struggling but keeping the faith

Week 2 of “Finding Water” is underway. Morning pages have been done with enthusiasm every day. I am still considering options for my Artist Date this week, determined to let go of the worries and make the most of whatever the date may offer. The weekly walk is still a struggle for me as I just cannot seem to find the motivation to walk. With so many other options of things to entertain my rare free moments of time, walking just does not find its way to the top of my priority list. If anyone has any suggestions for motivation in this arena, please share!

My moods are still flying around as if a gust of wind has taken hold and their destiny is determined only by the speed and intensity of the moment. I took a much needed mental health day today, skipping class (a major thing in grad school) and spending a couple hours of leisure reading in the warmth of the Southern sun. The pup and I took a short ride about town with windows down and the warmth of an early Spring breeze lightening our moods. Then a late afternoon nap, the pup happy to snuggle with his mommy in the unexpected hours. And finally, the first softball game tonight, my first chance to watch my star slugger in his prime. The field is his home, the diamond his childhood best friend. I’d been waiting on this night, to watch him shine, to watch his face alight with pure happiness and passion, as he stands with bat in hand ready to hit his signature opening home run. Sitting in the stands with the other player’s girlfriends, we enjoyed a couple hours of watching our boys play, their enthusiasm for this sport infectious. We then shared a casual dinner and drinks with a new couple from New Jersey, ending the night with new friends and lots of laughter.

I still have a long week that lies before me and I pray that my current mood of rejuvenation will continue through each day. I’ve planned a few activities for the week in hopes of keeping my head above the waves. The yearly tradition of Tuesday’s girl night at my apartment. Watching American Idol and House, with lots of laughter, talking, and a bottle or two of wine thrown in for added pleasure. A therapy session Thursday morning that is way past due. The possibility of a comedy club outing on Thursday night and then an open weekend with options of more softball games or family time with my sissy and cousin.

It is hard to stay optimistic when I know the depression and anxieties can hit at any moment with no prior warning. Even during the leisure hours of today, I fought the moments of apathy, the moments begging me to return to bed and remain there for the rest of the week. I struggled with moments of restlessness, my mind spinning in relentless circles of random thoughts. But tonight I can sit here, reflecting back on my day and be grateful that the good moments won the battle against the bad. It is enough to leave me with a spirit of hope, an internal peace that welcomes sleep, and the reminder that faith can carry us further than we ever imagined.

beginning of transformations

Transformations are beginning to ever-so-slowly occur, though I am not sure where they intend to take me. The days, the moods, the moments…still back and forth, a bit all over the place. I’ve been doing my Morning Pages every day and I’m a bit surprised to find that I crave my time with these pages. Half the day, I am writing more than 3 pages in my head. So much to say, to write, to release. The only frustration is the limit of 3 pages. Today, this morning, there is much more than 3 pages worth of words going through my head. I need more space, more time. I’m craving it. My relationship with words reignited, pushing at the seams, begging to be freed. Let it all out, put it on the paper, embrace the flow of word after word, the inherent beauty in each word speaking to me, pleading for me to respond.

I did my Artist Date yesterday and am now left with very mixed feelings about the whole experience. It did not feel the way I imagined it would feel. In fact, it did not really feel like anything very special at all. Just another afternoon errand instead of a date with myself. I found myself frustrated and filled with too many thoughts and worries unrelated to my plans.

I had planned to go to my favorite discount art supply store in search of stationary. Not the typical ordinary kind of stationary for sale at Target, but more just good white paper for writing hand-written letters and fun envelopes to brighten the mailboxes. I was looking forward to wandering the aisles, admiring the paints (especially the super heavy acrylics I’ve been aching to try for the past year), allowing my hands to graze across large canvases, imagining what creations might come if I sat with a large white canvas and the super heavy acrylics before me. But that was the experience I was hoping to have, not the one I had.

