A Conversation with God That’s Lasted a Long Time

 

I learned once, years back, a lesson about prayer.

And it was this: When you pray, be specific. 

 

So I prayed and I asked, “God, please send me someone to love.”

And I waited. And I waited some more. And when I had waited for so long that I thought loneliness would break me inside, I asked again.

 

And God said to me, in the way that God does, “I have answered that prayer. I have answered that prayer for more than 30 years. I have made you a caregiver, a healer, a labor and delivery nurse and a school nurse and a public health nurse and a nurse midwife and now a Hospice nurse. I have sent you hundreds and hundreds of people to love. And you have loved them. You do love them, don’t you?”

 

I had to concede that God had a good point.

 

So I asked God to send me someone with whom I could be intimate. 

And I waited. And I waited some more. And when I had waited long enough that I was aching, I asked again.

 

And God said to me, “I can’t imagine anything more intimate than being with someone as they are being born or being with someone as they die. You have shared experiences with people more intimately sometimes than anyone ever has.” 

 

“Remember that first baby you delivered in the mountains? How that young mama wrapped her arms around you and held on to you for dear life waiting for that long labor to end? And trusting every word of encouragement you whispered? Remember the woman in Virginia who danced her baby into the world, dancing with each person in the room, including you? Remember the young girl who told you about being raped – how she trusted you with something she had never ever shared with anyone and about it still haunted her every day? Remember how free she was when she finally shared that burden with you and you broke the chains just by sitting and listening and holding her hand? Remember the woman who becamse your friend who was slowly wasting away with cancer? How you both watched her body dwindle to skin hanging from bone and how you were the one she could look in the eye and tell how sad she was to see it? Remember the man whose hand you held so tightly as he took his last breath? His last memory was the touch of your hand? That is intimate, is it not?”

 

My response? “Touche, God. You are right again.”

 

So I asked God, “Send me someone who can hold me up when I am hurting, hug when I am afraid, touch me tenderly when I am sad, laugh with me when I just need to laugh”

 

And God said, “I have sent you what you need. They are called sisters and brothers. They are called friends. And they have loved you for a long, long time and held you through some pretty rocky patches” 

 

So I asked God, “Send me someone with whom I can share all of myself.”

 

And God said, “I am right here.”

 

So I thought and thought some more and I finally said, “God, please send me someone with who I can…… well, you know…… you know……be wild and passionate with and…… you know…..”

 

And God said, “Ah, yes. About that.”

 

“When you are ready, I will send someone to share the sacred landscape of your body and soul. You will have to trust me on this one and you will have to be patient”

 

And so I wait. I may wait till I’m worn and old. Maybe I am too old for that now? 

 

Nope. The longing is still there. I wait for the person who will wake in the night to the sound of my breathing and kiss me from sleep, breathing life into me like the wind in a thunderstorm. Who will touch me in a way that no one else can and no one else will. 

 

And I said to God, “Thank you. I can wait. I won’t die without it.”

 

And God said, “Touche”.

I can't remember a time in my life when I ever felt so alone and so connected simultaneously. It's strange, confusing, touching, moving, sad, sweet, and breathtakingly beautiful all jumbled up together. I know that I have had times when I was more alone - August 2006 when I sent my youngest to college and drove to the Eastern Shore of Virginia with a moving truck full of everything I owned, alone, and armed only with a heart full of hope. Or the long winter of 2010-2011, when I was hunkered down in a log cabin on top of a mountain with just my sweet dog Baby and my weirdo cat Buster for company, trying to make sense out of a wrecked life, a wrecked love,  a wrecked dream. Or the summer of 2017, when I was still grieving my mother's death and my sweet Baby died, leaving me with a house too quiet to be stood, but no energy to go anywhere other than work because anything more was just too much for me to manage.

This pandemic and the need for social distancing (isolation) and the fear that comes with it, this aloneness is different, more heavy, more necessary, more important, but somehow much harder. It has been a long, long time since I have felt want of or desire for someone to share my day-to-day life and all the intimacy that entails. But that wanting is there. Is it the same for you others who live alone? I want a hand to hold. I want a shoulder to lean on. I want to curl my belly along the curve of someone's back and draw myself in close, listen to someone's dreaming as I fall asleep (or lie sleepless!), and feel the rise and fall of the breath of life moving in and out of someone's chest. I want to be driven crazy by someone's proximity! I want to cringe at the sound of someone chewing with mouth wide open! I want. It is as plain as that. I want.

I have come home to my music, at least. At last. In my music, I find a connection and an intimacy with my inner ....... what? Spirit? Being? Artist? Soul? God?  "Yes" is my answer there. All of those things and something that doesn't have a word in any language that I know. I am so grateful to have crossed the many miles I had to travel to find my way back home to that part of me. I knew that I was missing it, but I didn't know I was missing myself for lack of it. But I was.

So in the midst of loss and grief and sorrow and solitude and confinement and longing, I find a deep wellspring of gratitude. I have always said that gratitude will save your life. I know that, many times now, it has saved mine. I am grateful for the joy and comfort I find in letting my fingers find their way along the next of my guitar - a way they know by heart. I am grateful for the beauty I see all over the world, in Facebook pictures and You Tube videos, of people coming together and opening their hearts. I am grateful for friends reaching out, touching base, reconnecting. I am grateful for dreams of touching another person one day, hugging tightly, kissing sweetly, laughing softly, resting my head against the chest of another and hearing the soft thumping of a heart in motion.

