, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t grasp how to turn them into a verb. Like having a jar of peanut butter in one hand and a jar of jelly in the other, and being unable to figure out how to make a sandwich. So I posted in a group I’m in on Facebook, a group of book lovers, because I figured they are smart and could help me out. And they tried.

But what I realized was, everyone else was too far ahead of me. They were giving me instructions for algebra, but I still needed help with addition. The more I thought about those three words, the bigger they became in my mind. I thought it needed to be some kind of special Permission to Rest time, at a specific time of day, and it seemed as if that would be too much for me, so I quit trying to figure it out. At some point, a friend said to me that it could mean just staring at the wall for five minutes a day. That was something tangible, something I could comprehend. I started doing that. There was something in that silence that reached through the cacophony in my soul.

For me, permission to rest meant permission to cut the noise out.

Once I had a handle on it, I took it a little further. I spent some time cleaning out my social media. Unliked a couple hundred pages on Facebook. Chopped my friends list by a few hundred. If I looked at a name and couldn’t recall where I knew them from, delete. If I hadn’t posted in a group in a couple of months, delete. If someone’s posts were stressing me out, delete. Even real life friends. Even family. Then I started in on Twitter. Same rules. This cost me a lot of followers, but I guess if they were only following me so I would follow them, they didn’t really care about me or my writing to begin with, so no great loss. I unfollowed almost all the celebrities or TV shows I used to follow. I didn’t do these things all at once. It took a few weeks. Some I had to really think about. Then I unfollowed news outlets. The final cut was local animal shelter pages. Anything that caused me stress or upset had to go.

Television was a struggle for me. There are shows I like, and I wanted to watch them. But plots were hard for me to follow and my brain would take whatever I watched and turn it into some horrendous nightmare about death. So, I quit watching TV. (Keep your TWD spoilers to yourself, people. I might pick it up back at some point.) For a while, even music grated on my nerves.

The silence has given me space to mourn.

The silence has given me space to begin to heal.

About two weeks ago, I heard myself laughing really hard at something my youngest son said. It was such an unfamiliar sound, I was startled.

Lately, I’ve been listening to music again. Really focusing on the lyrics. Good music does a lot to lift my heart and I’m grateful I can tolerate it again. I’m listening only to specific bands at this time. Only the ones that really speak to me, and that’s a fairly eclectic mix. Hello Dave. Dead Man Fall. Rend Collective. Hugh Laurie. Big & Rich, and Kenny Alphin’s solo stuff. I have a YouTube mix that I keep on a loop.

There’s a line in Alice in Wonderland where the Mad Hatter says, “It’s good to be working at my trade again.” I’m feeling that right now. Feeling it hard. The absence of the ability to write was a grief all its own. When Knowing Comes releases March 10th. It’s unlikely that I will do any sort of release event for this one. I’m learning to recognize my limits and adhere to them. It means more to me that I am able to write again, that I finished the book. Even in the midst of all the pain of the last few months, I finished the book. I’ll send ARCs out to reviewers, and I’m going to do a live video in my FB readers group on the day it goes live. That’s what I can handle, so that’s what I’m doing.

Not too long ago, my husband sent me a word game on Facebook. I was supposed to unscramble the letters. The letters I got were E-R-T-E. I looked at those letters for an hour. I could not form a word. I remember thinking it was some kind of joke game, because those letters didn’t make any word.

I’m a writer, and my mind was so cloudy I couldn’t spell the word “tree.”

Now I’ve finished writing one book and have a good start on another. I’m blogging again. It feels good. It feels right.

Permission to rest.

Permission to be still. Permission to cut the noise.

Permission to feel the silence.

Permission to heal.

