A Story in One Sentence

Note to self: Fill the bee hummingbird feeder at night next time.

The Best is Yet to Come

She's nobody's fool so I'm playing it as cool as can be

I'll give it a whirl but I ain't for no girl catching me, 

switch-e-rooney --Johnny Mercer, Satin Doll

Maybe I should have saved those leftover dreams
Funny but here's that rainy day
Here's that rainy day they told me about
And I laughed at the thought
That it might turn out this way
Where is that worn out wish that I threw aside
After it brought my love so near
Funny how love becomes a cold rainy day
Funny that rainy day is here

--Johnny Burke, Here's That Rainy Day

It was our last night in Utah. I had so needed the escape from what was a very emotional week: the 25h anniversary of my wedding and the first 4th of July in which I was no longer invited to participate in the celebration at my in-laws. The boys were with their dad at his family's lake house and so the girls and I made a trip to Utah to stay with Deborah and her family. It was exactly the distraction I needed. In-N-Out, mountains, trail runs, fresh air, In-N-Out, hiking, shopping, all sorts of entertaining moments; not to mention, incredible friends and hospitality, a beautiful home, views to die for, sunny days, cool evenings, did I mention In-N-Out? 

On our last night, they took us to a sushi dinner and we sat at a table right next to the jazz pianist, James. I was thrilled. Immediately, I snuck over to see if James could play me Satin Doll, pretty please. It was one of the songs my dad played when I was but a little girl, now a sentimental favorite. I could nearly hear my dad's voice singing along as James embellished a beautiful improvised arrangement. It was not long until the first glass of wine encouraged me to go chat with James again and see if he might play me another tune. I explained to him simply: I was suffering immense heartbreak and I would sincerely appreciate if he could play Here's That Rainy Day. And pretty soon, the old melody came sweetly singing toward our table. It was a beautiful evening. The best friends, conversation, incredible food, music, laughter, love and dare I say, hope? My heart was full. As we were taking a glance at the dessert menu, James called me back over. He said he wanted to sing me something and I needed to stay close to hear:

"Teach me how to love you," he crooned, as his fingers moved about the keys in the bluesiest of blues. He finished with a smile and, as I hugged him farewell, he said, "Don't you worry darlin', the best is yet to come, the best is yet to come baby."

                                                                        

They say the years you spend with your children growing up in your home are the best years of your life. You don't realize it of course until much later because you are too overwhelmed and exhausted and don't have time to pause for half a millisecond and then you blink and they are grown and gone and what's left? A bunch of achy joints, injuries of unknown origins, and blurry memories...."I laughed at the thought that it might turn out this way".... 

And hopefully, the next stage also comes with a sense of contentment and satisfaction with a job mostly well done as we watch our now fully functional adult children launch into the world on their own.....sigh. 

I would not give those earlier years back for anything, not one darn thing. I loved being with my kids, doing all the things. But, I will admit, I hope James is right. I hope the best is yet to come. I don't see how yet but if he is right, this next chapter is going to be downright amazing. And even if it can't quite top the fun, chaotic bustling and overwhelming yet deeply purposeful and joyful years of having all my offspring near and prancing about, it's always a good day to be happy; a great day to have a great day; and perhaps enough of that personal mantra will lead me to at least the second to best "best years" of my life: forged with intention, overflowing with authenticity, leaning into laughter, and surrounded by love, light and a wee bit of harmony. Switch-e-rooney....

(And so is In-N-Out)

(A sincere thank you to Deborah and her family for hosting such a wonderful week! You're the best!!!)

The House

One of the big decisions to be made in the middle of unentangling spouses is who gets the house. I'll save you the train-wreck of ruminating thoughts, how many times I have gone back and forth about keeping the house, the decade of history latched on to it like a barnacle, and the fears around letting it go, but, essentially, I staked my claim early, and ever since, I have found myself wandering from room to room, trying to envision what I might want it to look like if it is solely mine (well, mine and the kids... and the animals...and the stuff....and the memories and....) The tough part is this: I have never truly loved the house. Not to sound spoiled, but I actually don't think any of us have really loved the actual house. While it is certainly more than big enough, and quite nice, the compartmentalized floor plan, the 20 year old colors, even the furnishings and ornamental details, make it feel stuffy and cold. It has never felt comfy, cozy or warm. There is nothing airy and open and free about it. It has actually been the antithesis of how I want my home to feel. But the property....oh, the land, the beauty....it is incredible. The grass, the rolling field, the view, the space. 