I am hopeful that I will survive this as will all of the people I love so dearly.

I am hopeful. And I am grateful to be home. However lonely it might feel, I am safe and I am well and I can keep singing, praying, hoping, and whispering "thank you" as the dawn breaks on another day.

Peace, y'all.

Time marches on and does not waver, does not stop.
The intensity and the inevitability of aging threatens to overwhelm my happier self.
I want to be as young in my body as I am in my spirit.
I was born an old soul with a fiery, fighting spirit.
My soul now calls my spirit to take her place among the crones.
My spirit rebels even as my body, tired and weary, longs to simply be still and be whole.
She cannot be young.  So my body resolves she would settle for still, free of aching and longing.

Set me on a road, dear God, that leads up into the mountains.
Let me wander, untethered and at peace.
Let me walk in the quiet and marvel at the beauty and the grace of living things.
Let me capture my restless spirit in the breath of the wind
And settle her down in the curve of the mountain path
To listen to the ancients
And be as one of them
Constant and alive
Holding the light as it sinks in the west
Breathing out the pain of age by breathing in the gratitude of living.

----September 15, 2019

Little Bird grew restless in the nest.
It was crowded and noisy and messy.
The Wind called, "Come away with me and see the far away world. You were meant to fly!"
So Little Bird flew to the Wind and the Wind carried her far, far away.
She flew over the sea to the other side of the world and back again.
She flew over mountains and deserts and fields.
She flew through storms that were dark and dangerous and frightening.
She flew to the top of high cliffs and mesas where she could see for miles and miles.
She flew to places so sad that her heart ached with sorrow.
And she flew to places that were so beautiful that she was breathless and no melody could come to her mouth to sing of the wonders she beheld.
She flew until her wings were ragged and torn.
She flew until she was full and then weary of flying with the Wind and the storms and the skies.

Little Bird flew back to the nest.
She had heard Mama Bird calling in her dreams.
Mama Bird had never stopped watching the skies and she smiled when Little Bird came home.
She sat upon an old high branch alone in the evening sun.  Her feathers glowed in the fading light with all the colors that ever were made.

"What have you learned from all your miles of flying, Little Bird?"

"I have learned that I am resilent," said Little Bird, happy to have learned such a big idea.
"Ah, yes!", said Mama Bird, "That is an important thing to learn."
"And what else did you learn, Little Bird?"
Little Bird thought about all she had seen and all that she had learned.
And she said, "I have learned that there are storms that try to swallow me whole and storms that try to send me the wrong way.  There are storms that try to break my wings.  But there are also storms that are only in the sky and the rain never reaches the ground."

"And?", asked Mama Bird, her bright eyes glowing with that knowing Mama Bird light.

Little Bird looked up to the high branch.  Night was falling and all she could she was a shadow where Mama Bird once sat. Night was coming and Mama Bird would soon be gone.

"I learned that I miss you, Mama Bird!! I miss your wings and the way they held me close to your beating heart and kept all the storms at bay!  I miss the sound of your song in the morning when the day is new and everything is possible.  I miss the way you showed me how to fly even though it meant that I would go far, far away!"

"And what else, my little love, my little chickadee?"

"I learned that there are other wings, Mama Bird - all over the world - who will hold me if I need.  They do not feel like your wings, Mama Bird, but they are good wings, safe wings, wings filled with love!"

"And?"

"And I have wings for holding, too!  My wings can shield other Little Ones and keep them safe when the storms come!  Little Ones who never had Mama wings to hold them close. My wings, even though they are worn and torn and some of my feathers are broken - my wings can wrap around the Little ones who are afraid and give them shelter."

"And what of God, my little Love?  What did you learn of God when you flew so far from home?"

"Oh, Mama Bird!  I learned that God is everywhere!  He is in the mountains and in the valleys.  He is in the storms and in the calm.  He is in the pain and the sorrows and He is in the joy and jubilation. He is in the eyes of the Old Ones and the hearts of the Little Ones.  And I can hear his song everywhere I go."

"Yes! Now you have it, Little Bird.", said Mama Bird, a laughing sort of sound in her singing voice.

Little Bird heard her wings take flight with a soft, rustling sound, like a whisper and a prayer.  She looked up to the high branch but she couldn't see Mama Bird anymore.  Her night had come and Mama Bird had flown on.

"I love you, Mama Bird!!", Little Bird cried out into the night.  "I love you!  I always did and I always will!"

Far away, out where the stars were shining, Little Bird heard Mama Bird singing.  Long and low and full of joy and tenderness and peace, Mama Bird's song echoed across the skies,  "And I, you, Little Bird - my love, my chickadee!  And I, you."

She sat in a chair with her back straight and her head hanging down
A young woman.
Though maybe not so young.
(Everyone seems so young to me on the days when my bones are aching and I am tired.)
She was pretty and delicate and had small hands with fingers that tangled and untangled themselves
As though they were keeping rhythm to a song inside her body and couldn't be still.

"How are you?" I asked.
Because I knew little else to ask but that.

