grace

thank you for the few falling leaves, and the coolness of this breeze, and the scrape of the leaf as it crawls across the porch. thank you for the cold white sky and the distant moving thunder and the fact that in all things there is grace. thank you for this midday darkness, for the children i will soon pick up, for the plink of rain on this tin covering.  thank you for this time of waiting, for this coming advent, for your light, and that in all these things- there is grace.  thank you that it's raining loudly now, pouring down in sheets and waves, and that if i didn't need to go and find my children at school, i could run fast in it, feeling the cold alive on my skin, reaching our for your everlastingly open arms, immersion in the grace as it falls all around me.

a little poem

Love Song- 

How can I keep my soul in me, so that
it doesn't touch your soul? How can I raise
it high enough, past you, to other things?
I would like to shelter it, among remote
lost objects, in some dark and silent place
that doesn't resonate when your depths resound.
Yet everything that touches us, me and you,
takes us together like a violin's bow,
which draws one voice out of two seperate strings.
Upon what instrument are we two spanned?
And what musician holds us in his hand?
Oh sweetest song.
                          - rainer maria rilke
            

give thanks

it's been a busy and full week.  a week of thanks. a week of thanksgiving. a week of thanks and giving and giving thanks.  i have so much. to be. thankful for.

we had two thanksgiving celebrations- two 'expat' feasts.  they were beautiful and special and different and both reminded me that while we miss our friends and family dearly- we have family here too.  we become more for each other here.

today zoe got an award at the school assembly.  it was for "writing a fantastic science report about the effects of gravity."  that's right. it wasn't for sitting still. or not interrupting. it was for doing a great job. it was legit.  it was for...of all things...writing.  wow.  now that is HUGE.  that is something to be seriously thankful for.  i am really speechless.

and my headaches are better- it seems adding gatorade and returning to gluten- and getting rid of chocolate and any alcohol and all amoebas- makes a big difference.

and my children are healthy. 
and there are 4 of them.
and my husband made it safely to america.
and we have food.
and we have shelter.
and we are loved deeply by a God who cares for us, who doesn't abandon us.
and it's almost Christmas time.
and the sky will soon be dark and the sky will fill up with little white lights from so far away that i will feel small and close to all those people around the world who are looking at the same moon.

good bye

mike left and i cried like a baby in the arms of my sweet zoe.  i didn't mean to.  i didn't think i would.  but all i could think about was our arriving here a year and a half ago.  all i could think about was our leaving our old life together and the 15 suitcases stacked high, and the airplane and how far away it all feels.  all i could think about is how deeply i love him and how even after 18 years of marriage-  here - we are suddenly much more for each other. 

suddenly when i hugged him goodbye all that came flooding back and i couldn't let go.  suddenly the driving and the cooking and the cleaning up alone, meant nothing- because i was hugging a big part of my heart goodbye.  suddenly i felt alone- like when pa left ma in little house on the prairie and would go off to town in the dead of winter during a storm.  suddenly i wondered if i could actually do anything with out him- and then i wondered what if he never came back? what if this was it? what if something happens? what if this is the last of it? and with my head in that little spot where his shoulder meets his chest, that place i've known for so long, that place i've cried so many times before, that place i've returned too again and again, that safe place, i began to cry.

it wasn't because our car was broken into again last night, in our driveway, 4 feet from zoe's bedroom.  it wasn't because the next two days will be fuller now that i need to ge the car repaired, and deal with insurance, etc etc.

i know it's not that long. i know that it will be fine and he will return rested and with a new perspective and that he will see and hear everything twice.  but it was surprisingly hard to say that goodbye!

magnificent

 








i sat outside on the deck overlooking the lake and it was magnificent. cool, wet, whiteout like snow. i could look out and be anywhere. northern italy in the cold, north carolina mountains with the fog rising and the clouds hovering- or here- where i am- western uganda.