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Bits and Whatnots, Grief

108 Squares

108 squares

Five years ago today, at around 8:30 in the morning, I suddenly lost my father. He hadn’t been ill at all, and it was a horrendous shock. Dad collapsed at home, and my mother called 911. I curled up on the floor of the garage, screaming for my daddy. My husband picked me up in his arms and carried me to our vehicle, and I remember with painful clarity watching the back of the ambulance bouncing in time to CPR compressions. My sister stood in the neighbor’s yard, vomiting Sunkist. My brother held his arms around her. We followed the ambulance to the hospital, and as we pulled into the lot, the song playing on the radio was “Dead and Gone”. A short while later, I was calling family and friends, sobbing into the phone as I told them my father was gone. I can’t count how many people asked if I was pranking them for April Fool’s Day.

About eight shirts – unwashed, of course. About eight shirts was all I needed to get 108 perfect, 3×3 squares. Blues, greens, plaids. A bit of red. It seemed paramount to work with them unwashed, protecting that scent that was so uniquely you. Old Spice, Stetson, and something….something from the garage. Gasoline? Maybe. You were always so busy working on a project out there, it seemed as if the scent of it permeated everything you wore. Oh! And cough drops. Cherry Halls, can’t forget that scent. Always in your pocket, always in the truck console.

It took a few months; I remember starting the squares the fall after we lost you, and I was still finishing it a couple of days before Christmas. It was a slow process; first, carefully cutting off the buttons and buttonhole strips; next, the sleeves and collar. Laying the shirt out flat on the living room floor and pinning the makeshift pattern pieces cut from grocery store paper sacks onto the fabric, I began to cut. Slowly, slowly, carefully. Every clip of the scissors a measured action; I didn’t want to waste any of this fabric that could never be replaced.

Some days I had longer to work on the squares than others, a few hours perhaps; some days, the process was so exhausting, so painful, I could not spend more than a few minutes working, even after I had taken the time to haul the supplies up the stairs and into the living room. I would sit, legs splayed, leaning against the couch and holding the precious fabric in my hands, soaking in the scent of you and remembering.

Remembering.

Eventually, all the squares were cut. 108 perfect squares. Stacked evenly into towers, according to color. The machine was threaded, and the next phase began.

Pinning. Red, blue, green. Blue, plaid, red. Green, red, blue. Three squares sewn together and matched to another set of three, and then one more triple row. A simple nine-patch was formed.

And then, another nine. Over and over; slowly, carefully.

Pressing the seams, so the patch would lie flat. The pointy nose of the iron forcing its way into the tiny crevices where the corners of the seams met.

I would not cry on the fabric; I was afraid my tears would dilute your perfect scent.

Sewing the nine-patches together, it became so long that I had to lay the excess over my shoulder when working on it. I didn’t want this fabric to get dirty on the floor. Besides, I could imagine your hand was resting there on my shoulder, watching.

Finally. Nine rows by twelve. It was heavy already; the weight of it, comforting. On the table you once sat at the head of, I spread my 108 squares. One side face down, the underside with jagged bits of fabric teasing the seams, a few knots of tangled thread showing. I am not a perfect seamstress.

I brush at any small wrinkles with my thumb. It needs to be straight.

Unroll the batting. Slowly, carefully. Evenly. Line the edges up.

I ask the children to help me hold the topside above the rest; corner to corner, we wave the fabric up into the air, like a preschooler’s game of Parachute, and it glides down to rest peacefully in its own place.

The border is blue. A deep, navy blue, the color of the coveralls you wore daily. Shuffling about in the garage, those coveralls were as ever-present as the worn, brown work boots with the scuffed zippers that accompanied them. For many months, your coveralls hung on a peg near the door in the garage, waiting for you to take them down and shrug into them, ready to work.

The blue coveralls are gone now.

The border corners are always difficult for me. It can be tricky to taper them just so, keeping all four even, but I try. Sometimes I feel frustrated, but I keep at it.

Almost done, now. Navy crochet thread, and a needle. Down and up, down and up, I must exert a great deal of pressure to force the needle through the layers. Tying it off, effectively suturing three layers together.