"I'm doing okay" she answered.
She drew in a breath, with a tiny shiver, like a baby who is done crying and needs to sleep.
Her head lifted just enough for her eyes to meet mine.
For just a flash of a second, a nanosecond, a fraction of a blink of time,
A great well opened in the depths of her eyes, a window unshuttered,
And I could see in to a soul holding a candle of pain.

Quickly, the curtains were drawn tight. The chasm closed and all was still.
Her hands twitched and her breath drew in and held.
So brief was the moment, I might have missed it had I not been looking for her eyes.
But I had.

I felt a cracking in my chest, an opening up in my core, a small burst of flame and hot tears in my eyes; my soul coming forth.

I reached out to touch one of her small, dancing hands.
To let her know that I had seen and understood.
"Me, too," I said.
She looked to see if I was being truthful or fair
I knew that she knew.
"We see one another.  Your pain and mine."

Those of us that hold candles behind curtains drawn tight
See the light in others, brief but sure.
In all our hiding, in all our putting on our best faces and pretending that the pain is controlled or gone,
Our pain reflects itself back to us in eyes of others.
Like a window on a dark or rainy night.

I touched her because I wanted her to know that she was not alone.
And I wanted to be not alone.
To acknowledge that we are, so many of us, doing okay while not doing okay.
That candles of pain still are light that shines out to others.
That there is a place where light reaches - from you to me to all the young women with small and restless hands, moving forward, moving, coping, hanging on.

For my friend Bobbi waiting for a word

Autumn leaves
And winter follows
And night comes on so early.
Morning is a series of snooze alarms ringing and ringing and ringing again
Because my body is too slow in the chilly air
And wants to stay inside the nest of blankets and flannel sheets
To keep on dreaming.

Autumn finds me still in childhood anticipation of
New shoes and new pencil cases
And new teachers of new lessons
That might change the course of things and turn the page
On old stories that I want to leave behind.
I look for new friends on the old playing field and
Hope that I can finally be less different
And more alike-able.

Autumn finds me still in the thrill of later years
Twisting the schedule of week in and week out to free time
To be out in the falling leaves, sleeping in the chilly grass
Falling in love with the whole wild world.
Walking up mountainsides and seeing the breathless wonder
Of the world laid bare by the naked trees and the falling leaves.

Autumn finds me still in the longing of the days
When I stood waiting for the bus to stop at the corner
To let the children off.
Just to see their faces and hear the stories of their days,
Lighting up my hours of fog and fatigue
With memories of the wonders of childhood beginnings
And the grace of love that moves up and down and over and through
The generations of the fall leaf catchers and daydreamers.

Autumn finds me now at the start of the waning,
The coming to terms
And the reckoning of all that has been lost with all that I have gained.
I want to dream.
I want to wander out into the falling leaves and dance to the beat of the different drummer
That has always been me.
To be free at the closing as I was at the start
Of the tethers of grown up things that I have carried as I should but need no more to shoulder.
I want to play in the fields that are turning golden and calling to me to run.

Autumn leaves
And winter follows
And night comes on so early.
I am full.  I am satiated.
I am ready for sleep.
I am ready for dreams.
I am ready for wonder.
I am ready to roam out to where the cold meets the warmth
And the heart explodes with the ending and the beginning.
                   ---------for Bobbi, for my father and for my children, October 2013

The beauty of dreams.........

I haven't written anything here for a very long time.  Life has kept me too busy and too caught up.  I have been missing it - my writing.  All of my writing has been missing from my life.  And it's a part of me that is constantly pawing at the surface, trying to find its way out.  I have a new song, slowly growing inside with a whole concept and lines coming together little by little.  I have several poems brewing.  I have thoughts, thoughts, and more thoughts fighting for my attention, longing for some avenue of expression.  And I have this little voice that keeps whispering in my ear, saying "You know you'd feel better if you'd just get off your duff and let us out."  So here I am.

I had an experience today that brought about one of those clear and shining epiphanies that seeks a place to be heard.  An epiphany that wants to be thought out loud.  I want to share it.

A young woman, a coworker, who has become very precious to me, shared with me a dream she had.  She has had this dream once before, and it visited her again last night.  She said she dreamed that she was in a park - a beautiful place, so beautiful that it is one of those places that is only found in dreams.  And she was playing with her two year old son.  Her partner was sitting on a bench near by and there was another little boy, standing near him, watching her at play with her son.  The little boy just stood and watched.  Her partner finally asked the little boy if he could help him find his mommy.  And the little boy said, "No.  I'm watching her play with her other little boy."  Several years ago, my friend lost a child during pregnancy.  He was growing and moving and they were eagerly anticipating his birth, when he suddenly stopped moving and they discovered that he would be stillborn.  She still grieves for that little boy, everyday.  I can see it in her eyes.  Her grief does not govern over her, but it is always there.

I sat close to her and touched her arm and tried to be as still as possible.  She was allowing me the privilege to see a part of her soul.  I was so touched by her trust.  I could see her dream as clearly as if I had dreamed it myself.  The park, the color of the trees, the sunlight moving in the grass, and I could see just a brief glimpse of that little boy, who he was and still is in her heart.  Huge tears spilled over her eyes and down her cheeks.  She was so moved in the remembering of the little baby she lost and by the whisper of him from the place where he has gone.

I came to realize how beautiful this thing is - this ability we have as humans to dream like this.  What an incredible gift it is!  I said, "He's telling you he's alright."  And she cried, "I hope so! I hope sometime, I will see him again." 