Instead, I found that despite their vast selection of paints and canvas, pencils and sketchpads, they have a very small and disappointing half-aisle allotted to writing paper and envelopes. After much debate (as none of it was really what I was searching for), I ended up with some basic white paper and a few gray envelopes. Gray…seriously, the color I chose was gray! How boring could I possibly be? Gray! Nevertheless, I asked the cashier (a very artsy-appearing young woman) if she knew of anywhere with a better selection for writing materials. Perhaps I should have attempted to explain to her in greater detail what exactly I was hoping to find. But no, I did not explain and so upon her suggestion, I found myself at a store down the street filled with overpriced, cutesy packages of stationary, an array of colors so bright and repugnant (at the moment) that I felt as if I had entered a child’s candy store. It was not a pleasant experience (though not completely unpleasant) and I quickly left after a few good-hearted, yuppy, salesgirls showed me a wall of individual papers and envelopes appropriate only for sending out invitations to a formal wedding or parties thrown by the wealthy elitists of Buckhead.

All the while, unwanted thoughts clouded my date. Worry about my grandmother, once again enduring congestive heart failure. Worry about my mother, worried about her own mother and her dear neighbor/friend. Worry about the Stats mid-term that ended just prior to my lovely date, a test that no one in the class could have possibly passed (this determined after a group bitch-fest following the dreadful exam). Irritation that despite getting an offer to work with little children in the mountains for a year, I could not give a definitive acceptance until I can manage to track down a preoccupied member of the faculty at school and get the “ok”.

So, after a couple of disappointing and frustrating hours (that I had anticipated to be a welcome date of solitude and imagination), I ended my Artist Date at the drugstore, finally arriving home with basic white paper, boring gray envelopes, a case of Diet Coke, and two boxes of 75% off Valentine’s Day candy.

I’m laughing about it now, content with my chocolates and Diet Coke. The paper will suffice and the gray envelopes…well I’ll just have to use some brightly colored markers and do a bit of decorating.

The transformations are beginning, but that is what I need to remember. They are only just now beginning. One small step at a time. Attempting to find the good embedded in what appears not-so-good. Moments of optimism and a newfound determination. Even with boring gray envelopes, I guess my week isn’t half bad.

a morning in the mountains

I drove up into the mountains today. An interview for a practicum position beginning next Fall semester. Tiny house nestled among the mountains, foggy ridges of smoky blue rising on either side. Each room of the house filled with toys, the walls adorned in posters of bright colors, tiny children with tired mothers in the waiting room. A house of healers, all women, the friendliness of rural town-folk a welcome change from the chaos of the city. Life appeared to move slower there and my mind slowed with the movements of my body as I embraced the time of my morning, comfort and peace rolling over me with the damp fog dancing off the mountain’s edges.

I had intended to use the early afternoon for my Artist Date. My camera accompanied me but the fog did not lift, the rain as steady as the streams running alongside the base of the mountains. It is a place I hope to explore more in the future, with its famous apple orchards and hiking trails only miles from the house where I interviewed. Even the highways are small up there, fellow drivers happy to accompany the lost wanderings of a blonde “city girl”. And yet I know that my comfort and the peace I found this morning was simply because I am not, nor ever will be, a “city girl”.

The first question I was asked at my interview was “How was the drive up? We know it’s long and most people don’t realize how far we are from the city.” My response: “peaceful”, “beautiful”, “a welcome break of solitude”.

I will not know for several more days if this tiny house in the mountains, this house of women healers, will offer me a place to work among them. I do not know yet if those mountains will become my weekly solace, my haven, or simply remain as a dream of serenity for weekend escapes. As with so many things in life, I do not know what the future will bring for me. But I trust the future. I trust that God will lead me on the right path for my life. And I trust the beauty and mesmerism of those smoky blue mountains.

beginning the journey of "Finding Water"

This journey of “Finding Water” has begun at the perfect time for me. After weeks of rising above the sea’s swells momentarily only to be pulled back under by the currents of darkness, I am eager to search for a gentler and more fulfilling body of water.

I woke up yesterday and wrote my morning pages, this being a challenge in itself for me as I struggle in writing longhand. I am not fond of my penmanship and am now determined to find a flow and rhythm in the strokes of the pen, simultaneously relinquishing concerns about the visible appearance of the words as they reach the page. After all, this whole process is about growing more internally, finding the beauty in the external world, and using the integration of internal and external to nurture a creative spirit in hibernation. At least that is what this process is all about for me.