it was good to get away. lake bunyoni. 3 days. 5 friends. it was good to be myself apart from what makes up most of me and my days- those 4 precious ones.  because when i get away, i breathe and laugh and sleep and laugh more and hear other peoples stories and struggles and triumphs. and breathing and laughing and sleeping are good, but it also reminds me to savor the ones back home. and when i hear their bubbly little voices on the phone, i am filled with love and thanks.

but i savor these moments with my friends in a deep and rich way.  because i still remember when the sky remained closed, the sun didn't return, and the storm of zoe hung on tightly.  i remember months and years of her storminess disabling me- leaving me defeated, deflated and withered- leaving me empty and hollow- with out laughter or breath. when there was nothing magnificent about the storm, when there was no hope of it passing. so to be able to go away, to be with out worry, or anxiety, or the need to talk about her, or the need to feel so small and vulnerable- feels so good. to be able to relax. to find myself whole and put back together again- that is truly magnificent. 

look, the sky opened. the sun came out. the storm did move over the mountain.














i am filled with love and thanks.

trying to fix it

when i was 16 years old i fell in love with a broken boy.  he was new to our school, had come from rehab.  he proudly went to AA in the evenings, was living with his father who he'd newly reunited with, and smoke a pack a day of marlboro reds.  he wore bandanas tied around each ankle and one on his head over his long hair that smelled like strawberries. he smelled like the taste of a strawberry mento, tobacco and sometimes patchouli (but i think that came later).

i was drawn to him.  he was cute and he was new and he was different and he was broken.  the sad part is, i had this crazy idea that i could fix him, which assumed that a) he needed to be fixed, b) he wanted to be fixed, and c) that i could be the one to fix him.  i don't think any of those assumptions were true.

the unfairness of the world has been high on my list of "issues" since i was a young child. one of my earliest memories is being aghast at a homeless man's lack of coat on a cold snowy night in boston, when i had 2 coats.  this made me cry, and wonder, and reflect.  but it also left me feeling confused and guilty and upset with the way the world works.

i went to peru on a missions trip when i was 14 and saw a lot more of the unfair and the unjust.  but when i met this boy- his unfair was on the inside.  i was like heidi, or pollyanna, or any number of characters where the sweet girl shines her light onto the grumpy old relative reminding them that love is real and true and worth trying.  there is then redemption and connection and healing.  i wanted this so badly for this boy.

my mom sized him up and told me there would be trouble, that he had, "that look in his eye."
"what look??" i asked accusingly. "the look that tells me he's seen a lot more in his 16 years than you've seen in yours."  i knew she was right- not about the trouble, but about his eyes.

i had this idea that if i could love him enough, he'd see the beauty and value that i saw in him.  i wanted him to know he was worthy, he was important, he was as valuable as anyone else, he was special.  i wanted to make up for past loss and abuse and betrayal.  i wanted to draw on the love i'd been shown, on the affirmation that i'd had for my 16 years, on the support and the blessing of a family rich in love, and i wanted to share it with him.  i wanted to give him my second coat.

it took a long time for me to realize what was wrong with all this, and what was wrong with me.  it took a long time for me to see that i was broken too (because we all are) and that my need to fix things was actually part of my broken.  that assumptions a, b, and c were wrong.   people aren't in need of fixing, they are in process.  you can't love someone "enough" to make up for a lot of loss and pain- it's part of them, part of their story, part of their process.  and people want to be loved- not fixed- so that as motive, will never help, it will never work.

life is hard.  the world is full of crazy.  we are all broken.

now i live in africa where i'm surrounded by hard and crazy and broken, all the time. now i still have that same pain in my heart at the unfairness, at the lack of and the fact that even as a missionary, reliant on the generosity  of others, i have much more than most people here.  and just like i hated that fact when i was 6, and 16, i still hate it. and just like i wanted to fix it then, i still want to fix it.

but.

what is asked of me?  to be still and know.  to love God with all my heart and soul and strength.  to love my neighbor, as myself, (which means to love myself- yikes), to give, to try, to look and not turn away, to challenge the unfair, to work for justice, to be a voice for the voiceless, to be the hands and feet of God.  to love. to love.  to love -not to fix it- but just because it's right.  to love even when it will stay broken.  to love because everyone has a story. to love because it will become a part of their story.  to love. to love...

