Lessons carved in weathered oak.

I went to the mountains over the weekend.

I could write about all the "adventure" part; the creek crossing being uncrossable, smoking the clutch backing up the hill, guns being shot off in the middle of the wilderness, rental cars and crazy tow truck drivers. But that is all really distraction to what the whole trip was about, and it took me until today, three days after arriving home, to slow down enough to process it.

I went to the mountains to get back something that is exclusively mine.

Let me tell you the whole story.

In 2001, my ex-husband and I "lost" a baby. I have always hated that term, "lost", as if a child could be misplaced like keys or a jacket or a cell phone. No, my son died. He was a stillbirth. He was my heart. His name is Seth.

The summer after Seth died, my husband's best friend made a "marker" out of a beautiful piece of honey-colored oak, at my request. On it, engraved in the wood, are my son's name, "Seth Trinity", the words "..off to play with the wind and the moon...", and the date "8 February 2001". Earlier the same year, we had taken Seth's ashes (there was only about a tablespoon of them, he was very small) and mixed it with 2lbs 3oz of Carmel Beach sand (he weighed 2lbs 3oz) and were going to scatter the sand-ashes various places of our choosing, as we saw fit. One of the places was near a spring located on some family property. We decided to locate the carved-oak marker there.

If you know anything about wood in outdoor settings, you know that all things weather, and age, and crack, and stain, and need maintenance in order to be preserved. The same is true for Seth's marker. It had started to crack, dry out, turn a whitish gray color, had hosted a few bugs, and been gnawed on by a few larger critters. It needed some help. I knew that from the photos, since I had not been to the property since 2008, but my ex had. I asked to have the marker brought home so I could repair it, tend to it, seal it, whatever was needed to make it last in the mountains again. My request was at first ignored, and then outright denied. I was not to touch the marker, or see it, repair it, or move it in any way.

Then came this February. The decade point. And the email. I have already written about the cruel words used by my ex to deny me a request for remembrance of our son. Actually, the whole denial basically eliminated Seth as a person at all in my ex's eyes. It left me struggling and afraid and sad. Out of that though, came my overwhelming need to have everything back that is mine. That included Seth's marker, located on the property that used to be ours.

I went to the mountains this weekend, and I brought the marker home.

I learned a lot in the tears and sobs I had as I pulled the stake (that I did not attach, but my ex must have at some point in the last couple years) out of the rocks, and cleaned the marker of weeds and tree debris all around it. I learned a lot as I carried the marker (and the stake, attached in a way I could not remove) back to the car. I learned a lot as I let a friend help me.

In the tears I found that letting go is not a bad thing. I learned that I am stronger than I thought because I still have the ability to cry, and then walk away. I found that I could share a burden, and it does not make me any weaker for having accepted help. I found that I could be in a space that I used to love with all my heart, and still love it, while knowing that there are lots of other places and spaces to love, because I take the love with me. I own it. It is mine. I choose.

I went to the mountains this weekend.

I thought I would find an old piece of wood that needed a little love. What I found was my heart. Worn a bit, in need of some care, but intact. I can say thank you to Seth for having brought me this far. I can see him, letting my love embrace him even as walk down the road, smiling and saying "Go for it, Mom. Love you! You can do this. You don't need me any more. Give my love to Haysten and Mariah!" "I will son, thank you!".

I will make a decision about the marker soon. I think I might throw a party. On Carmel Beach. With a bonfire. I will invite you.

And fifteen minutes outside of Winter Park, CO, this happened.

I wrote as my status on Facebook today that if you have ever felt like a train wreck, I totally understand. Here is my perspective on the thing though, and how my vacation played out in me having to write this down.

A train wreck, everyone expects to be chaos and misery, fire and death. Having now survived one, literally having my train crash into a truck on the tracks on the way from Denver to Frasier, the majority of train wrecks are really more like the one I was in. It was a loud screech, a big bang, a forced stop that leaves you off balance and shaky, and then a whole lot of waiting that really just fucking pisses you off.