I had intended to do my morning pages today in the very early morning hours. With my alarm set for 5:30 a.m. and intentions to lend a helping hand down at the stables, I was looking forward to a brief time of writing in the dark solitude before dawn. I imagined myself awakening with the alarm, bundling in warm layers against the wintry air, and finding a sense of internal peace in the manual labor of cleaning stalls or moving hay or whatever task needed to be done. I visualized the beauty of the horses’ shining coats, the feel of strength beneath my hand as I rubbed cold noses and spoke softly to these giant, magnificent creatures. I had planned it all out with the best of intentions. But a night of insomnia and stomach pains left me exhausted and still awake at 4:30 this morning, my intentions buried beneath the warm comforter with me until noontime.

So today, I wrote my morning pages in the afternoon. Through the wide windows, I could see the horses out in the field, sun beams bouncing over their silken bodies. The dogs and puppies (all eight of them) were scattered about the front yard, some stretched out and sleeping in patches of sunlight, others tumbling in red earth. I watched as my own puppy walked alongside the wooden fence, a black stallion on the other side. I watched as they walked side by side on opposite sides of the wooden planks, and then as they stopped. I watched the stallion’s head bend down over the barrier, my puppy looking up at him, their faces nuzzled close together. An ineffable moment, impossible to describe its beauty and sweetness in words. As I wrote my morning (afternoon) pages, I watched the bonding rituals of these animals and I found the peace I had previously surrendered in favor of sleep.

This book, this program, and this weekend have stirred a whirlwind of thoughts within me. Determined to maintain this week’s focus on optimism, I allowed myself to embrace the possibilities today, dreaming dreams that I have quelled for too many years now. Allowing myself to imagine the potentials, pushing myself above the tumultuous waves and forcing myself to breathe. A deep, rich, breath of fresh air. Beyond the buoys into open waters, finding beauty in the moments and rejuvenated fragments of hope.

I will challenge myself this week. Beyond the familiarity and beyond the darkness. I am already planning my Artist Date, trying to decide between two options and thinking that perhaps I will allow myself to indulge in both. Motivating for my weekly walk will be more difficult, but I am committed and the walk will happen.

Unfortunately, the responsibilities of daily life still call and I will do what needs to be done. Tonight I will do a bit of work, transcribing, reading, studying. But I will also take a warm bubble bath and snuggle with my love and awaken tomorrow to a new day filled with possibilities and the optimism to continue this journey of “finding water”.

disappointment and a refusal to surrender

11:30 p.m. and the tears continue to sporadically fall. An unappreciated reminder that beginning a day with such an optimistic outlook does not guarantee that the smiles will last. Between spasms of physical pain, my body repeatedly coiling into the fetal position, I am overwhelmed with the stabbing aches of emotional pain as well. Disappointment looms the largest, threatening the glimpses of hope that I’ve struggled to find and hold tight to in these past few weeks.

For weeks now, my life has increasingly felt like a tumultuous ocean while I struggle to stay above water. Despite the successful progressions taking place in my academic and professional life, despite daily reminders of love from my puppy and boyfriend and family, despite the girl’s nights of laughter and bitch-fests…despite all the moments of intermittent joy, I still find myself battling the black hole of depression far too frequently these days. The tears fall too often, the anxiety welling like a brewing storm as I wait for the few minutes or hours when the storm passes and I can once again find the calm.

I’ve learned throughout the years that allowing myself to conceive of expectations is simply an invitation for disappointment. And yet I cannot stop the hopes from rising, the beliefs that perhaps this time my expectations will not only be met, but surpassed. But the results do not appear to change. Feelings of disappointment wash over me, leaving me flailing ever more desperately in this sea of self-torment. Patience wears thin in the presence of desperation, the fight to keep walking the journey an unbearable thought at times. Daily pep talks with my inner demons encourage me to take one more step, and then another, and then another. And so the pilgrimage continues. But my steps are heavy, feeling as if my body is literally dragging one foot and then the other, my feet never actually leaving the ground.