"Compassion is the sometimes fatal capacity for feeling what it is like to live inside somebody else's skin. It's the knowledge that there can never really be any peace and joy for me until there is peace and joy finally for you too. ”   - frederick buechner

deep gladness

this rainy season is very rainy.  i'm thankful for the darkened sky and the sound of  heaviness releasing.  it feels more right as the season of advent approaches.

the rain brings me stillness.  because it makes me sit still.  it cuts off other noises.  it somehow makes me feel safe (well at least when i'm inside my house and during daylight).  right now it's so loud i can barely hear the avett brothers singing. it sounds like being under a breaking wave in the ocean- that loud ssshhwwwooooosshhhing sound.

this next month will be strange. it's the beginning of my favorite time. christmas time. anticipation, waiting, little lights in darkness, sweetness, kindness, songs, red and green m+m's, snowflakes, shiny things, glitter, candles, reflection, a star, an arrival, The gift, a new beginning. it will be strange because the days will be getting hotter and dryer and sunnier.  it will be strange because mike will be away for half of it, he will be half way across the world at our old home, and i will be only half here without him.

he will go back for the first time since we moved, but he will experience 're-entry' alone.  he will eat a 'yeah burger with bacon sauce' with out me, he will have a drink at leon's service station in decatur with out me.  he will eat bocorones at krog bar with out me. he will see his family with out me. he will hang out with my brother with out me.  he will see all the new and clean and massive of america with different eyes, with out me.

and. i. will. miss. him. so. much.

the crazy thing is that i'm okay with staying behind.  we have the gift of rosie, who isn't able to travel with us yet, and she is worth staying for.  and in the ups and downs of life in africa, i'm feeling in an "up".  and in a life far away from what has always been normal, i'm finding a new normal.  a normal that i love, and after a year and a half almost, i'm finally beginning to understand the language. 

this weekend in luwero i had a moment.  i was leaning over a very sick man who was lying on a colorful woven mat on the floor.  he had just found out that he was HIV positive, but he was feeling too sick to care. an old sheet hung blocking the doorway while i examined him.  i knelt on the floor in my skirt, feeling the pebbles from the dirt and cement under my knees. the walls were chipped and cracked and i looked down at my pale hands on his dark stomach and felt fully at peace.  i knew i was where was meant to be. i knew there was no where else i wanted to be. i knew that this is where i am called.  that buechner was right:

"The place God calls you to is the place where your deep gladness and the world’s deep hunger meet.” 

because this is my deep gladness.  and there is nothing more satisfying, more peace-giving than being where God wants you.

so i will hold down the fort.  i will eagerly await mikes return. i will long for his stories about how it felt to be back at the house he grew up in, and what it was like to see old friends and meet their new babies, and how good a dunkin' donut tasted, and what it felt like to see the cold new england ocean again.

now the sun is bright and hot again. the sky is blue and far away and the air is filled with singing birds.  it feels like summertime.

are, have, do

"you are enough. you have enough. you do enough."

my cousin posted this today on facebook (thank you stefany welch!) and i immediately "liked" it. but then i started thinking about it more and i began to wonder why i get tripped up on the last part- you do enough. do i?

i definitely struggle with the "do".   so when i read this i thought "yes! yes! and i guess...."
at first i wondered if everyone thinks this, or if they don't, that maybe they should.  but then i remembered we are all different and i think each of us carries our own personal battle with one of these verbs:

are.
have.
do.

i mean there are many people who wrestle hard core with "being enough".  i know some of them, and it's a very hard verb to be stuck on,  to be.  i'm thankful that in my family growing up, we were told that God loves us- as we are- just because we were born- and nothing we could say or do or not say or not do, could change this fact. and guess what?  its true.  how beautiful and amazing is that?  so this isn't my battle-in fact i'm pretty sure i've gone past "enough", i think i'm probably actually "too much". which isn't necessarily a good thing.

there are other people who spend lifetimes wondering if they have enough, or operating as if they don't have enough or might never have enough.  i don't even think this correlates with how much one actually has- it's just their trip-up verb - one of the three big ones.