I realized, as I laughed with my kids once we knew no one was injured or killed, that this is life. One train crash after another, completely out of your control except for how you react. And the waiting, well, that is just the next thing too. It is the way it needs to be, a way to steady yourself again, so you can stand and breathe. It allows you to get completely angry during the wait, doing nothing but waiting, and then the cheer of relief as you actually start moving again.

In this scenario, life as a train wreck, I realized I have chosen to be the train. Maybe it chose me, but whatever. The train gets to stay on a track, head in a chosen direction, pick up speed or slow down as the circumstances warrant, hit the brakes when necessary, and has a really cool horn. It also is bigger and more bad-ass than some wimpy sedan that ran the gate and gets plowed down.

I am not saying that being able to run people over is a good thing, I am just saying that the train survives 99% of the time. Yes, it has to wait, and it's schedule gets all hosed in the process, but mostly, it just gets to wait the crash out, sometimes getting pissed off in the process, while others make some irrelevant decisions, and then gets to get back on track, so to speak. I like that about my decisions. I like that eventually, while waiting around in a huff, I will get to move on again. I will know the path as it was, right there waiting for me all along.

My counselor will probably say this is counter productive. Something along the lines of "Does everything in your life HAVE to be a train wreck?" I suppose not, but it is what I have. My life always at some sort of crossroads. Always making decisions. Sometimes the decisions are hard, and I fail. Sometimes they are about things that are scary. Sometimes they are just about being needy or lonely. But while standing on the crossroad, I don't always have to be the sedan getting smashed. Maybe, instead of being the person who cautiously looks around and makes sure everything is in just the right place before moving out across the tracks, I could just be the train, already knowing my path. Maybe I don't have to look back, or even forward, but the tracks will just open out before me, wide and strong and headed in the right direction.

Either way, it is at the top of my list, and I am not ignoring anymore train wrecks in my life. I am just picking to be on the tracks when the wait is over.

One sunny happy morning in late June...

This is my current gratitude list:

Kidlings who hog the covers in the morning, and simply refuse to get out of my bed unless I tickle them and hug them at the same time.

Purple mascara. Okay, it is really more of a smoky amethyst, but it sure looks pretty and brings out the green in my eyes.

Electric candles. I have a large one on my credenza at work, on a timer, that flickers just a bit and smells ever so slightly of vanilla.

My passport, stored in my fireproof box at home, waiting, patiently, for me to take it out and acquire another stamp. My kids have them, too.

Facebook friends who send me good karma, and drinks, and tattoos, and little smiley thingies. I don't actually keep any of the "stuff", but I love the friends.

Coffee, rich and warm. More than the coffee, I am grateful for Patrick (and Paul before him, and Brett before him) who made me stand up from my office chair and take a walk every morning. I actually like that more than the coffee, though don't tell them that.

Closet jewelry shoes (you know, the pretty but completely impractical type) that help me look good for the five minutes I can stand up in them. It also is a great thing to show my daughter that there are many sides to every woman, and to never forget it, even if it hangs out in the back of the closet under a bag of dry cleaning.

Lego's that hurt when I step on them, are scattered all over the house, and can cure every bad mood my son ever has. Lego's are magic for him. Not just the building, but the destroying and story telling and gathering and caretaking and love that every single block brings.

Movies on summer nights. Films in the Forest in Carmel; RedBox in my living room; Maya; Osio; free movies at the State. Yeah, movies.

Trains that will stop in a bunch of locations on the way to Denver. It is a 30 hour trip. We will go over the Rockies. We will eat in the dining car. We will read some silly books. We will sleep. We will have tons and tons of time to talk.

Craft shows on Saturday afternoons. I buy nothing, but talk to a dozen different artists about what inspires them and how their process and soul gets woven into something tangible. They listen as I tell them about writing. We each envy the other for the part of creativity we would like to have.

An organized garage that allows me to find everything I need to mess it up again.

Costco dogs, and friends to eat them with.

Cameras built into the phone. Yes, the pictures are grainy and not great on the focus, but wow, to get to have that moment RIGHT THEN, and then get to share it via another phone. The most recent was shopping in Florida, cars being test driven in San Francisco, a sunset in Maui, and suitcases being used as racecars in a driveway in Marina.