I find myself wandering back into isolation, seeking the comfort of elusive sleep and immersion into the literary world of other’s words and stories and images. I sit in the bath for hours, anticipating relaxation as I submerge my body with a pile of books nearby. And yet the water is never quite warm enough to bring comfort, my skin feeling raw and abrasive rather than soft and soothed when I finally emerge. I build fires in my beloved fireplace, imagining that the scent of burning wood and the crackling of flames sprouting from the logs will lull me into a place of inspiration. And yet instead, I find myself staring blankly into the fiery orange and yellow arrows tipped in an icy shade of blue heat. Lost in a burning pit, engulfed by the smoke, unable to find my usual moments of beauty sitting fireside.

No matter what I do, it seems that my expectations refuse to manifest in reality. And so I am left with the realization that I must abandon the expectations, and do my best to just live, just be, in the moment. But it is a battle of hope against disappointment, unable to find a balance of letting go of the expectations while still embracing the fragile threads of hope.

I hesitate to write these words, to send them out into the universe. I know that these moments will come and go, that “this too shall pass.” I have lived this cycle of moving in and out of the same black hole for many years now and it is a familiar place for me. Yet familiarity no longer brings comfort, and the ironic peace I was once able to find in the confines of darkness has long since left me. It is a path I used to know like the back of my hand, one on which I was happy to allow those around me to guide me, lifting the shadows and revealing the light for me. No longer is this the path I am willing to walk, now knowing that I cannot be rescued by another and the shadows can only be lifted in a state of independence. Yet it is hard to let go; it is difficult to feel alone on this path.

Fear stands before me and I am faced with a choice: fight this battle or surrender. I am not ready to surrender.

Valentine's Day...a reminder of love

I have never been the biggest fan of Valentine’s Day. Not that I have ever been that "anti-Valentine" girl, bitter and irritated by the outpouring of others’ romantic displays. But it just has never been much of an event for me. To me, it is just another day. One that gives us all a justified excuse to be sweet and mushy and smother our loved ones with hugs and kisses. But to me, it is not that different from any other day. I believe in being sweet and mushy whenever the mood strikes. I believe in smothering loved ones with hugs and kisses as often as I can. I believe in the romance of small, simple gestures of love and whispered words of adoration in the most unexpected moments. I believe that loving each other, and showing this love, and speaking this love is vital in daily life, not just on Valentine’s Day.

So for me, today is just another day, another opportunity to remind those around me of the love in my heart. A day that encourages us all to focus on the small, sweet gestures. The warmth of fingers brushing against a cheek, a gentle kiss on the forehead or nose or lips, a hug from behind. A simple poem taped to a bathroom mirror. A phone call in the middle of a busy morning. It is truly those small gestures that show the greatest love.

Not because it is Valentine's Day, but because it is a reminder...I want you all to know that I wish you love and happiness every day throughout the year. To my precious tribe of blogging sisters, I love you dearly. You are my constant inspiration, images of beauty and strength scattered about this world. To my loving parents (who continue to read my words and continue to encourage the expression of creativity and love in my daily life), you are my heros, a shining example of all that is good and true in this world. And to anyone who happens upon these words, my hope is that you all may know the incredible experience of love in this lifetime.

the passing of "Andy"

The time had come, though it was sooner than expected. He had lived several years, lost in the confines of his own mind, isolated from the world, from familiarity, from everything he had always known. It was harder for her, I believe. To watch his deterioration, to slowly see him fading, away from the world and away from her. But he still knew her; he could still feel her love, still recognize the connection of so many decades in her eyes. He still knew her until a day this past autumn when he failed to know anyone any longer.

Once he stopped knowing even her, his lost journey in this world expanded, deepened, became unmanageable for her in order to preserve his safety. With hesitation and a heart burdened by sadness, she found him care, a home where his lost wanderings could be redirected from a complete disappearance. A place where his body would be cared for as his mind continued to leave him stranded, alone in a place of confusion and helplessness. Even then, his gentle manner remained.

His condition continued to worsen, but it was a process doomed to be slow and lengthy and gradual. This slow and lengthy and gradual process was what she anticipated, what we all anticipated. Until this morning. When a phone call came. A call to say it was over, his wanderings had ceased, he was no longer lost in this world, but had crossed into another world where peace at last had been found.