but do? that one is hard for me.   that is the one i ask over and over.  am i doing enough, in whatever various realm has been more neglected lately. it might be a problem for those of us who like to have our fingers in too many pots at once, those of us who juggle a lot things, those of us who are....mothers- because multitasking comes with the job.  am i doing enough with my kids, for my kids, and for all of my kids? am i doing enough for my partner, for my job, for my community, for my friends, for my church, for my kids school, for my neighbors, for the random people who stop by the porch at 9:30pm?

i think many of us ask this, often in attempt to help the other verbs along. if we do more, we will have more, we will be more.  but. 

we are enough, all of us, each of us, is enough- just. because. we. are.  most of us have enough, because most of us can eat and sleep under a roof and keep warm.  and most of us do enough too.  we might have to juggle which arena needs more attention- but all added up, we do enough.  at least enough.

peace and love.

who am i anyway...

it's not late, but i'm exhausted in a good way. in that long day of work way.  that way where some good was done and people learned things, especially me, as i always do.

i was in luwero doing mobile clinic- my car, full of people and medical records and medications- a long ride and a day of testing for hiv, and treating those who have hiv, who've come from far away surrounding villages for treatment and health education and community.  some were very sick and some were very fine and i always spend my day wondering if i'm doing not enough or too much- where you find that line? when does giving become too easy, when does it become too hard?

tonight just now at 9:30 a woman clambered up to our porch wanting money for school fees.  we don't know her- she lives somewhere in town.  i hate to admit it, but i was annoyed.  i wanted to say, "come on lady! i'm in my pajamas! what are you doing?" i wanted to say, "didn't you notice that there is a large ugandan family gathering next door- they're awake- they're even outside- why don't you go ask them? oh right- because they're not white."

i feel like a terrible person for thinking these things and for feeling those feelings- feeling resentment, for constantly being forced to respond to the need that is all around me, for the confrontation, for the inability to hide. 

but where does it stop? when is it okay to say "no"?

this is a common topic of discussion between mike and i.  we've vacillated between setting rules and boundaries and tearing them down.  we wonder about how we should live? is it okay to 'hide' behind self prescribed boundaries- like we can only help people we know (because we can't even fully do that), or do we leave it to the moments- and see how we feel, if we are convicted?

tonight i wrestled.  i thought about Jesus- what did he do? he didn't have rules about who he helped- but then again, he was God and could see and know the entire picture of the person standing before him.  all i've got is another sob story.

i don't think there is an answer.  that would be too easy.  it's all part of the process. part of the learning. part of the personal conviction. part of the story. part of life.  sometimes you make rules and sometimes you keep them and sometimes you break them. maybe the only answer is to keep a soft heart and to keep asking.  to keep reflecting.  to keep wondering.  to keep trying.

who am i anyway?

there by the Grace of God go i.....

it happens in the stillness and the waiting

view from monkey hill

when i was in training to become a doctor, both in medical school and in residency when someone would come to speak about international health, i would get this strange panicky feeling. it was a combination of a burning desire to do what they were doing, and a fear that it would never happen.

i worried that suddenly everyone around me listening would have the same eager anticipation and there would never be enough international healthcare jobs to go around.  i felt oddly competitive and nervous that somehow, i wouldn't make it.  it turned out that several of my friends did share that burning desire and did well planned things like fellowships in infectious disease, masters in public health, and the CDCs epidemiology intelligence service fellowship- a set up for international medical work. they were wise and calculated and they've all done great things and published papers and many are known around the world for their work in international healthcare.

but here i am having stumbled into international health through the backdoor. here i am in africa- doing medicine- almost by accident- but not really. 

sometimes the 'perfect' path isn't right. sometimes the logical way, isn't the best way. sometimes you have to live your life and make decisions that are needed at the time, and defer your big plans or wishes.  but somewhere inside me, i knew i was supposed to be here- doing something. 