 

It is almost as lovely as living on an ocean or lake. (This is a distant almost.) And it is where my kids have mostly grown up and where they keep coming back to when they come home. So, I am slowly working on making this house a home that feels safe and nurturing and authentic to our new family unit; one that surrounds us with love and acceptance and peace; a place where everyone feels valued and knows their worth; a space that feels like a big hug from an adoring mom....where they will all come back to again and again. 

And apparently the process is going to require a boat load of paint. And as you know, I have a love-hate relationship with paint....and because of that, a first name basis with the guys at Sherwin Williams. 

So, one of the first projects I worked on in the initial days without kids in the house was the entryway. I needed to create the feeling I wanted in a reasonable space that wouldn't cost too much (money, anxiety or otherwise). Originally, I was hoping for a modern farmhouse vibe (at least on the inside) but somehow as the project ran its course, it ended up quite beachy.....apparently, you can take the girl away from the beach but you can't take the beach away from the girl....

Deborah's interior designer friend suggested I look at the color Argos. On a 2" tile, it looked nothing like what I wanted and so I bought 13 sample sizes of paint before giving Argos a whirl and realized, oh, she really does know what she is talking about. (Which you would think I would have remembered  from last time....maybe I am just a little slow.) Here is the end result:

And with that came the bug to start the next project: getting rid of the split pea soup green booger color in the kitchen. And as anyone with any experience whatsoever will tell you, once you start down this path, it is nearly impossible to come back. I asked Deborah's friend once again for more color ideas and this time, I went to pick up those two colors......and 10 more, because, what if she is wrong THIS TIME??? (Also, they have started to give me a contractor's discount.)  Sure enough, the first color up had a little too much yellow (although it maybe just needed 8 coats to cover up the pea green) and so I started painting different color splotches all over the kitchen. My new goal was not to get it just right the first time (that's WAY too much pressure!) but to just get an acceptable fresh slate painted to see where to go next on the project. Eventually, I ended up choosing the second color she suggested (because, well, she is better at this than I am, clearly!) 

And with that, the painter got going and the more he painted, the more I requested until, instead of just doing one side of the space, he had done three. (And I am still kicking myself for not just finishing the last wall but there's more to that one, like two stories more.) 

And then we celebrated Lily's 19th birthday, complete with a cake she made herself and freshly painted walls (see behind her). 

And after all that, Deborah had to go out of town and suggested maybe waiting a little while before we started a new project.....but all that extra paint was beckoning us and so, I gave the girls freedom to do whatever they wanted on one wall (which became the entire room) and the girls mixed and matched and got creative and now we have a  hang out space with so much character and light I smile every time I enter. (Just don't look too closely to the details as we learned our painting skills by watching Mr. Miyagi teach Daniel in Karate Kid....)

Before getting rid of all the red

It's like taking in a big breath of freedom and exhaling nothing but love and light and a little laughter. 

And it is also a gigantic reminder: We can do this.

Great Awakenings

Great Awakening: a religious revival in the British American colonies mainly between about 1720 and the 1740s..... The Great Awakening represented a reaction against the increasing secularization of society and against the corporate and materialistic nature of the principal churches of American society. -Britannica

If you are keeping up (with the whopping one post that I have written in the last three years), the sudden change in life story has made quite an impact, to say the least. Going from partnered to suddenly soon-to-be single has left countless pieces to pick up; lessons to learn, things to figure out. (Why is rethreading a weed whacker basically rocket science????) Apparently, I had been partially asleep, living on autopilot, and then suddenly the plane dropped several thousand feet, turning stomachs, throwing unsuspecting passengers about, scaring the bejeezus out of everyone so that going forward, even the slightest bump was now served alongside a platter of anxiety and panic. Enter "medication as needed" and a whole team of experts to help with the transition. Welcome to the current Great Awakening: a religious revival born of heartache, grief and an overdose of insecurity and uncertainty. Thank you, Life.