Sunday Scribblings..."good-bye"

It was August, 2004. In a small town in rural Georgia, the air weighing heavily upon me with its signature heat and humidity, I found myself in the company of strangers. Strangers with the same last name as myself, a name I had mindlessly taken almost exactly one year before. A moving truck was parked in front of the brown, weathered building where we had once again tried to create a home. Piece by piece, the furniture was removed. The contents of a year’s collection carried out, I watched in silence with no energy left to argue or protest. By afternoon, the condo was nearly empty. There was nothing left to do, nothing left to say. It was a good-bye of fear, of hatred, of disappointment, and of relief. As I stood in an empty room upstairs, the blinds slightly parted, my eyes followed the moving truck as it ambled down the paved road. With caution and determination, it turned left, out of sight. And out of my life.

That was not the only good-bye I said that day. After a year of lies and manipulations, a year of fights and half-hearted reconciliations, the year had ended with threats and violence. Somewhere along the passing of that year, I lost my innocence, my faith, my trust. I lost hope that year and found myself on that heavy August afternoon struggling to determine if my life could be rebuilt in solitude. In an empty bedroom, I made a make-shift bed upon the floor, a pillow and a few blankets graciously left behind. With the blinds shut tight, I lay on that empty floor and the tears flowed as each good-bye washed over me again and again.

The first good-bye, on the first day of February. A good-bye filled with anger and exasperation, a good-bye that sent me fleeing over 300 miles away, necessitating other good-byes that I did not want to say. Then so many days of April and May, in a city far from home, sitting on the rooftop of the old Victorian house in which we lived, the good-byes I said to the world each day as I contemplated jumping to the busy street below. Countless good-byes in the early days of summer when the tears fell with abandon and my heart began to close itself with the realization that there was no piece left to give to this man. And then that fateful day in August, the final good-bye.

As the months and years have passed, I have let go of the anger and hatred embedded in that good-bye. The disappointment lies dormant, the fears still swelling periodically. The innocence can never be rebuilt; the trust still wavers in undulating shadows of a battle that lives on in the depths of my memory. But the faith has been restored, the hope rekindled. As time has passed, I have found peace in that final good-bye. And the realization that it is the moments of solitude that allowed me to rebuild my life and my dreams.

no reason for tears

The tears flowed freely tonight, long overdue emotions finally surfacing and releasing themselves into the bitter, wet, coldness of this night. I cannot really tell you what caused the tears or why they continued to relentlessly flow. What I can tell you is that I am now sitting here in a peaceful state of serenity, knowing that whatever the reason may have been, it was a night the tears needed to fall.

I used to believe that I had to have a reason for crying. That there had to be something wrong, something that I could identify, something I could offer as an explanation if anyone should happen to see the cascade on my stained cheeks. I used to believe that not knowing, not having a definable reason, meant that the tears should not be falling. And if they did decide to fall on their own accord, I felt guilt. A lack of validation, an embarrassment, a fear that I would be misunderstood or that something was indeed desperately wrong and I just could not bring it into awareness.

After several years of continuously pursuing my journey of self-growth and discovery and a few years of working with patients in the field of clinical psychology, I have come to realize that the tears often flow in the times that I can allow them to surface. They may flow from mere exhaustion, physical or emotional. They may flow from an overload of stress, too many obligations weighing down my fragile shoulders. They may flow from witnessing an incredible act of love or kindness or seeing the grief and loss on the faces of a family in mourning or hearing the words of inexplicable pain that have been endured by those who never deserved to feel such turmoil. The tears may fall from reading words that touch my heart, from seeing the beauty of a sunset when the rest of the world swirls in chaos. They may fall from my own physical pain or a wave of anxiety or a day when the depression threatens its spiraling return. Or they may fall from holding the pain of so many patients, from the knowledge that I cannot save each troubled soul or bring hope to every lost being.

Whatever the reason may be, my tears have an insight that I may never fully know. When they well within my eyes and my throat gets tight, as the first one begins its gentle descent, followed by another and another and sometimes the eventual downpour that leaves my eyes swollen, my head pounding, and my heart aching...when my tears fall, they do have reason, a reason of their own. As the years have passed and the experiences lived, I have come to accept these nights, knowing that after the last tear has fallen, I will once again be blanketed in a peaceful state of serenity.