It is finished.

The children clamor to lay on it; wrap themselves in it; hold it close; smell it.

My tears fall then, but I am careful to keep them from falling onto the blanket.

The quilt made with eight of your shirts. I could not bear to give them away.

108 perfect, 3 x 3 squares.

Bits and Whatnots

108 Squares

About eight shirts – unwashed, of course. About eight shirts was all I needed to get 108 perfect, 3×3 squares. Blues, greens, plaids. A bit of red. It seemed paramount to work with them unwashed, protecting that scent that was so uniquely you. Old Spice, Stetson, and something….something from the garage. Gasoline? Maybe. You were always so busy working on a project out there, it seemed like the scent of it permeated everything you wore. Oh! And cough drops. Cherry Halls, can’t forget that scent. Always in your pocket, always in the truck console.

It took a few months; I remember starting the squares the fall after we lost you, and I was still finishing it a couple of days before Christmas. It was a slow process; first, carefully cutting off the button and buttonhole strips; next, the sleeves and collar. Laying the shirt out flat on the living room floor and pinning the makeshift pattern pieces cut from grocery store paper sacks onto the fabric, I began to cut. Slowly, slowly, carefully. Every clip of the scissors a measured action; I didn’t want to waste any of this fabric that could never be replaced.

Some days I had longer to work on the squares than others, a few hours perhaps; some days, the process was so exhausting, so painful, I could not spend more than a few minutes working, even after I had taken the time to haul the supplies up the stairs and into the living room. I would sit, legs splayed, leaning against the couch and holding the precious fabric in my hands, soaking in the scent of you and remembering.

Remembering.

Eventually, all the squares were cut. 108 perfect squares. Stacked evenly into towers, according to color. The machine was threaded, and the next phase began.

Pinning. Red, blue, green. Blue, plaid, red. Green, red, blue. Three squares sewn together and matched to another set of three, and then one more triple row. A simple nine-patch was formed.

And then, another nine. Over and over; slowly, carefully.

Pressing the seams, so the patch would lie flat. The pointy nose of the iron forcing its way into the tiny crevices where the corners of the seams met.

I would not cry on the fabric; I was afraid my tears would dilute your perfect scent.

Sewing the nine-patches together, it became so long that I had to lay the excess over my shoulder when working on it. I didn’t want this fabric to get dirty on the floor. Besides, I could imagine your hand was resting there on my shoulder, watching.

Finally. Nine rows by twelve. It was heavy already; the weight of it, comforting. On the table you once sat at the head of, I spread my 108 squares. One side face down, the underside with jagged bits of fabric teasing the seams, a few knots of tangled thread showing. I am not a perfect seamstress.

I brush at any small wrinkles with my thumb. It needs to be straight.

Unroll the batting. Slowly, carefully. Evenly. Line the edges up.

I ask the children to help me hold the topside above the rest; corner to corner, we wave the fabric up into the air, like a preschooler’s game of Parachute, and it glides down to rest peacefully in its own place.

The border is blue. A deep, navy blue, the color of the coveralls you wore daily. Shuffling about in the garage, those coveralls were as ever-present as the worn, brown work boots with the scuffed zippers that accompanied them. For many months, your coveralls hung on a peg near the door in the garage, waiting for you to take them down and shrug into them, ready to work.

The blue coveralls are gone now.

The border corners are always difficult for me. It can be tricky to taper them just so, keeping all four even, but I try. Sometimes I feel frustrated, but I keep at it.

Almost done, now. Navy crochet thread, and a needle. Down and up, down and up, I must exert a great deal of pressure to force the needle through the layers. Tying it off, effectively suturing three layers together.

It is finished.

The children clamor to lay on it; wrap themselves in it; hold it close; smell it.

My tears fall then, but I am careful to keep them from falling onto the blanket.

The quilt made with eight of your shirts. I could not bear to give them away.

108 perfect, 3 x 3 squares.