Blogs. Friends who read blogs. The words that come as I type the blog. Spell check.

Knowing I get to be grateful again tomorrow.

Everyday gifts

Father's day is on Sunday. My children will be with their father. That seems like the way it should be in the world of split families. I can't really argue with it, as I guess the "magic" of that day is important, in the Hallmark kind of way, but honestly, it doesn't matter.

My children and I have lived separate from their father for a little over two years. My own issues about the whys and whatfors of the end of our marriage are just that, my issues. I write about them here, and still find myself in wonder and grief over that relationship. I guess all of that will take time, and with patience not being one of my god-given virtues, I am struggling.

But this is not about me this time, at least not directly. It is about my kids, and how I see them, and what I want for them, and how Father's day is just another day in my book.

I think about how families are constructed, and what creates bonds. Is the card we will make tonight, and the lunch my children will share with their dad on Sunday, be what will ultimately decides how close my children feel to their male parental unit? Was that what bonded them before? Would the lack of that time make or break their future relationship? How about my relationship with them? Will I be either a "nice" mom or an "evil" mom based on when and how my children interact with their father? I certainly hope not. I can only give the opportunity for memories, not their interpretation.

For well over a year there has been a custody and visitation order in place. It sucks to have to think that I need one at all to be a mom, but that is the cards I got dealt. For the most part, the visitation goes smoothly. I know from my children that a weekend at dad's really means lots of TV and video games, chores imposed by their father's wife, and going to some church function or other that requires a special "nice clothes" wardrobe. It is what they get. It is the status quo of their relationship. I am good with that, because in all honestly, it is actually more than they got before the split.

So the Father's day thing to me is a little bit of a hoax. A cop-out for the dads everywhere on that one day, as if the relationship is all grand if the time is spent. How many coffee mugs filled with hammer-shaped chocolates, or burgers on the new BBQ does it take to get a dad's attention? At what point does the day just get you off the hook for not being there every day?

I miss my children when they are gone for the weekend. I have been told by other single moms that at some point I will start to revel in the freedom that two days, twice a month will bring me, but it hasn't happened so far. I love my children's company. I feel gone from them for way too long as I complete the necessary task of going to work. I feel connected and happy when they are just in their rooms, or out in the yard, or asleep. I love making sandwiches, and helping with homework, and playing with Lego's. I love explaining vocabulary, and eclipses, and farts. I love the sand in my car. I love the jackets on the floor. I love the crying and the whining. I love the fights. Yep, I love it all, in that completely daily way that makes me sure that our family is working just fine, thank you, and will continue to work just fine, thank you, even when they are sad that their dad is not there to see it. And that happens less and less the more everyday that becomes. Trust me that I am grateful.

And along comes Father's Day. I will be able to smile as I watch my children drive away in the morning. Not because I am happy they are gone. Not even because I know or care if they will have a good time with their father. I will smile because I know that the small amount of time they spend inside that "magic" Father's day brings is nothing compared to the magic my life is everyday with them in it. Their father does not know that. He never did, and I am sure he never will. So I can grant him that, since the gift I give him is that he has children who love him. I can be okay with it because it costs me nothing, and I get reminded of just how many things I get everyday.

That, and I am going to keep getting myself happy along the way. Happy father's day to my kids!

A single point of failure, or light...whichever

Trust is a subjective and fleeting sort of thing with me. I can remember having a conversation with Tobey one time. She asked me to trust her that she would not drop the 25 pound weight on my head (Tobey was my trainer), and I did almost drop the weight on my head when I told her that I didn't trust anyone, and it occurred to me, in that flash of a moment, that I meant it. I remember crying.

My counselor says I have trust issues, to which I said "yeah, ok, duh". And in counselor like fashion he said "And why is that?" I could not pinpoint it exactly as to why this is true except to say it always has been. Family of Origin is a great factor in everything I am learning. My parents controlled everything I did as a kid, from food to class to friends, and I did not have a voice. And when I did make mistakes, I was left to fail on my own without ever having a soft place to fall. A lot of "I-told-you-so"s and "see"s. Nobody seemed to have my back, ever, so I relied on myself. I would do the work, I would to the time, I would take the risks. A single point of failure. A single point of blame.