And the epiphany for me was this:  it does not really matter where this dream came from.  Either way, it is an incredibly beautiful thing.  Perhaps it is a message.  I believe that such messages happen, though I know many people do not. I believe that there is but a very thin veil that separates us from those we love who have gone on before us.  And if there is a way that their essense comes back to us - in dream or vision or guidance or protection - that truly is powerful and exceptional beauty.  And if, as many folks would say, the dream was just her mind's way of creating a picture to comfort her - how cool is that?!  How amazing and awesome that her mind can do that - create a beautiful and lasting picture that connects her to a soul she only got to hold for a brief but profound part of her life.  Either way - it moves me very deeply.

I have been thinking about my father these days.  So much and so often.  Yesterday marked four years since he died and went on ahead.  I am so lonely for him sometimes.  But so many times, he comes to me in such beautiful ways.  In the way my sons express ideas, in the way my sister smiles, in the rising notes of a violin, in the very love I feel when he is in the middle of one of my childhood memories.  This, too, is beautiful.  The way my mind can hold him so closely.

I am reminded of Langston Hughes' poem about dreams - "Hold fast to dreams for when dreams go, life if a barren field frozen with snow."

I was humbled by my friend's dream and in her willingness to share it.  And I am grateful to have been allowed in to see it.  I have been saying, "Thank you" all evening.

Peace and love and light y'all.
I'll be back again soon.  I hope you will be, too.
Thanks for listening.

Catching up on thanksgivings!

It's amazing how quickly time can get away from a person. When I least expect it, I catch my breath and realize a whole week has passed, then just as quickly, a whole month turns into months turns into years. My grandmother, who was a very wise woman, always told me not to rush any single stage of my children's lives or my own because before I knew it - like a blink! - they would be past and gone and I'd be wishing for time to slow down. She was very right. I am a week behind on my thanksgivings, but I remember then, day for day, and so I will take the time now to catch them up.

I have been quite sad the past couple of days, with sinking spirits and low, weak energy. I am struggling with coming to terms with, for lack of a better word, disappointment. I am still processing the great disappointment I have suffered this past year with the ending of my marriage and the realization that the man I married was not the man I had come to know but someone else entirely. I am not anywhere near done the work I need to do to move on. I am still a long ways away from forgiveness. Slowly, in little pieces, I process what I can handle and otherwise keep my head down and keep moving through daily life. I am working through another disappointment. Newer. And I feel sore and tired. When you hold someone in great esteem and then discover that your ideal of them is not the reality of them, the disappointment can feel like the ground under your feet has suddenly started shifting and cracking and lurching away from what feels safe. So it is for me in the past year.

I share all this because I have learned that when the ground beneath my feet is unsteady and uncertain, working at turning the focus of my heart and my spirit and my energy toward those things that remain solid and steady and continue to bless me - those things will hold on and be the ever-present safety net that will not let me hit ground from which I cannot rise: my children, my mother, my brothers and sisters, my faith, and my undying hope that someday I will fully understand and accept the lessons that I am meant to learn. With that so much in my mind, I want to start catching up with my blessings: last Saturday and each day this past week.

Saturday, November 5: I slowly cleaned my house today. In bits and pieces spread out across the day, I worked little by little to pretty up the environment that I call home. I am grateful for all the pictures I have in my house - all over the house. They remind me of the life I have lived and the love that I have been able to give and have been so fortunate to have had in return. Pictures of my great-grandparents when they were young. And of my great-grandmother in the later years of her life - oh! how she could tell a story! Pictures of my grandparents on their honeymoon and later with my children. Pictures of my children: Daniel in his kindergarten graduation get-up, his lifelong friend Justin with his mischievous grin smiling behind him; Jacob swinging on a rope swing in New Zealand; Daniel and his beautiful wife, Tiggy smiling at one another; Jacob and Daniel when they were little, hugging one another; my brothers and sisters and me when we were little and all dressed up in our matching Easter outfits; my father with my two sisters at my cousin Carrie's wedding, smiling and so happy; my whole huge family and extended family at my niece, Jennifer's, wedding; Daniel and Jacob in May the weekend that Daniel graduated from UNC-W and Jacob graduated from Wake Forest (on the same day!!); my sweet little mama and Jacob at Jacob's UNC graduation in May of 2010; my friend Bobbi and me up at the "old house" at the foot of Roan Mountain; my friend Cindy and I sitting on a rock by the river across from her house in Tryon; one of my patients and her new baby and her husband and me, all grinning up at the camera just a short while after I delivered that baby into this world............ I have lots and lots of pictures. They are visual reminders that I am a very lucky woman. And I am grateful for that reminder. Not just in these days when I am not feeling so lucky, but always.

