Cannibalism in NYC

There have been recent reports of cannibals in various places across the country.  And while the idea is disturbing and grotesque, frankly, I've always considered it someone else's problem.

Not in my backyard.

That all changed for me today - upon witnessing acts of cannibalism right here in New York City.

Seriously people, stop eating each other!

Goin' through the big D

And I don't mean Dallas.

I don't mean divorce either.

Depression.  or depression. (probably the latter, though it feels much too intense for a lowercase letter to do it justice)

This is the photograph I was working on when I got the call about Mom's death.

In so many ways it symbolizes her life for me.

So it is with this experience as well.

At some point in time I will look back and see it as a refining, beautifying process.

But now it just hurts like hell.

So, depression.  (I have a theory that the more times I say it, the less scary it will become) It's too much sleep and too much country music.  It's a feeling I've never quite experienced before.  I've been sad, sure.  And I've been through hard, worrisome times.  But this is the first time in my life that I truly do not recognize myself.  Where have I gone?  

The intense grief following her funeral involved many tears and poignant memories.  Really feeling the loss of her and what that meant for me.  Swollen, stinging eyes, curled up in a ball - the whole nine yards.

Then there was a respite.  Two weeks of feeling surprisingly normal.  Feeling happy for the first time since her passing.  And it felt so good to feel good!  So good, in fact that I pushed away any thoughts of her that popped up.  I didn't want anything to ruin how wonderful I felt.  "Just one more day of being happy," I thought.  "I"ll deal with this later."  I knew the grief was not gone forever.  I knew it would cycle back.

But when it did, it did not come back as tears and memories as it had before.  It showed up as a total loss of identity.  A complete disinterest in my own life. I was still moving along, doing my routine, but I felt completely hollow inside.  Nothing there.  Numbness only.  I explained it away for quite a few days.

It will get better.

It will go away.

Your mom just died, it's probably normal.

This will pass soon.

But it just stayed.  The fog stayed for so very long.  I lost the ability to handle my normal life.  Everything my kids did was too much for me to handle.  I was terrified of my complete incapacity for patience.  Where was this resentment, this contempt coming from?  This is not the mother I wanted to be.  After watching my own mother struggle with depression her whole life, I told myself it would never be me.  I was made of different stuff.

But then I saw it.  Ellie's big eyes, searching mine intensely.  Looking for me somewhere inside the shell of my body.  Confused and perplexed.  And I remember being there.  A child, wishing with all my heart that Mom would come back to the surface.

It put me over the edge.

I finally admitted that I needed help.  I sat on the couch and cried to Joe about my deepest fears.

I am afraid of not being able to handle this grief.

This motherhood.

This life.

I am afraid of becoming her.

I am afraid of being depressed, because that is her, not me.

I am afraid of needing medication, because somewhere along the way I decided it would be my ultimate failure in life.

And you know what?  After I said those things - they weren't as scary as they were before.  I started seeing a therapist and it is making a world of difference.  Life moves on in a cyclical motion.  I am not making my way out of this grief, so much as I am navigating my time through it.

I write all this for a number of reasons.  I've always been into sharing - usually too much information - and it's so healing for me to put my experiences into words.  Also I feel I should explain why I haven't been writing here for so long.  And I hope that by being open with this experience, maybe someone reading will find the comfort that comes in knowing that none of us is ever truly alone.  

I'm going to keep talking about hard things on this blog.  Because that's what life is made of.  Smiles and laughter, yes.  Beauty and joy.  But also very hard, very meaningful things.  All of it together makes up this life that we are each experiencing.

Caught My Eye

And this quote:

"It would be folly for an individual to try to do better...than to go on in his own imperfect way, making his mistakes, riding out the rough and bewildering, exciting and beautiful storm of life until the day he dies"

 - Oscar Hammerstein II

from his amazing essay in This I Believe. It's a good read.

New York's Finest

One of the mom's from Ellie's weekly playgroup at church arranged for the firefighters to visit us.  It was so very exciting!  Seriously, some of the kids were so pumped they were levitating.

You know how every year it seems the rules change about how to introduce babies to food, or whether pacifiers are acceptable or not?  Every few year the pendulum of parenting culture swings back and forth on such issues breastfeeding, co-sleeping, spanking, etc etc etc.

Well, I find it so comforting to know that some things never change.


Stop.  Drop. and Roll.  Still the best thing to do if you're on fire.
Firefighters are still teaching kids not to hide under the bed - 'cause it makes them hard to find.
Kids are always thrilled to climb aboard the truck and see all the bells and whistles.
And stay at home moms are still excited by the prospect of spending the afternoon with New York's finest.

I didn't photograph any of the super handsome ones for fear of being too obvious.  But suffice it to say, everyone was happy to meet the heroes that day.  (If you catch my backdraft) I am well aware of how terrible that pun is - I just couldn't help it.

Don't mind Ellie's face - she was scared of falling through the grate.

Thanks FDNY, for being so handsome.

For being so nice to the kids.

For convincing Joe to go out for the volunteer fire department some day.

And for coming to my apartment a few days later when I thought I smelled gas.

Joe, I swear - there was a smell!

Today in a nutshell

Today really felt like this.

Until it didn't.

But that's OK.