I have also realized with the lack of trust comes the lack of praise too. If no one is inside who knows how much responsibility I've taken on, there is no on there to give me a pat on the back. And the few times when kudos would have been nice along the way, there weren't any. That is not exactly fair, since there were a few, for the bigger things like home runs and talent show speeches, but the everyday stuff was lost. What I learned that way was that the only thing that deserved any kind of congratulations was the really big stuff. Daily praise was not warranted, and if you accomplished anything small (like a wonderfully written story, or a good grade on math test, or having a baby without pain meds), there was no recognition.

I know that sounds petty, in my own head at least, that wanting a little praise is important. Truth is, I don't feel like I deserve it. I mean, why would someone need to notice if the house was clean, or the diapers were changed, or I stood up for myself in an argument? Why would they notice that I worked for my paycheck, and never said no, and felt guilty if I went on vacation? Why would they notice if what they said hurt my feelings when obviously their needs always came first? Why would I care if I did without praise because it felt so normal not to have any?

So back to trust. Maybe relying on something that seems constant is how I do it. I am constant. Hmm? Yep, that is about it. Everything else changes, everything else moves out of my universe just about the time I start thinking it is a constant. With that comes all the uncertainly and need to stay as my only point of light. It is exhausting, and what goes by the wayside is that I forget to praise myself. Forget is not the right word, since I don't forget, I just don't know how. Praising yourself is like high-fiving air. Praising yourself is like taking a nap after 8 hours of sleep. Praising yourself is like putting on gloves when your hands are already covered with blood. I falls into the "what is the point?" category and I don't understand it. You would think it would be obvious, but no such luck.

Praise would mean I trust myself, and I can tell you right now that I don't. If I accept praise from myself it would feel like a lie, and with no one there to dispute it and tell me otherwise, what gauge do I have to say it is the truth? It even feels weird to write it, knowing that someone might read it, say something to me about it, and I will put up the wall that says "yeah, ok, duh". "And why is that?" If I don't let myself trust you, you can't hurt me, right? Double edged swords are really difficult to balance on.

Thursday is still Thursday, even if you can't read a calendar.

Today I am going to write about feeling a sense of freedom, at the same time being scared out of my mind. Old tapes, I know. Some of the tapes include feeling like I should not rock the boat, some that I should take the high road, some that I am just plain wrong. This tape falls into all three categories. I am also innately fearful that someone, anyone will show this blog to my ex and somehow the use of it will hurt me in the long run.

Oh well, here goes my truth.

My ex, in the delusional state that I think he now resides (somewhere near denial, not quite to psychotic) is rewriting our custody order in his head. He no longer knows the days of the week, or remembers, it seems, that we worked really hard last year, via co-parent counselors, court assessors, and attorneys (not to mention a whole bunch of money) to make sure that there was a visitation arrangement pretty close to written in stone. Yes, this might seem excessive, but it was for days and weeks just like this week that it was done. It has been a year in practice, and I am comfortable with it.

Then, out of nowhere, I am told that he wants me to "split" the Thursday and Friday after school gets out, and will be picking the kids up early on Thursday. HUH? This is news to me, since as far as I can tell, there is nothing to "split" about it. I have my kids on Thursday and Friday. I have them every Thursday and Friday that is not a holiday. I double checked my calendar, and sure enough, THIS Thursday and Friday are not holidays.

When I explained that exact point (via email, because strangely enough, my ex seems to still be pissed off at me enough to not actually talk to me, go figure) and even offered instead to do a trade day so I did not miss time with my kids, the response I got was for him to call our child care provider and rant at them, refusing to pay the balance due for the month, stating he did not want to pay for Thursday and Friday. Really? That was it? I expected something much more hideous for saying "no".

