Winds of Change

I'm one month into a three-month self-assigned project. It started on Valentine's Day, and will stretch to mid-May. In a nutshell, the task involves going through every box/tub/shelf in my house and sorting it all, with a core intention of discovering what is in each box.

As I expected, the work has been tumultuous, as I uncover all sorts of my writings, from published pieces to barely decipherable scribbles on faded paper scraps. Photos, travel plans, printed out emails, magazines, newspapers, all sorts of stuff deemed Very Important at one time, all "saved" in boxes and tubs, as I would change around the different rooms of the house, sleeping here and having an office there, and then later, switching all over again. All the expected shifting as a family of 5, homeschooled until college, grows within the home. And then all the unexpected shifting, as the children mature and leave, and then the husband leaves as well.

I've been in tremendous transition since spring of 2004, since I first began living alone. As it turns out, this project of mine, named the ButterFly project, is scheduled to end 7 years, almost to the day, that I became the sole inhabitant of this house.


One month into the project, a couple days ago, was my birthday. Daughter and son-in-law came by with a potted plant of spring beauty . . . . later in the day, I hit a huge emotional roadblock when I got some news. Right as I was shaking from overwhelming sobs, a friend came to my front door with homemade rolls and yet another plant of yet more liquid sunshine. Surrounded by such love, I was steady again by morning.







It has been a very very long 7 years. But oh, I see so much growth. And I feel such hope. I have absolutely no idea what life will be like once this house is purged of painful past, and is home to just me, living in the present. And honestly, the prospect scares me at times. As hurtful as much of my past has been, it is still what I know. But that huge unknown stretching before me is already inhabited by the God who has sustained me all of my life. And She has only good for me.





So here's to spring. To growth. To flowers--and lives--that glow with joy and possibility.

New Views

What a lovely lunch I had the other day.


Shredded the last bits of a 22 lb turkey. Sliced some celery. Diced the last few sweet pickles. Sprinkled in some raspberry vinaigrette. Stirred in a little Miracle Whip. I've never eaten a fuchsia-tinged turkey salad before.










I perched on the end of the twin bed in my living room. It's serving as my sofa until I find a new one, one without memories. Sold the other one to my son.









After so many years in this house, I'm actually getting a different view out my beloved picture window.













I'm well into my 18th year of living in this house. That simple fact astounds me at times. I spent the first 17 years of my life in one house and then after that, I moved every year or two or three.

It's a whole new feeling to live in one "building" for that many years. Maybe not for other people, but definitely for me.

At one point, two grown-ups, three children, one dog and one cat lived here. One by one they all left except for me. And I labor every day to set this house free from sad memories, and let it be a place of fresh joy and vibrant life. That means a lot of physical work, clearing away outgrown items, repainting, pulling out old carpet.




But it also means fresh thought. New views. Seeing old rooms with new eyes. Using familiar objects for unfamiliar purposes.

















Life can sparkle, can't it?















(P. S. Over to the right of this entry, you can click on the BearLodge emblem and see my new front page essay . . . )

Snow, snow, and more snow

Like much of the US, I've been deep in snow and cold for quite a bit this winter. There's no point in complaining, since that won't bring warm days and green grass even one day or minute closer. But I did dream the other day.


A recent sunset drew me outdoors with my camera, even though I had to boot up and suit up against the bitter cold. I mince my way down the driveway, which was packed with icy residue of countless snow and ice storms, and look back at my house. I remember why I painted that sassy sun several years ago, so that I could have sunshine, no matter how cold or dark the day.

Around back, the setting sun catches the hilltop across the highway.


Just to the left of center, can you see the picnic table and chairs? That's next to my creek (other people call it an irrigation ditch)--one of my favorite places in the summer.




And what looks like a double garage is actually where I dream of having an art studio. I also dream of painting a tropical scene on the outside, there to the left . . . but I haven't braved it yet . . concerned about neighbors' reactions . .


If I turn around, I can look in my bedroom window, up there above the single garage.

And there hangs the demon drainpipe, which the roofers forgot to re-attach . . . and which smacks and bangs with disturbing irregularity in a windstorm, which occurs all too often this stormy winter. Three phone calls to the company have elicited an "I'll swing by and fix that" promise, with no action attached as yet.

Yep, that furniture is right where I left it, after our last campfire and barbecue, last fall. The night was so lovely that I couldn't bear to take our food inside as we'd planned. We ended up eating at that table (snow-covered now), lit by a dozen candles.




Just down below are the stumps I'll have to figure out how to remove. I had two lovely trees growing in my back yard, but unfortunately, they were also growing kinda-sorta in and out of the house foundation. Last summer, a son and son-in-law and daughter tackled the trees, with just a hand saw, and got most of them sawed into chunks we could burn in my little fire pit.



I wander around front to the porch as the sun sinks out of sight. I'm warmed by memories of spring days and summer nights, of floating in my little backyard pool, of flowers and grass to cut, my creek to sit by, of meals cooked outdoors, of laughter with my children, with friends.

Snow still covers the ground, and will for weeks to come. But sweet and lovely warm times lie just underneath, sleeping, waiting.