Sunday, November 6: I hiked up to the top of Elk Knob today with Dan. Elk Knob State Park is not far from where I live and I have been wanting to get up there and see if I could indeed make it to the top. I wore a knee brace, pulled tight, and did not try to rush it. There was an open understanding that it was okay for me to turn back whenever I wanted or needed. The trail is only 1.8 miles but it sure felt longer. (Yes, I am very out of shape). Baby came along for the hike, too, and was busy taking in all of the millions of smells that dogs process every second, even when they're moving. It was a beautiful day. And, when I reached the summit, I was absolutely elated!! It's pretty darn incredible up there. You can see Mount Rogers up in Virginia, Roan Mountain over in Tennessee, Grandfather Mountain, Mount Mitchell, and the South Mountains way off in the distance. The sign at the top said that on a clear day, you can see Pilot Mountain from up there, way down by Winston-Salem. I couldn't quite make it out, but an older gentleman up there said he thought he could. It was breathtaking. The hike down hurt a lot. My knee does not handle "down" very well. But it didn't give. And it saw me all the way back to the car. I was reminded of my younger years and all the time that Dan and I spent hiking the mountains, camping, backpacking, rock climbing. I am grateful for this old body and the way it saw me through today. And I am grateful for a friendship that has lasted through 33 years and has survived much loss (grandparents, then each a parent, friends), divorce and remarriage for each of us and each another divorce, financial hardships, and all the curve balls that life will slam at you from time-to-time. It is the mutual adoration for our two children that has kept our friendship intact and allowed us to forgive each other our short-comings and accept each other for who we are, as we are. I am deeply grateful for that.

Monday, November 7: I am limping today and sore from yesterday's hike. I have moved slowly all day, guarding each step and trying to stay mindful of how I put my foot down before I put weight on this messed up knee. I am very ready for sleep and think that I will not be up too late. My Baby-girl as I call her, the sweet lab mutt that I adopted 5 years ago, is very patient with my slow moving. She sits close to me and sighs. Her presence is a balm against the loneliness that I might feel where it not for her company. She is a warm and calm energy. I love her dearly. She sat by the bathtub while I soaked my swollen knee and watched me closely to assure herself that I was alright. I believe what they say about the healing power of animals. She heals me every day. My traveling companion and my sounding board, she never disagrees with all my rantings (though she sometimes closes her eyes and drifts off in boredom if I go on too long!). She was a blessing to my life when I moved to Virginia and found myself hours away from friends and family, in a place unknown, on my own. She has continued to be a blessing. Thank you, God, for sending her to me when I needed her.

Tuesday, November 8: I am worse today. I had a long talk with my mom and was trying so hard not to whine, but whine I did. At least for a little while. My mama only lets you whine for so long! The ache in my knee worked its way out and up into my hips and groin and into the big muscles of my body. I am feverish and feel like I am getting the flu. I know this will pass. It is just part of it. My mom and I talked for a long time about depression. In our talks, she helps me remember non-medicinal ways to fight it, beat it, work with it, manage. My mother is a very special woman. Especially when I am hurting, I am so grateful to just hear her voice. I am blessed by her wisdom, her love, and her example. Thank you, Mom, for that special Mom touch you have. Even over the phone, its healing power is one of the most powerful things I know in this life. I love you.

Wednesday, November 9: Home during lunch for a 30 minute nap and a nap at the end of the workday before supper. I am grateful for napping. I would not have survived nigh on 16 years in practice without that skill. I learned it when I was small, came to depend on it when I had babies, and trust it to see me through another 10 years or so of baby catching.

More later. I still have Thursday, Friday and today to go. I'll get there.

Peace all.

http://www.reverbnation.com/c./a4/1525809/639158/Artist/639158/Artist/link

One Child

This is One Child, a song that I wrote in the weeks that followed a mission trip I made to the Petrovsky orphanage in Russia. As I say in my introduction, I felt like what we had done was a good thing and a powerful thing but it seemed like such a small thing in a big and mean world. I wanted to do more. I wanted to bring a whole bunch of them home with me! I wanted to sell all my possessions and move in with them and be their mama. I wanted to really really really make a difference. In the end, as Mother Theresa said, "we can do no great things. Only small things with great love." We may never know how much of a difference we made for those children, but we can know that we loved and we tried and, if not for them, that will make a difference for us, in us, and so, the world changes ever so slightly. Ever so slightly, multiplied by a million ever-so-slightlies, can change the world. We just have to start...........

Peace to you.

PS - A big thank you to Jon Elion for his lead guitar and Lorna Roberts for her harmony vocals on this performance

I am crying out to heaven. I'm so tired of being scared.
I'm asking God to send me an angel.
Won't you send me someone who cares?
Everywhere I turn I see such sadness.
Still I have this hope I hold inside
That someone will want to make a difference
And they'll start with one child.

I am one child, can you feed me?
I am hungry and cold down in my bones.
I am one child, can you see me?
I am lonely and longing for a home.
Change the world. Be the turning of the tide.
But could you start with one child?

So many times I've been shattered
By an angry world I cannot control.
I try to hide the ways that I've been battered,
Such a heavy weight for a tiny soul.
I would give you all that I hold dear to me
Just to see the sweetness of your smile.
You could change my world this much is clear to me
But could you start with one child.

I am one child, can you teach me?
I am willing to learn and understand.
I am one child, can you reach me?
I dream I see you holding out your hand.
Change the world. Be the turning of the tide.
But could you start with one child?
Start with me - one child.

-----Yours truly, One Child, June 2008

Thursday, November 3: On the occasion of the 105th anniversary of my grandfather's birth, I am grateful for the freckles that adorn my face and for the red tones in my hair, both of which I got from my grandfather. When I was a little girl, my grandmother used to hold me up to the mirror and smile at me smiling at her and she'd say, "Who do you look like? Where did you get that strawberry freckle face?" I was her favorite grandchild because of that strawberry blond hair and those gazillion freckles that light up my face. I grew up loving those freckles because my grandmother and grandfather loved them so. Years later, when my grandparents were gone, I would discover that my brothers and sisters and my cousins all had special, unique inherited gifts that my grandparents adored. We were all their "favorite" grandchild. My grandmother had that particularly wonderful gift of making a person feel extra special and extra loved.