After my brother died back in 2021, I was counseled that you should not make any major life decisions the first year after a major loss. And so, I have tried to keep that in mind while my team of experts, who clearly did NOT get that memo, are asking me to make EVERY MAJOR (and not so major) life decision as if I had ever had to actually decide on anything important since becoming a Mrs. (I might plow down the barn if anyone asks me again where I see myself in 10 years....please people, I am focused on making it through the week here, 5-, 10- and 20- year plans are gonna have to wait.) It isn't that I have never made a decision or anything. It's just that for the past 25 years, there has been another voice, another opinion, a higher ranking alpha who knew decisively what they wanted and so that is what we typically did. (Family what color shutters should we get for the house? White you say? Green it is.) Decisions were easy. A question would be posed, I'd go round and round in my head until I could think no longer, and more often than not realize the simple answer was: I don't care as much as you do, so do what will make you happy. Sure, I would weigh in here or there on things that seemed to matter more (which often lead to some tense moments) but really, life is so fleeting and temporary that many things just didn't seem that important to me. 

Now I am learning I was wrong: IT IS ALL TREMENDOUSLY AND UTTERLY IMPORTANT...EVERY LAST THING! (At least, that is what my primitive brain is telling me when faced with the decisions lurking around every corner...don't worry, I have a different "team" of experts to help me sort through the intrusive, panicky feelings that come from living in survival mode.) 

All I know is that I can no longer live on autopilot. Don't get me wrong, there are days I still unintentionally try to, because inside the body of this 40-something year old woman is a young child who just wants to run and play and create and do her own thing and not think about actions and inactions and reactions and all of the adulting things. 

But then, as the child inside is going about her skipping and singing and merry-making, I am rudely brought to the present in random moments like at the luncheon I attended last week: You see, I was invited to go to an awards luncheon to support one of our high school athletes. In the buffet line, I grabbed a salad, added some balsamic vinaigrette dressing to it and sat down to eat like a normal human being. (So I thought.) As I was enjoying both the conversation and my salad, somewhere between fork, plate and mouth, a drop of the vinaigrette dressing decided to add some excitement to the day by launching itself off the springboard of my utensil and cannonballing directly onto my eyeball which instantly caught on fire, awakening every. cell. in. my. body. Immediately, that eyelid sealed shut, but seeing (poorly) that no one around me had noticed my horrific plight, I quietly stood up, head down, hand inconspicuously over half my face, and made my way into the bathroom where about four women (or maybe two but I was now seeing double through the liquid gushing from my eyes) were clearly just waiting to laugh "with" me. By this time, the tears were rolling down my face and the unsuspecting women were horribly concerned with my apparent emotional turmoil. After explaining my situation, they suggested that "maybe I should wash it out with some water" (yes, I would have rolled my eyes too had I been able) and I went to work flushing out the inferno and stopping the unfortunate, teary-eyed, snotty-nosed chain reaction. Insert my revival....maybe not so religious but it was certainly a revival of sorts.  

Eventually, I made my way back to the table, where the conversation was still going and the eating had come to a halt. Disaster averted. 

There are awakenings and then there are Great Awakenings. Most of life flounders around in between. And ever so often, we experience revival. I'm just hoping that the next one comes sans vinegar. 

The Day the Blues Broke Me (almost)

 

THEOLOGY IS THE STUDY OF GOD and God's ways. For all we know, dung beetles may study us and our ways and call it humanology. If so, we would probably be more touched and amused than irritated. One hopes that God feels likewise. -Fredrick Buechner, from his book Wishful Thinking For I am convinced that neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither the present nor the future, nor any powers, neither height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus our Lord. Romans 8:38-39 Don't freak out. It's just paint..... Blues are hard.  -Deborah                                                                             ***

For many humans, when crisis rears its ugly head, there is this sudden pause, like the screeching halt of a trainwreck occurring in both real time and slow motion; we are forced to make a sudden, often unexpected, soul-searching stop and reevaluate everything we know, or thought we knew, to be true. The moment can be subtle, or catastrophic, gradual or sudden, often both, but when it occurs, there is a pause.  

And this is where a new chapter begins. 

And like a dung beetle, studying human behavior, we wade through the excrement, the wreckage and chaos, looking for answers. Eventually though, we have to make a choice on how to respond, on how to show up, and maybe fight for our lives to remain whole and unbroken.....or at least, strong enough to carefully pick up all the shattered pieces, or perhaps only the most essential ones, and create something new and extraordinary. 