I send out a silent welcome.

How Sweetly . . .

"How sweetly this day nourishes and inspires."

That's the quote for today on my daily calendar. And here's the picture that accompanies, both art and words courtesy of the artist Robin Pickens.

Isn't that just a luscious image? And don't her words leave you feeling thoroughly hugged? I hope so, since that's the effect they have on me--as though the Creator of this one-of-a-kind day has handed me (Her one-of-a-kind Maureen) a gift (which She has), and I've just unwrapped it and am in the midst of a happy sigh of acceptance and gratitude.



Perhaps somewhere in the world, right now, people are experiencing temperature warmth and garden beauty, as hinted at in that calendar artwork pictured above. For me, I'm standing at my front door in my jammies, shivering, taking some pictures. Here's a view of down the street and up onto Crow Peak, my personal mountain.












Slightly to the left, here's a view of where I sit when weather allows, under my willow.













The chair I curl up in is around the corner, blown there by the last winter storm, or two, or three. The chair pillow is up and over the deck, buried in the last snowfall, or two, or three. Right near my knees is the outdoor thermometer, proclaiming 9 degrees at mid morning, and the high today is supposed to still be in the single digits.



And if I turn just slightly more to my left, here's a current view of my living room.












Yes, Virginia, while there may be a Santa Claus, there are definitely NOT Christmas elves who come along after and clean up all your gift-making mess while you sleep. And yes, folks, I am well aware that it is over two weeks since Christmas. And perhaps by someone else's definition, any self-respecting person would most certainly have restored order to their home by now.




Yeah. Well. To that I say . . . (I can't spell out the sound for blowing raspberries so I'll have to substitute.) . . . phooey. My last two weeks, which from a calendar point-of-view bridged last year and this new year, have been wonderfully full of spiritual growth (see previous post). God has taken me on some incredible journeys of the soul, which haven't left much time for much else. And believe me, if you ask me to choose between traveling with God, and cleaning up my house, it takes less than a heartbeat to decide to grab His hand and hold on for the ride.



Here's one joyful benefit that I'm finding comes from standing ready, each moment, to follow God: the other stuff gets taken care of, too. Last night I kinda reached a saturation point with the mess in the house. I had new projects to start, and my house wasn't functional for them, since it was covered (literally :)) with the aftermath of some wonderful Christmas holiday art/gift-making. Well, tonight is the time I have invited my kids over to "receive" one of their Christmas gifts from me: a pizza party. Handmade-to-order personal pan pizzas, some munchies, some desserts. Not our usual potluck gatherings, but all made by me, for them.


Since we will be gathering in the living room--yes, that room I just showed you a photo of--I will definitely be spending some time today not only baking and cooking, but tidying. So by tomorrow, I'll have memories of a lovely time with my kids, and I'll also have a home ready for new growth, fresh exploration.

I wish each of you a day overflowing with His grace and joy.

And if you feel so inclined, leave me a comment.

I truly love seeing evidence that you've visited my blog--that you and I

have "chatted" for a while.

I'm gonna close with what opened this post:

that warm and lovely,

tender and luscious photo and thought.

Hello, 2011

It's almost 1am, and long past any sensible bedtime for me. So if you ask me why I'm staying up even later to post here, I'm not sure I could come up with an answer other than . . . . "because."

"Because? That's it?"

Yep, pretty much. I last posted early in December . . . had a dozen great ideas for posts since then, but none of them actually came to fruition. The end of last year, and the beginning of this new year, have been kind of smooshed full of emotion for me. A recent awareness of tremendous growth during 2010 has left me, at times, breathless with gratitude. But it has also left me sort of dizzy, if that makes any sense.

I've been sad for so long. Healing has been taking place over several years, but much of it has been like the bamboo plant, with growth underground, invisible. Now that tender green shoots are poking up here and there, I am glad beyond belief. But it's so different. Wonderful, but different.

Don't get me wrong. I still have mountains to climb just about every day. But I look around me. I touch the formerly broken and bruised parts of my life and the horrible pain is gone. Really gone. Faithful prayer over countless days and nights has brought me, inch by microscopic inch, finally to this place where I can see joy. Feel joy. Believe in joy.

As I mentioned, over these past few weeks some terrific ideas for "wonderful, inspiring" posts have flooded my thought, but not quite made it into print. So I'm not at all sure why I am writing NOW. Nothing unusual has happened to finally prompt me to post.

Except maybe this quiet, very quiet, whisper that is saying: Maureen, don't let one single more day go by without saying, in some public way, that your days of mourning are over. Really over.

Yep. That's it. That's the "because."

And as much as I adore having photos in my posts, I can't think of a single image that would be adequate to express whatever it is that I'm trying to say here. I can barely find words for it. As I said, I'm in unfamiliar territory now. The land of joy.

Unfamiliar, yes. But not for very long. Because this is my home now.

Honesty

Warning: if anyone reading this post considers a certain level of emotional honesty to be unbearable oversharing, then you'd better leave now.











Okay. Here's a picture I painted a day or so ago. It reflects much of who I am right now.