I delivered a beautiful, healthy baby yesterday on my grandfather's birthday. And I felt proud to be his granddaughter. I am so grateful to have been loved so well.

Friday, November 4: I am grateful today for Friday afternoons and weekends off and the chance to have nowhere to go, to just be home with my sweet dog Baby and my strange but equally sweet, drooling cat Buster. Like Baby and Buster, I have become especially fond of naps. I am a skilled nap-taker. And I'm grateful this afternoon for the cloudy gray sky and the time to curl up under the covers and drift, unfettered, out into whatever world my mind chooses to create for me. It is good to recover. It is in my dreams that I fly, that I succeed, that I laugh with abandon, that I face my demons, that I battle and win, that I pray and sing and heal. And so, on this cloudy Friday afternoon, I am grateful for the chance to do just that.

Until later, peace all.

I am a day late starting my annual November gratitudes. And it is late. So I will be brief, I think, though I never know once I get started writing how long I might be. Back in 2006, I packed up my whole house and all my belongings, left everything familiar, and moved to the Eastern Shore of Virginia to take a job there. I sent Jacob to college in that same week and faced, not only a whole new place, but an empty nest as well. During that first winter there, I was living in a great big old beautiful farm house, a half a mile out a dirt road, on a 200-acre soy bean farm. I loved it there, but was prone to bouts of intense homesickness and, of course, the depression that generally seeps into my bones and my psyche about this time of year and takes up residence until the spring chases it off with her flowers and green and warm. I was having a particularly difficult time that first winter on the Eastern Shore. During a conversation about my sinking spirits, my mother told me about an article she had read about gratitude and how life-changing, life-saving it can be. The writer of the article suggested starting and keeping a gratitude journal and writing daily notes on things that bring about gratitude - a particularly beautiful sunrise, a baby's laugh, a call from a friend - any little or big thing that draws that feeling forward. The writer said that we should all go looking for gratitude.

And so I began. And I worked at it. My gratitude journal from those days is here on my blog and has continued, in all sorts of forms, since then. It was a very powerful exercise and helped me tremendously through that first long winter up there in the middle of nowhere on the Eastern Shore. And it continued to help me through the many changes and trials and struggles and celebrations and losses of the next four years there and my first year back here in Boone. I am trying to live a life of gratitude. I am not always successful. I sometimes forget. I sometimes don't forget, I just sometimes would rather not do it. But when I focus on living a life of gratitude, I am amazed at how different life feels to me, how much happier it is, how much more sense it makes.

When I am driving in my car to work or driving back home, I try to remember to focus my mind on gratitude. When I am feeling sorry for myself, I do the same and, amazingly, I can stop that self-pity drain. When I am tired and aching and wanting to whine about the tough aspects of getting older, I think about how grateful I am to be as young as I am (in spirit!) and as healthy as I am, and the aches don't bother me quite so much. I know deeply that I have been tremendously blessed in this life. I sometimes just need to remember. If I forget for too long, there will generally come a trial or a crisis to remind me anew. If I let the activity of acknowledging all of my blessing slip, if I forget to say "thank you" for all that I have been given, if I get to complacent or lazy to just open up my eyes and see, my spirits will sink and sadness will likely take over. It is a daily, conscious process. And decision, too. And one that I try to respect. I am trying to live it.

So in celebration of Thanksgiving month, I would like to try to make a note, every day, of my blessings and my gratitudes. I did this last year and the year before on Facebook. I thought I'd do it smaller this year. And write it here.

In keeping in tradition with my unfortunate and lifelong lateness (yes, I will be late for my own funeral, I am sure), I am starting a day late. So here are two days worth:

November 1: Today I am grateful for the morning. Every day above ground is a good one. I am not much of a morning person. I am slow in the mornings and quiet. Not grumpy. Just not quite with it. But I am learning to appreciate mornings more. The older I get, the more I appreciate the turning slowly and that first blinking, yawning, sighing recognition of the light of the day coming in through the window. Another night is passed and here is another day, another chance, another hope. Nights are for dreaming without direction. Days are for dreaming with hope and intention. I am grateful for every morning, every day that I can begin again.

November 2: I have a sense of myself again. I kind of lost touch for awhile. A lot has changed in the past two years. And I just lost focus. I didn't lose me. I gained some new dimensions. It was like I was walking through a maze for awhile but the path has gotten easier and the ground more even and the way more familiar. I was very intensely introspective there for a time but my insides were so muddy and murky, it was mostly just like wallowing in the mud. I wasn't able to see myself from the outside. I couldn't get out of my own way! I am glad to have steadier footing again and to appreciate what I've just come through and how it has affected me, changed me, strengthened me, given me some wisdom. I am very grateful for that. I am grateful for my own strength and my own will to survive, not just as a living being, but as a living, caring, contributing, productive being. I have been blessed.

Peace and love and all that. Till later.

Ranford Almond - Where Have All the Average People Gone? [Tosco Music Pa...