Friends, life has derailed a little over here. (Forgive me for my understatement.) We have found ourselves at this new juncture and as I stand at the crossroads and look, I have had to pause. To gather my wits. To breathe. 

To be sure, our marriage will go down as one of my life's greatest blessings. I have been so blessed with being able to give 25 years of my life to a man who has been an amazing provider and has loved his family immensely. His hard work has not gone unnoticed. The five incredible humans we have brought into this world are my life's most remarkable gifts and I am forever grateful for the opportunity to be their mom. The joy I feel inside, even in the midst of so much heartache, is indescribable. 

At the same time, these last six months have been harder than any I have ever faced. The turmoil of grief I cannot even begin to describe, the slow and then sudden loss of a 25 year blessing, has been a game changer (hey sometimes game changers don't change the game how we had hoped!) The new insecurities, fears, unknowns....they pop up everywhere. Like a horrible carnival game, me bopping one down and the next four appearing....The many nights of weeping, the darkness creeping through my very soul, the sorrow, anger, (insert every emotion ever felt here) as I cannot breathe, cannot fathom how this is right, or how it is even a part of the plan.... I have been brought to my knees, no words to utter, no solutions, no answers. Just the pause of unspoken prayers, tears shed, words I have yet to find. And I have recognized in those standstill moments, how important to me are the stories from our shared history. I didn't realize as I wrote post after post in this blog, how essential these memories would be for my very survival. I do not believe in clinging to the past, but it can be life affirming, saving really, to know and remember where you came from, where you have been, who you are and hopefully, it helps to one day point me and my family in a new, life sustaining direction. 

For none of this can separate us from the love of God and in God, all of this will be used for good one day. I have to believe that.... even if it feels like total nonsense presently.  

                                                                            ****

So, how does the second novel of the series begin? The one where we throw off our old selves and create something new? 

I believe this is where I would insert a wide-eyed emoji face and say, for the love of God, where does one even begin? Where is the proper emoji for having only had to learn half of the adulting for a quarter of a century and now being thrown into uncharted waters so deep you go into panic over the depths of the unknown lurking beneath and around you....not knowing what you don't know or even what you need to know that you don't know, is a horrifying moment in time. Where is the emoji for THAT, Siri??? Sheesh, she is so limited sometimes. 

For me, I think it begins with the blues. You see, when faced with extremes, we often look to something we can control, to hold onto and just do. So, what's the first thing anyone seeks to do when faced with life-altering circumstances? Bedroom makeovers, right? Hello? Anyone? So, I wanted to update Solomon's bedroom to be new and fresh and teenager-ish. And because our original bathroom remodel we had discussed prior to Christmas had to take a pause, we decided to throw on some new paint and potentially get some new carpet and, one day, furniture so that he has a space all his own. Of course, all 14 year old Solly cared about was that the room was blue. So, Lily and I looked through paint colors and we picked out what seemed like perfectly good blues. Now, I have very little experience with paint color and for those of you who DO have experience, I am sure you know where this is headed because just because something looks great on a one inch square, does NOT mean it will look anything remotely close to that on an entire wall. It's like looking at color through a distorted lens....as if it were in one of those "fun" houses where everything is too big, or small or squished or....I might has well have picked the color by allowing our dog to pull a number out of a hat. 

The day the painters threw on two layers, I was sick and emotional and finishing my monthly reminder that yes, I am still in fact most likely ovulating each month, (at least my body thinks so) and it was grey outside and freezing inside and the cold meds weren't even close to touching the symptoms: The perfect storm. I went upstairs on their break and my heart sank. Uncontrollable tears ran. Deborah was called in as this required reinforcements that a box of kleenex simply couldn't provide. Thank God for best friends who live next door and can drop everything to come over, tell you kindly but frankly not to freak out...and reassure you it is only paint and can be redone and does not mean you are going to suck at every decision you will ever make for all of eternity! (Way to catastrophize the moment, Karen!)

As I sat there, the incredibly kind painter frantically searching through the color wheel while also reminding me he doesn't usual help pick out the colors, my friend counseling me back to calm, the world crashing in, I felt like these blues, the decisions, the weight of everything, was breaking me. I told the painter to just finish what we had started. And I was thankful. Thankful for my friend, for the tools I have that remind me to breathe through the emotions, for that one rational brain cell that assured me it was actually ok to make mistakes (you know, that thing I coach over and over again), it could be fixed, it was only paint after all. 