And here's a snapshot of a plant I was given a day or so earlier. The sweet little poinsettia suffered a rude shock leaving the store and being carried to the car on a frightfully cold day. It barely survived those few moments of transition. This picture also reflects how I feel right now.











Over the past few years, I have found tremendous healing in acknowledging painful feelings. It's taken much hard work to find a balance between standing calmly in the feelings and allowing them light and air, versus wallowing in them and sometimes coming near to drowning.


I'm gonna see right now if I can move forward in one particular area of my life by bearing witness to some deep pain I'm feeling. This is not at all easy for me to do. Much shame attaches itself to these feelings. I hope that by being open here I can banish some of that shame.


My father dominated the first portion of my life. My husband put his mark on the next three and one-half decades. Another man affected the few years since the divorce.



My father was a pedophile and I was his six-year-old victim. There's no erasing what he did. But oh, how I wish he had chosen to repent of his actions and apologize to me before he died.


My husband and I each brought serious emotional baggage to our union, and then faced some sharp and painful experiences during the marriage. I used every resource at my disposal to save our marriage. I wish my husband had done the same. Maybe he would have still chosen to end our marriage, but maybe it would have been easier to live with. Easier to get over. Easier to move past. I wish he had not turned to other women during our marriage. I wish I had not been so easily replaced.


I met a man at the time of the divorce who was part of my life for the next three-plus years. He said often that he valued my faith, my sense of humor, my loyalty, my spirituality, my sensuality. Then one day, without warning, he dropped me. No contact at all. No explanation. Just silence. After several letters from me, he finally left a phone message saying he'd "met someone and was moving on with his life."


I am grateful beyond words for so many ways in which I have grown and matured over these past few years. I love my friends, my faith, my family, my home. And yet there remains a raw, ragged hole in my heart, created not just by the fact of these three failed relationships, but by how each of the three men chose to treat me.


I have had to be the one to end some relationships. In so doing, I summoned all the kindness and courage I could and tried to tell the person, gently, why I was doing what I was doing.


Breakups happen. I get that. And even though my particular faith experience fills me with confidence that "with God all things are possible," I also realize that some people do feel as if they have to give up. That the emotional mountain before them is just higher than they can climb.

But can't even giving up be done with some measure of grace? When you have tied yourself to another human being, and your giving up directly affects their life and stability, wouldn't it just be plain ordinary kindness to cushion the breaking up in any way possible?


For my dear friends who are reading this, please know that I am okay. Truly. I've made it this far and I sure as heck am not giving up now. My intimacy with my heavenly Father has grown deeper than I ever thought possible. My home is, bit by slow bit, experiencing a fresh and joyful transformation. Daily I ask God to show me ways I can reach out to others with compassion and kindness.


But my heart is healing far more slowly than I would wish for. I realize that the three men I have mentioned are only three--just a mere trio out of how many millions of men on the planet. But those three men have overshadowed every single year I've been alive on this earth. It isn't being single that is difficult. I'm adjusting to that. It's being left. Dumped. Cut off. Abandoned. Ignored. Forgotten. Unwanted. Replaced. Erased.

I know that each of these three men fought their own demons. They made bad choices. I just wish that even one of them had had the courage to take some measure of responsibility for how their choices affected other people, like me. I wish even one of them had cared enough to bandage the wounds they inflicted on me.




I'll close this post by sharing another floral friend. These geraniums lived outside one summer a few years ago until a hard frost threatened. I didn't mean to be rough, but I had to speed to get them out of the ground and inside, safe and warm. They responded by hanging on.

















They are gangly and not terribly attractive, but oh, they bloom with a fierce persistence. Look at them, and you see me.

Thanksgiving

What a joy, on Thanksgiving Day, to host the gathering at my home. Daughter Amanda and husband Jason, son Ben and wife Jodi, son Matt and roommate Dave, Great Aunt Marge and I all shared a precious afternoon and evening.

We didn't lack for desserts!

After the meal, we chatted and played games around the table.

But just a few days before, that same area was completely torn up and "under construction." Many times I wondered what in the world I was doing, ripping up carpet and scrubbing walls, so close to company time.

But the desire for reconstruction of my home was too powerful to deny, or, evidently, even to delay.

The deconstruction part was nitty and gritty.

Housecleaning has taken a back seat in my life the last few years (or longer!), but even I was surprised at the amount of dust (allright--let's call it what it was: DIRT!) uncovered.

Dust. Dirt. Whatever you want to call it, every speck had to be uncovered, faced, cleaned up.

Into the bucket went every bent, rusty nail. Every scrap of worn-out, shredded wood.

Every old and broken dream. Every abandoned and outgrown hope.

No shortcuts. No easy way. Just inch-by-inch, slow and steady. Out with the old, to make way for the new.

Deconstruction. Reconstruction. Not necessarily easy, but oh my . . . how healing. How good for the soul.

For all this, and more to come, I give thanks.

[this is the end of the post. For some reason, I have a h-u-g-e amount of black space before the post ends. Sorry about that. I'm at the limit of my knowledge of how to fix it.]