Because sometimes you just need a little bit of wonder

to keep you going.

Life is lovely - even when it's hard.

Rainy Days and Mondays

OK universe - why do you insist on coupling rainy days and Mondays for so many weeks in a row?  It's a terrible combination for me right now. 

But rainy it is.  So this morning I woke up early, slapped these photos up on my blog and said to myself, "I promise to blog every day this week."  And so I will.  It may be mostly photos because words are much harder to organize.  But there will be something done every day.  Because photos like this cheer me up when it's wet and dismal and Monday.

Puritan Wren

These photos made me laugh today.

Which is good, because I really needed to laugh.

First Mother's Day

I keep thinking about her favorite Mother's Day.  The one she always talked about.  When the jelly got too close to the eggs and we served her purple breakfast in bed.  Everything was cold by the time we got it to her, but I remember how she exclaimed her delight and made a big fuss over our little breakfast offering. 

I recall puny bouquets of indian paintbrushes eagerly gathered in my sweaty hands.

I think back to that essay contest in the fourth grade.  I was determined to win her the moisturizing hand cream with the yellow flower on top.  It was the first bit of writing I poured my soul into.  I can still recall some of the things I said about why she was the best mother in the world.

Mother's Day has often been a difficult day for me - and I know it is for so very many women.

Our relationships with our mothers are complex.

My greatest comfort and most bitter pain both find home in the woman who gave me life.  

This mother's day I feel longing.

An ache - like part of me is gone.

A desperation to call her.  To connect with her in some way.

I have also been delighted today to realize how much beauty there really is in the world.
Truly life is a gift - every day is a miracle.

And whether I feel joy or pain, in all of it there is an abiding peace in knowing that God is over all.  He is taking care of His creations, and it is not my job to worry over what has happened or what will happen.  It's my job to be here.  To experience whatever life brings.  To learn humility and trust and grace and compassion.

My heart is big enough for all of these things.  Today I laughed and sang and cried and walked.  I listened and swore and hugged.  I painted my daughter's fingernails and I enjoyed my husband's culinary masterpiece.  I wondered what memories  my children will have of Mother's Day.  I thought of my mother and I breathed in my daughters. 

Today I pondered Ellie's delight on her last carousel ride.  And I said a little prayer of gratitude for carousels - because they make me feel like the best mother in the world.

The Beat Goes On

My heart is often heavy and my feelings very raw.  Memories of my mom surface at rather inopportune moments.  But there are days in a row when things feel very normal.  Yes, life goes on.  There has been a lot of life happening around here in the last month.

Ellie got her first haircut.

Wren discovered her feet and is still super cute.

There were good evening kisses.

And good times in the dirt.

 Climbing trees with her best friend.

Spending time with my rock of a husband.

We've had some really great dates.

Wandering in Central Park.

Eating Dinosaur BBQ.

Listening to the Philharmonic at Lincoln Center.

Finding beauty in surprising places.

So many times I have thought to myself,

It is good to be alive.

So very very good.

Regrets and Redemption (another post about love)

This is one of the last times I saw my mom for any extended period of time.  Freshman year at BYU, she came out to visit.  I wish I could remember more of what we did together.  But I remember she was happy and proud to see my life at school.  It's hard to say who was more excited for me to go away to college - she simply gushed about it all the time.

It's been 8 years since this photo was taken.  So much changed for both of us in that time.  I ache to go back and spend just one carefree day wandering campus and letting her know all about me.  Just being together.  Just letting her in.

I wish I could have let her in more.

It's a thought I struggle with a lot these days.  When you have a loved one who struggles with addiction, you make boundaries and you fret night and day about whether or not you are doing the right thing.  I spent so much time guarding my heart and my emotions around her.  In many ways I shut her out to protect myself.  That's probably the worst pain of all - knowing how much she longed to mother me, and knowing how little I let her. 

I did the best I could with what I had.  And so did she.  There are feelings and experiences surrounding her death that are too sacred to share.  And it is in these moments that I have truly felt redemption.  There are things which do not need to be said between she and I.  Apologies that do not need to be made.  All is understood between our hearts. 

But sometimes it still hurts to remember the way things were.
And to wonder what I could have done differently.

If I regret one thing, it is that I wasted so much time worrying and being disappointed.  I regret ever making her feel she needed to apologize.  I wish I would have just loved her without condition, without expectation. 


Just love her.

In every interaction, let her know how much she means to me.  No lecturing, no hurt feelings, no apologies - just love.  Look her right in the eyes and tell her that she's loved, that she's worthy of love, that He loves her more than she could ever know.  That she could never do anything to change that love.

Tell myself everyday that it doesn't matter what she does.
Look for who she is.
She is beautiful.  She is kind.  She is hurt.  She is His.

Stop my judgement in its tracks.
She's a sinner?
So am I.
She falls short?
So do I.
It is the same love that redeems us both.

The inspiration comes back to me again and again in a million different ways.  Whether it's my mother, my children, myself.  Just love them.  Always err on the side of love.  Remember the love that saves you from all your fallen ways.  The love that you did nothing to earn; that you could never repay. 

I will hold fast to this truth and carry it with me always.  I will learn to love and pray that she will help me.  In life and in death she continues to teaches me the greatest lessons of love.

Thank you, Mom.