I was even more thankful when, on second thought, I decided I needed to scratch the entire color scheme and have him restart the next day with new colors, and my friend called in backup and we spent an evening on the phone with an excellent teacher (interior designer) learning how paint colors actually work, how light changes them, and basically why the average person struggles to pick the "just right color" the first time. With new found confidence, we chose the right colors, and lived to see another day. 

"The blues are hard," Deborah reassured me. And isn't that the truth? The blues are hard. But, they will not break me. Bend me a little more than I might like? Yes. But break? No. 

****

In Jeremiah 6:16, we are told to "Stand at the crossroads and look; ask for ancient paths, ask where the good way is, and walk in it, and you will find rest for your souls." 

I am learning to ask for help. I am learning to seek out the "good way" and trusting that as I walk that path, I will find rest for my tattered soul. And somewhere in that rest, there is hope and there is peace. And this is where the story begins again. 

Wesley

 "Jesus, Tender shepherd Hear me, Bless this little child tonight. Through the darkness, be down near me, keep me safe 'til morning's light...."

"God bless: Mommy and Daddy, Andrew and Wesley, Eileen and Karen, all my friends and loved ones, help me be a good little girl, praise in Jesus's name, Amen."

***

I don't know how old I was when I memorized this prayer. I don't know when my mom spoke it to me first, but I don't recall ever going to bed during my childhood without it prayed over me and with me. As I got older, I learned it was a family prayer because when saying bedtime prayers with my cousin on one of our many sleepovers, she held the same prayer in her little heart as well. And she shared how she added to it, to make it more inclusive of everyone she loved, which I immediately copied because I, too, wanted to pray for everyone I loved. 

As I had kids of my own, the prayer changed to speak over my children as part of their bedtime ritual. While I don't know if my older kids still say it, I hope that one day, when words fail them, when they don't know what else to pray, that they have it to fall back on as I did this last year. 

It has been a full year since my oldest brother, Wes, passed away. He was 49. I had just dropped my first born off at college and was a week in to a new coaching job at one of the most competitive high schools in our area when he passed unexpectedly. It was crushing. Actually, when I stop and let myself feel it, it still crushes me. In that first few weeks, I had no words to describe the grief, no words that I could think to pray, except for the childhood prayer I started my prayer time with every night before bed. Night after night, I prayed the familiar prayer and just ended with 'please hold us' as I quietly wept. It's all I had. 

These last few years, the passing of so many loved ones, Andrew (14), Elliana (9), my dear friend Mary, and now my own brother, topped off with a pandemic and other personal struggles, has been rough. But as my big brother, a staple of my life, Wes's departure was so deeply shocking. I was not ready for the decisions that come with closing out someone's life. It was a level of adulting so unfamiliar, I found myself googling things such as: 'where to buy custom sports urns' and 'the first 10 things to do when someone dies'. Thank God for the internet. Whoever you are who put together such thorough lists to help guide others on a path that no one wants to have to take, thank you. Truly.

And, "through the darkness, be down near me," we got through it.

***

I knew the anniversary of Wes's death was coming. I had filled the schedule with distractions that err on the side of insanity ("You need me to host 43 teenage girls for a High School Soccer Team sleep over? I'm in!") and had done an inventory of my life and started purging the unnecessary junk, with a special emphasis on the "started" part because holy smokes, Batman! We have collected a lot of junk! There were a few choice words as I sifted through our stuff, a few terse things said to a couple less than excited kids....(sorry you guys!)...and a few moments that stopped me in my tracks as something would trigger a memory that I had not anticipated. (That tiger blanket that Wes used to throw over himself for us to try to fight him....that stuffed animal he gave me when I was like 8....the pictures....heart tugging reminders....)