This is for Margaret. But also for anybody else who might happen along and take an interest. I have songs posted on a ReverbNation page. Kind of like My Space but less confusing. You can find it at www.reverbnation.com/lisastevens. If you'd like, you can hear some songs there. I think I'm a much better songwriter than poet. But then, I guess the difference between the two is a thin veil. There is a song that I wrote for my son Jacob already posted, and I'll post a song I wrote for my Daniel this evening.

I haven't forgotten to write. I've just been hanging on. Sometimes my "hanging on" gets fouled up in my body and most I can manage is getting to work and getting home and the rest of the time I am sitting still, wondering where my energy went. Winter is especially a "hanging on" time for me. Double whammy these days - winter and heart-sickness. But it will get better. It always does.

I have so much in my head.

Peace all.

I haven't written anything in a long time, though my brain has been very busy and I have lots of ideas and lots of things I want to write. In the coming weeks, I'll write more. I promise myself that. And I promise YOU, too! (All two of you!)

Life is good. I'm adjusting to a big change and loving it. I've been regrouping and reconnecting and reorganizing. I've been hanging on. I've been letting go. I've been singing aloud. I've been being quiet. I've been struggling to sleep. I've been greeting the dawn. (and those of you who know me know that greeting the dawn is NOT a common thing for a night owl like me!!).

I've been working at...... working at.......... hmmmmm......... I guess I've been working at living the life I thought was hanging in the upper branches and was too far out of reach. I've been stepping into a dream that I've had for more than fifteen years. I've been realizing that coming home is really and truly, and simply, stepping into the beautiful picture that you painted for yourself out of hope.

And I am here. And I am happy to be here. My husband joins me soon. His dream goes back even further than my own and is much more ethereal. I say a prayer every day that it will become solid so that it might hold him up and propel him forward into a world where he will thrive.

Peace all. I'll write soon, I promise.

Almost home...............

For every slow, soft lob that comes your way - the ones that you can spot, take aim, and over the back fence for a home run - for each one of those, there are hundreds of fast balls and curve balls and those bizarre, twisting knuckle balls that'll come right at you so fast, you won't know whether to swing or duck or bunt or run or just, by God, throw down the damn bat and walk away from the game.

It's that way in baseball. It's that way in life. I get tired sometimes of swinging at the hard ones, trying to make a connection. I get tired sometimes of ducking the ones that are just coming too fast, the ones that leave you out of breath and grateful that you were quick enough to dodge another. And I get tired sometimes of running the bases, only to get tagged out trying to make it to home. Just when I think I'm going to make it, I'm diving in, I'm almost there..........

Is it okay to just sit the next inning or two out? Please? Could I just do something simple, like carry water to others and carry the bats and the balls back to the field house? Would it be okay if I just had one little bitty breather?

Ah. I didn't think so.

Peace all.

The power of music.........

My new CD is finished. The recording, mixing, and mastering are done. Now on to the graphics and then, once I save the money, off it'll go to Oasis for duplication. I have listened to each song at least fifty times, probably more. Bruce Roberts, who produced the CD along with his wife Lorna, has been sending me the songs as mp3 files while they were in progress. I'd listen, make notes, send feedback, he'd make changes (or not) and send them back to me again. He sent me the final version last Monday, so I have listened and listened, making sure everything is just right, double listening for any errors, glitches, or otherwise. And I am happy and satisfied with the finished project.

And then I listened more. And I've continued to listen to it. Not because I want to hear myself, but because I want to hear the songs and hear their stories again, let them take me back to where they came from. Music is such an incredibly powerful thing. And for me, this music tells my own story - my thoughts, my feelings - it has the power to pick me up from where I am and transport me - setting me right down in the middle of all its history. I listen to this CD, its sixteen songs, and it takes me so many wonderful places and through so many different experiences and feelings: the edge of Linville Gorge in the early morning hours watching the sun rise; "the old house", Crystal's place up at the foot of Roan Mountain (where so many of the songs came to life); the windy coast of Ireland; the Mayan ruins of Guatemala; Russia and the orphanage there; the bedside of a praying, brave Guatemalan woman who changed my life; my father's hospital room; the backyard of the house I grew up in or at the kitchen table with my mom and dad; curled up in the big brown chair with my son, Jacob; sitting in the kitchen, listening to Daniel tell a story about Ashe County; Ashe County itself; Boone; a little cabin in the middle of the week in the middle of January at Smith Mountain Lake State Park (where I had the entire state park to myself and wrote two songs to keep from being spooked!!); the little back porch of my house in Morganton (probably the only house that will ever have been my own); sitting beside my friend Bobbi, with her expectant smile and her gentle way of coaxing a song out of me; gathered around Cindy's firepit............ it just goes on and on. Each one, with its story, its birth, its meaning inside my heart. I can't stop listening. They are my story. They are my heart.

My father always understood the power of music. He surrounded us with it as we were growing up. All kinds of music. And, just a few weeks before he died, when words befuddled him and he struggled to say what he meant, he found meaning and comfort in songs that he could hum, whistle, remember. In the hospital, he said to me, "I keep going back to the music. All those little notes and how they line up. There's a lot of love in those notes. You have to pay attention or those notes will just pass you by." I understood part of his message at the time, but not his whole message. Now I'm being to understand the whole of it. Because it isn't just the little notes that need our attention. And because it isn't just MY music that does that - all music does that. It holds love, sadness, joy, tenderness, fear, praise, thankfulness, happiness - you name it, and I'll bet you I can find you a song that holds it inside.