I am sure I expected more fireworks from me pointing out the obvious, all because of my own fears about rejections and making trouble. After all, in my head, I had spun saying no into a court hearing discussing the potential changing of the permanent schedule, and pointing out all the reasons why I do not qualify as a decent human being. Bullshit, yes, but the tapes in my head did it anyway.

I don't know what will happen at the exchange tonight. I have several old tapes playing in my head about it. I am trying to change that. I want to say something that might get me in trouble. I want to run and cry. I want to say something nasty just to provoke the fight. What I am going to do instead is see what happens and not say a word, hug my kids close and remind them about the movie tonight. If my ex says something about me being "unreasonable" (read that as bitch), I will smile and remind him of the court orders and my offer to trade days, and then I will go inside and leave it in his lap. I will be busy, having to make hot chocolate.

So freedom comes from feeling like I will not back down if confronted. The fear comes from remembering all the times I didn't. New truths require new tapes, I just don't have any expereince with them. I wonder which type will serve me best.

tick, tock, tick, tock

I am booked, solid, until 2018.

I have recently figured out that my style has always been to move fast, move on. I thought it was serving me well. I have had so many experiences in the "make a list" kinda way. Sky diving? Yep, done that. Chocolate covered ant petit fours? Yep. Sex with stranger? In a glass elevator? While wearing leather? Yes, yes, and yes. I have been to dozens of concerts, major league sporting events, plays, films, car shows. I have danced all night, watched the sunrise, and lived with the hangover. I never wanted to miss anything, so off I went to discover, plunder, and prove my way through.

What I didn't know, until this week honestly, was that I was moving through the "experiences" so fast that it was all a blur. A pretty watercolor picture in smudges and soft edges. Yes, I can tell the stories, but many of them are just that, stories. Almost like they happened to someone else, like a page in a diary I read and turned into my own. As I think about it, I probably use the same words when telling about something that happened, like a tour guide pointing to the attributes of a painting in a gallery.

So what I thought had served me well, had actually been a facade. So when I am on my deathbed, my bucket list can have a few stars next to it, but maybe it kept me from real feelings. If I kept moving at life so fast, I might miss engaging in the really good stuff, but I also don't have to feel any of the bad stuff. That didn't sound so bad at first, missing the pain. That's where I am at. Somewhere between wanting to run away, and needing to stay. It is no longer acceptable that to avoid feeling hard stuff, I don't get to feel the good stuff either. Garth Brooks wrote a song about this.

So what this has to do with time is this: I don't have any. My kids will be gone in the blink of an eye, and if I miss it I don't get it back. In relationships, maybe I have been so accommodating, and afraid to face the bad stuff, that I don't enjoy the good stuff. Maybe I am just blowing smoke up my ass and I don't have a clue. What I do know is that I did not take the time that was rightfully mine. I did not slow down to cry about the end of my first marriage. I did not slow down to see that my relationship with my parents, my mother in particular, was hurtful and damaging to my future relationships. I did not slow down to grieve the loss of my son. I did not slow down to enjoy the pregnancy with my daughter. I did not slow down to admit I was devastated when my husband had an affair. I did not slow down to find a safe place to fall. Ever.

Without slowing down, I think I might be missing something. Something important in the details. Something found only in small and quiet spaces. Something with texture and substance. Something in the softness of my son's smile, or the or wiggle of my daughter's toes. I want that. I want that more than anything. I want that bit of time to slow down so that I get the chance to feel the loveliness of my children's hands in mine, and have it not just be a story, but belong to my heart.

This scares the hell out of me, because it means I might have to see the ugly difficult parts too. The parts that say I feel unworthy. The parts that say shut-up. The parts that don't want to piss off anyone. The parts that have words like abuse and ridicule and addiction attached. The parts that feel lonely. I want it to stay in the pretty spinning colors, but can't. Feeling nothing won't get my children through with a healthy mom, or their mom in a loving relationship.

It is just a matter of time before it all comes crashing down. It is just time. Time. And maybe that is a good thing. I will let you know if I catch myself long enough for that conversation, a quiet space to get out of my own head and into my heart.

It really is just a matter of time. I need to buy some white-out for my calendar.