this is the coolest thing about following God.  he's not afraid of messy and different and illogical.  he actually likes it. the messier the start, the more amazing the beauty of the finish. life, is like how president obama described a democracy yesterday, "noisy and messy and complicated." at least that is how my life is. 

today when i reached the top of monkey hill, (which i could climb because i think i've finally kicked the amoebas, and have had two headache free days!) i felt good and healthy and i remembered the goodness of God.  i remembered sitting in classrooms and lecture halls and wanting to push fast-forward and be. right. where. i. am. now.

wow.

with out an infectious disease fellowship, with out the EIS, i am here doing grassroots medicine, which is actually what i really wanted.  there are all sorts of 'difference makers'- because we are all different and we all do make a difference.  i'm one of the small scale ones.

up on the hill, looking down over the town and the city all the way to lake victoria i remembered how my anxiety and my many 'maps' of my years of how to get here, my attempts at being calculated, brought me only more anxiety and dissatisfaction. that my planning only added to the noisy-ness.  then i remembered how mike and i would climb monkey hill on our return visits to uganda, how we'd look out over this same view, from this same seat and we would quietly ask God if we should come here. for 6 years we heard "no."  but then we heard "yes."

it was in the stillness, and the asking.  that is where it happened.

had i tried to get my grubby little hands on it earlier- had i tried to force it or push my agenda, it wouldn't have been right for me, or mike, or our kids. at. all. this dream needed to stew on the back burner for a long while.  this desire needed certain jobs finished first, babies born in places with wise doctors to help with confusing issues, growth and development and special help for zoe during certain years. i needed to be broken, and broken again, and to feel the warmth and know the protection of the everlasting arms before i could move my people over here.  all these things were orchestrated- beautifully.

up on that hill i thought about zoe and God and being here.  about his promise to care for us and to provide for our needs especially when we are obedience- when we trust- when we do it his way. i thought about the blessings bestowed on us, on zoe, since we've moved here- so far away from help, from services, from special schools, from support systems.  that was my greatest fear- that moving here, would royally mess her up. 

on our last visit to uganda, the summer before we moved,  i remember going to church at the university chapel, and laying it out for God. okay, it seems you are saying yes, that you are saying now....but zoe? what about her? what will we do with her here? who will help? what services are there? what if......  and i simply heard in my heart, "do you trust me?" to which, after all the things that had happened in the past 6 years, i could quickly and honestly answer, "yes.  i do trust you."

and that was it.  there wasn't an investigation about services, or schools.  there was just that trust. a trust that probably wasn't fully there 6 years before- a trust that needed time and relationship to strengthen.

now zoe is at a typical school.  last night i read a regular parenting your teenager book- not a special education book, not a how help your different child book- a regular book.  these are gifts.  these are blessings.  these are pieces of the promise.  things with zoe are not 'fixed', there are no guarantees that things will stay as good as they are right now, and there are still many mountains to climb with her- but there is a promise. 

it's the same promise that got me here on a different path.  the same life giving promise- that when we listen, when we give up and give in, when we come from a place of stillness and waiting- beauty and magic happen.

amen?

the long lasting rainbow

it's hard to write out of places of weakness or suffering.  i do not think of myself as a person with illness or physical disability.  i identify with health and strength and at least the ability to try. i enjoy pushing myself- i don't like giving up- i don't like sitting still, or sleeping late, or lying on the couch while other people do things for me or my kids. this kind of thing is hard for me- it makes me feel broken- in a bad and uncomfortable way.

but.  we aren't always given ease or health or strength.

this last week has been rough.  the combination of amoeba funk and the treatment of that, and a pretty much constant migraine or fog after a migraine- has been bad. last night, after the third in an every other night sequence of bad migraines, i cried. i felt like jonah in the whales belly.  i waved my white flag and whimpered to God that i give in- i'm listening- what is it that You want? - i'm lying here broken and i still love you and know you love me.  i begged to please make it go away- immediately and forever- i'll do anything! please. 

what did i get? well, there were several bolts of lighting and lots of thunder- but the rainstorm was already in full swing before i began pleading, so i think, unrelated.  i was given some restless sleep and an ongoing headache for the next 7 hours.  i was not given relief, or an answer, but i was given that bit of sleep.