It is so powerful.

I miss my dad so much. He is with me; whenever I sing - ah! there he is! Oh but that I could sing all the day long.

I can't wait to share the CD with you.

Peace all.

The angel in the snow............

My Blue...........

My blue is back. I've been waiting for her, expecting her to show up on my door step. I'm a bit surprised she didn't show up weeks ago. But here she is, all decked out in her tears disguised as smiles and her weariness heavy as a wet winter coat. I am sad with her. And all I want to do is curl against her back and sleep until the chill is gone and the sun is too bright through the window pane.

Her company makes me homesick. I am so very homesick today. I am missing my North Carolina mountains and my North Carolina friends, and my North Carolina familiar. I want to go home. Home please. For so many years I was not sure where home was, but I know now. I understand where, and more accurately, who my home is. And I want my home to be all in one place. And I want to BE home. Blue's company makes me long for home because she sometimes can keep me from it.

I don't imagine this makes much sense to anyone who doesn't know Blue. Who hasn't kept her company, especially in the winter. I wrote in one of my songs about that. It's one of my favorite songs at this time of year. It goes:

"I know you'll find no reason in all I do and say.
Blame it on the winter - this need to sail away............"

Blame it on the winter is the name of the song. I guess I blame a lot on the winter. Poor Old Man, he's just doing his job. But Old Man Winter, he's the one that brought Blue a-callin'. He brings her to my house most every year.

I miss my home - my children, my mom, Bobbi and Steve, Cindy and Hannah and Dylan, the familiar road heading out of town with the view of Table Rock or the other with the view of Grandfather, the feeling of belonging.

Peace y'all. Keep the back porch light on and a fire in the stove. I'll be home before too much longer. Until then, my friend Blue will keep me company. And Scott will do his best to keep me warm.

It's always something..........

That was my status update on Facebook last night. "It's always something......." And it's true, isn't it? No matter how smooth the waters, no matter how easy the course, something always happens to rock the boat just a little, sometimes a lot, and sometimes even turn it over and send you out into cold water! This week it's the septic system at the house - too much water in the ground and the drainfield and now the freeze - certainly not things I can control, but there you have it. The thing is not working right. So I have to try to remember not to flush. Do you know how hard that is? Unless it's already a habit, you will find yourself, more often than not, flushing. And then, "Oh man!! I wasn't supposed to........" and then you sweat bullets for a little while, hoping it'll go down anyway! I'll be glad to see the sun and feel some warmth in the air. I think that'll be the only thing that'll actually cure the situation!

The other "something" is whatever it is that's making that horrible sound under my left foot in the car. It's kind of a grindy, scraping kind of sound. Brake? Wheel bearings? Strut? CV joint? Who the hell knows?! (My guess is that it's the brake doing something that it shouldn't though the man of the house [hence the auto expert] says there is plenty of brake shoe and the rotor is not wearing so it's not the brake?). The car has been in the shop more times in the past six months than it has since I bought it, new, in 2003! I shouldn't complain. She's been a great great car. She's got 170,000 miles on her and I've driven her hard! I kind of wish the trips to the shop could have been a little bit more spread out over the past seven years instead of the past seven months! I guess I'll have to take her back in. It's too blasted cold to work on her in the driveway!

You know, the thing is, in the winter time - "it's always something" seems to happen more and it is way more difficult to make light of it. I was talking to Jacob about this very thing early this morning when I called him. We were talking about Seasonal Affective Disorder (which I capitalize because I have a lot of respect for it and because then when you write SAD, folks know what you mean). I have it. Scott has it. Jacob's pretty sure he has it. I think, in actuality, most all of us have it to some degree. It's because our natural instinct right now is to hibernate. To put on a big layer of body fat and to hunker down and be still. That goes all the way back to our days in caves when body fat and hunkering down is what kept us alive. So it's our bodies natural instinct but life is in conflict. So we have to go and do and work and have Christmas and New Year's and all that stuff. When, really, what we want to do internally, is sit still, sleep more, and come out when the sun is warm again. There are a lot of people that just absolutely love the winter - when someone says that to me, I just think "you ain't right!" - and they just truck right along, happy and energetic. I think maybe that's where the "sad" part of SAD comes in for those of us who can't quite perk up to that level. We have so much to be grateful for, we live in warm houses, our cars have heaters, we have good food, we can go to the Y and work out, so why do we feel so blue, so lazy, so damn tired?! They say it's lack of sunlight. I think it's lack of warmth, too.

So when you got this SAD thing going on, it makes all these pain-in-the-butt kind of stuff harder to take. "It's always something" becomes "it's always something, damn it, and I can't take it any more!". Granted, those feelings pass, but it sure can bring out the grumpier side of a person. I know I get quite a bit grumpier in the winter.

I will be so glad to see the spring. (I know, I know - it's only the 10th of January! it's awfull early to be longing for the spring already! February is going to be particularly long this year!!). In my mind's eye, I see a picture of myself in the spring, emerging from a muddy, damp cave, squinting up at the sun, eyes trying hard to adjust to the light, looking around and seeing green and thinking - "Ahhhhhhhh!".

Peace to you. And thanks for listening to my whining!