My sister and brother and I had ordered flowers to send home, planned a zoom call, readied ourselves. I even bought a new watch for myself as if that would settle things up....Wes had a thing for watches after all... Yet, I was not prepared for the onslaught of emotions, the reminders, the sudden need to escape, the tears. Someone once said that grieving is like the ocean.....you will feel big waves of feelings that rush over you and over time, the waves get farther and farther apart. I had assumed, in my arrogance, that I was done with the waves. My grief surfing, as with the longboarding of my youth, was over. I had no more big feelings, just a little hole in my heart that I had learned to live with by pushing to the side and filling my time with everything but hard emotions. Insert face smack emoji here. Where is that surfboard to cling to?

"Keep me safe 'till morning's light...."

***

Today, all is quiet. We made it through. The sleepover, the zoom call, the flowers, the kind gestures of friends who quietly remembered. The waves. And, now I know how big and wide that ocean truly is. Wes loved the ocean. He loved to surf. And he loved his family deeply. He did not always know how to express that but there was never a doubt. It is unreal to me that it has been a year. But here we are. We are left with a silence we were not prepared for, an abyss that extends far beyond the absence of a birthday text this year from the guy who was always first to remember. We are left with the recognition of how important it is to love each other wildly and fiercely while we are able. And the waves ARE farther apart but the ocean, well, it is still so very wide and deep.

Rest in peace big brother. I miss you. 

God bless....and thank you for existing in the first place. Amen.

 

Don't Get Stuck on the Cookie: Part 2

Last April, I wrote part one of this post. In a fashion completely authentic to myself, I don't actually think I had anything planned for part two. I assumed it would come to me, like they all do, in fits and starts and then a sudden burst of inspiration that allowed it all to flow. Instead, I just got busy. 

At any rate, I reread that post this morning and thought, ya know, I could have just stopped there. It pretty much said it all I think. Except, that little voice in my soul keeps hounding me to write again. I just process life better when I can get it into words to share. And wow, is there a lot to process!

A week ago, I had just fallen asleep when I heard a maternal voice, loud and clear, speak to me: 

"Karen, pay more attention to the details." 

I startled awake, sat straight up in bed looking around to see who had been talking. It was pitch black, other than the sliver of moonlight coming in through the shadeless picture window. The house was silent, still, no one was there, yet, where did that voice come from? It was a motherly voice, not familiar to me yet I knew it was one of tough love and gentleness, wisdom and, wait, was that also a little smirk in her voice? Can midnight voices smirk?

I spent the next hour thinking through what details I had missed that day, that week, the last year or two (and let's be honest, it was the middle of the night, I probably wrestled with my entire adulthood). Was I lost in the clouds? Am I the one person who actually overlooks the trees for the forest? Who the heck is this faceless voice to assume I don't pay attention to details anyway?!

Call it my brain screwing with me, a whispering reminder from God, some struggle buried deep in my subconscious, (maybe the wine?) I don't know, but it stuck with me well into the next day and week. What are the details I am overlooking? Have I gone so far the other way that I NEED to get stuck on a cookie or two? My blinders are strong....I can look past a whole lot to stay grounded and sane in the chaotic life that I have created. Is there self-care in that or is it an excuse to let too much go? Am I too hard on myself or have I been too easy? Can it be both? 

And then I realized that this is the juxtaposed life we lead. We have to balance the letting go with the holding on. We have to remind ourselves to go ahead and have that cookie, don't get stuck on it, but know there is a point at which our tummies may ache. We need to pay attention to the trees while also keep a wider view of the forest. Be careful, we tell our children. Stay safe. But.....in order to grow, you have to take risks, be uncomfortable, maybe even throw a little caution to the wind a time or two and yes, make mistakes, sometimes BIG ones. But don't get stuck there either! 

Yin and Yang. 

Marlin and Dory

Tigger and Eeyore

Pooh and Piglet and wait, Owl and (how many characters does it take to define the human condition?)

Paradox is ultimately why black and white thinking and living doesn't work in reality. Life is a whole lot of carefully yet impetuously constructed contradiction with a side of confusion and if you are lucky, an occasion dollop of clarity. We can choose to fight it, or roll with it, sometimes both, all at once. We can choose which cookie to eat, which ones to stay clear of, see the trees individually and collectively, or hell, leave the forest and find ourselves staring out across the ocean, or desert or heck, just go off the grid and find yourself in a space of your own creation. 

So, yeah, don't get stuck on the cookie, and also, maybe catch a few details along the way and while we are at it, throw in a wild splash of color because we only get this one chance to create something beautiful. 

Hugs!