in the middle of all that, i got up and called my dad. because he's a doctor. because he's a good prayer. because he can physically track down my old neurologist. because he usually knows what to do.  but mostly because he's my dad and i felt sick and awful and too far away.

at 6am when it was time for the kids to get ready for school, i dragged myself up, clutching my throbbing left eyeball, and sat on the couch attempting to offer mike moral support as he tended to them, and hating that my kids are seeing their mom like an old disabled pirate lady.

i don't want disabling migraine headaches to be part of my identity.  it can stay on my medical record but it goes. no. further. 

but.

the reality is that these days it is part of my identity. (doh!) it's keeping me from the things i want to do and the things i need to do.  it's totally interfering with the rest of my life. and it terrifies me that it might be like this.

so i decided to play the thankful game.  i'm thankful that i'm not an a situation like many of my ugandan friends who can not sit on the couch and watch if they get a migraine- because the need to go down the street and get water- because their husband is in the village tending to their families land so they can eat. i'm thankful that my dad answered the phone. i'm thankful that he immediately emailed my old neurologist.  i'm thankful that my neurologist emailed me right back and said there are things we can try. i'm thankful that i was able to keep down the amoeba medicine even though i felt so nauseated. i'm thankful for florence who comes and can take rose to school for me.  i'm thankful for the little white butterflies that look just like the petals of the impatiens but then fly away. 

i haven't been asking the 'why'? or the 'why me?' because that requires an admission- that this is happening, that it's not going away, that it's (shhhh.....getting worse.) but this morning, after the thankful game, i did begin to wonder- what is hidden in this for me to see? what is to be learned or changed or understood?

yesterday, zoe had a pretty bad day too.  she'd 'accidentally' eaten about 4 hotdogs that must have been full of gluten and her regulation was off. around dinner time, i was walking up the hill to get rose and apologize for a zoe outburst, when i saw a rainbow.  it was big and beautiful and double and bright.  but i went about my business, knowing that it would be gone soon.  about twenty minutes later on my way down the hill, it was still there, bright and full as ever.  it was like God was tapping me on the shoulder and saying, "hey- it's STILL there. don't forget- i won't forget. i promise to not abandon you."  when i got home i brought zoe out to see it- and i told her that even when our days are so hard and we are full of gluten or whatever else is making it hard to think and be kind, we are not stuck there- we are not just who we are in that moment- God doesn't leave us there- that promise is right up in the sky.

but that rainbow was for me too.

and that is what i can and will hold on to.  even when there were weeks like this, and nights like last night. even thought i will probably have nights like that while mike is away and will have to figure it out alone.

we are not abandoned.  i am not. zoe is not. you are not.

and it might feel awful sometimes and we won't know why- but usually- that will change at some point- and we will feel better again- and we will get off the couches- and change the medications- and remember not to eat the hotdogs. 

in this seasons though- can i be okay with the mandatory sitting still? can i be okay with rest and help? can i ask for it? can i accept limitations? can i surrender a little bit without giving up? can i maybe understand zoe better? can i be more gentle with others?

i think so.  i will try. and that big bright rainbow makes it easier.

…so I will look after my sheep.  I will rescue them from all the places where they are scattered on a day of clouds and darkness.               Ezekiel 34:12

two poems for saturday

Walking to oak-head pond, and thinking of the ponds i will visit in the next days and weeks


What is so utterly invisible
as tomorrow?
Not love,
not the wind,
not the inside of stone.
Not anything.
And yet, how often I'm fooled-
I'm wading along
in the sunlight-
and I'm sure I can see the fields and the ponds shining
days ahead-
I can see the light spilling
like a shower of meteors
into next week's trees,
and I plan to be there soon-
and, so far, I am
just that lucky,
my legs splashing
over the edge of darkness,
my heart on fire.
I don't know where
such certainty comes from-
the brave flesh
or the theater of the mind-
but if I had to guess
I would say that only
what the soul is supposed to be
could send us forth
with such cheer
as even the leaf must wear
as it unfurls
its fragrant body, and shines
against the hard possibility of stoppage-
which, day after day,
before such brisk, corpuscular belief,
shudders, and gives way.
    - mary oliver

this moment

A neighbourhood.
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
   - eavan boland

i will remember, but choose now

“I will remember the kisses
our lips raw with love
and how you gave me
everything you had
and how I
offered you what was left of
me,
and I will remember your small room

the feel of you
the light in the window
your records
your books
our morning coffee
our noons our nights
our bodies spilled together
sleeping
the tiny flowing currents
immediate and forever
your leg my leg
your arm my arm
your smile and the warmth
of you
who made me laugh
again.”

bukowski (via my cousin rachel:)

this poem reminds me of being young- like 20 years ago- and the drama that you are allowed to have when it's just you and the world.  before you grow roots and octopus arms.  before you become part of so many other people- before your heart grows several pairs of legs and walks off- while somehow still beating in your chest. 

it's a rainy reflective day after a hard core rainy night. days like these send me back to places like those.  i remember so well those years of coffee shops and cigarettes and sketch pads and poetry and weighty dr. marten shoes with little dresses, while my bag was also full of chemistry and physics books. i was in transition. somewhere between being limbless and carefree and artistic, and learning enough science to become someone who would help people quit smoking and then eventually help them as they died of their lung cancer.

those were days of longing and living in the moment at once.  the longing was in a deep and waiting way, but it didn't steal from the moments - they were lived for themselves purely, they were soaked in and savored. they were full of the instant because they could be- there was nothing else distracting, nothing calling, nothing demanding, time had you all to itself.

now i'm reading a book called, 'staying connected to your teenager'.  now i ride in the car with my little boys fighting in the middle seat and zoe in the way way back crying with "teenage drama".  but.

it's so fabulous.  because now i'm 41 and all that stuff that my longing was filled of- it's happened, or it hasn't, but this is my life.  because i can sit here and i can remember. i can still paint and write and listen to music and drink coffee- but with out the drama (and with out the cigarettes).  i have already made the big decisions, i have a career and someone i love having my morning coffee with and spending my nights with- the tiny flowing currents immediate and forever. 

once you grow those roots and extra arms, once your heart has several pairs of legs and can expose you to the world in a way you didn't think possible from the inside of a coffee shop at 21, there is no going back.  life tastes different- even the old flavors.  the years and the moments are part of the extra arms- they are part of the root system that feeds us.  now i can write and think from all those places, and all those years, that made me up.  now i get to share it will four little people who are mostly immediate- and one who has my forever.

this is a gross post

so i experienced a first in parenting. 

i some how made it through the first 13 years without throw up coming out of anyones nose- until last night, just before trick-or-treating.  poor bryn.  and poor me.  i mean, it was nasty.  it must have gotten stuck in his sinuses because for the next hour- while mike was with the other kids getting candy, i was helping him blow vomit out of his nose while he cried.  it didn't help that i already felt sick to my stomach - which i've since learned is due to a case of amoebias- so experiencing that took serious self control. but. we were successful and after a few episodes of gillians island he forgot about the burning in his nose.

yes i have amoebias, which is actually awesome, because it means that after taking a lot of medicine, i should feel better than i have for the past month.  maybe i'll have energy and an appetite and not so much nausea- which is all good and will come in handy while i single parent for three weeks while mike returns to the US.

yes, mike is leaving to go to the US in a few weeks.  the funny thing is that after being here for 16 months here, i'm not as jealous of him going, as i am just going to miss him.  i'm really going to miss him- not as in an extra pair of hands, just him.  that guy i love. i'm also going to miss that we won't experience the 'returning for the first time' together and that will be weird.  but i'm happy for him to see our family and our friends and old familiar places. i'm happy that he'll be refreshed and reminded and that he'll come home with good christmas gifts :).

it will be tough- and a lot of driving- and a lot of snack getting and fight stopping and many lonely evenings - but hopefully, we are getting all the sick out of the way now and hopefully that parenting 'first', will remain a parenting 'only'.