Alice, for a time

 Below is an introduction of sorts, and past it a poem I wrote almost 10 years ago.

There once was a girl who came to the world and knew immediately that it was good. She basked in the fresh morning sunlight, marveling at the world's undeniable brilliance. Its richness professed wisdom, its beauty implied safety and the promise of knowledge and experience beckoned her with an unceasing intensity. She trusted this world instantly... and implicitly. 
Intuitively understanding that she'd never have enough time to know and love it as fully as she yearned, she got busy devouring all there was to see, hear, feel and do with a heated hunger that lit her with purpose.

Soon she discovered that there were rules for how to love this good world and those rules were somehow already inside of her. She listened to them, learned from them, and love love loved. She gifted the world with insatiable adoration and in return, it proffered a mirrored abundance - beauty, richness, and so much love. Theirs was a charming little romance.

But. The world held secrets from the girl about parts of itself, slipping only glimpses of a depth beneath the surface.  Instead, it painted her view the loveliest shades to distract her from the shadows; cloaking itself in color, hoping she'd never seek the darkness - hoping to satisfy this girl it loved so dearly. Unsurprisingly, the more her curiosity was thwarted, the more she thirsted to explore. She had promised herself and this marvelous world that she wouldn't squander a single moment of their time together. She was certain that she must know it fully in order to love it fully.

She implored those near to reveal these hidden places but, having spent their lives indoors, they were afraid of the dirt. "No need for discovery in fresh air - we have a fine view through the glass." They held out clean palms. "See? No need to touch the earth, embrace or understand it. That urge is a dangerous one." They forced her head towards their windows. "Look but don't touch, suppress, repress...  In this there is safety and peace." 
She tried... but their rules contradicted the ones inside of her. As her love for the world won out, she began asking for aid from strangers. "Take my hand, lead me to the places I know nothing of; the places I've never been," she'd beg.  "Show me the shadows, the darkness, the hidden, the deep, so that I can love the world in it's entirety." She believed every inch of it was worthy of such love. Every inch.

Alice, For A Time
By Lauren Horsley


When the world behind the glass
Began to blur into surreal
He ran by - I up and  followed
Urgency implied appeal

In a flash of white and watches
He enticed me Down
                           Down
                              Down
Promised worlds of vibrant color
So alive I'd nearly drown

Letting go, I danced and laughed
Allowing rules to twist and spin
Then I wandered through the forest
On the hunt for him again

Once I stopped to ask directions
They could see I had no one
Took my hand in taunt and twirling
Round in circles, had their fun

Flowers sang and men smoked hookas
Flashy teatime tables set
Madness seemed to be so freeing
For these friends I'd never met

But I could not truly join them
He refused to leave my mind
Faster, faster through the mazes
Never knowing I would find

That this chase can have no ending
When a man has disappeared
In the heart of the White Rabbit
Soon it ended as I'd feared

I returned to sane and safety
Barely dented from the ride
Left him in that haze of horror

One week later, my friend died.

Walking Through Spider Webs

I've been feeling a shift for some time now. An unburdening, an awakening. A slow boiling inertia I can no longer deny.
It's time to walk through spiders webs.

Does the thought produce the same visceral reaction in you that it does me? It's one of those experiences that is hella funny to witness from a few feet away and sheer terror to be in the center of. As I type this, my body twitches involuntarily at the thought of wispy invisible strings of sticky spiderness weaving themselves into my hair, across my face, down my shirt... and where the hell is the owner of said wisps? in my hair? across my face? down my shirt?

But from the perceived safety of a few feet away, the panicked dance of another person experiencing this attack is pure hilarity. How do a few thin threads and a tiny arachnid spawn such physical fear? When we pause to think about it... what really happens to you when you walk through a spider web?  I mean, really?

Chris Hadfield was an astronaut who went blind while floating in space, yet never felt fear. Why? Because he had already spent years in training with NASA, practicing, practicing, practicing for every possible scenario, including this one. He knew how to simply take a deep breath and proceed without his sight. He was prepared to calmly handle what might seem like a truly scary scenario because he had done "seemingly" scary things every day for so long that he knew he had nothing to fear.

Like walking through spider webs, he says. When you really, really think about it, the probability that an actual spider will be on the web, that said spider will get on you, that said spider will bite you and that said bite will be poisonous... is practically nil. And yet, most of us (me included) panic when that sparkling net enfolds our faces for even a moment. But consider that experience if you walked through a spider web every day. 

What if we were constantly doing things that scared us? What if we dared to let people see who we really are or were honest when we thought it might cost us love or acceptance? What if we went after the life we truly wanted with passion and unflinching determination? What if we failed and had to pick ourselves up and try again.. and again... and again?

What if, instead, we practiced walking through spiders webs - doing the scary things until they lose their ability to immobilize us - and reserved our fear for the life unlived, the loves unloved, the truths untold? 

7 Life Lessons from the ER

I quit my job in September.  It was a hard job, an exhausting job; a rewarding, life-altering job.  And a job I am very proud to say I performed with diligence and love.  I gave greatly and received far more in return.

For two years I worked as a Patient Registrar for the Emergency Department of 5 hospitals in the Salt Lake Valley (with the amazing health care group, IHC).  These hospitals range widely in genre - one is specialized to receive the most dire patients, another a quiet neighborhood facility.  One cares only for children, another serves as an urban refuge for society's most damaged.  Working in each of these hospitals showed me suffering and healing, beauty and courage in some of the most unlikely places, and I walked away indelibly changed.  Here's what I learned during my time in the ER...

1 - "Healthy" is a relative term.  I've kissed my babies' feverish foreheads just moments before grabbing my ID badge and running out the door, all the way pitying my miserable little ones and their tired mama as I drive the deserted streets of 1am.  I've lamented aloud the flood of maladies we've encountered over the years: appendectomy, tonsillectomy, pneumonia, shattered elbow, anaphylactic shock, PIC lines, osteomyelitis, viral meningitis -  each deluge of pain rocking our boat, soaking us to the skin. But it only takes a quick skim through the halls of the children's hospital ER to send a tidal wave of perspective my way, washing me ashore to weep with gratitude for dry land.  I've come to view passing illness and injury very differently because I've seen those who never get to heal. 

GI tubes, oxygen tanks, chemo, missing limbs, severe burns - these are the true medical tsunamis. Sniffles or no, "healthy" means we possess bodies that can readily fight off infection - bodies that can heal.  "Healthy" means no long-term damage.  "Healthy" means we are gifted every day with the ability to walk out those hospital doors when others can't.

2 - Be grateful for the wait.  Ok, I know that sounds weird and I promise you, the ER does not want you waiting any more than necessary.  Imagine the ER as the great equalizer - everyone is treated exactly the same regardless of race, religion, insurance, gender, age, weight, wealth, etc.  The only thing the ER cares about is acuity, meaning how dangerous and intense your symptoms are.  It sucks to sit in a waiting room when you feel like crap, believe me I know, but because the Emergency Room is the EMERGENCY ROOM, the most immediately critical emergencies will get the most immediate attention.  There are no favorites in the ER and none of the employees have any control over how many people arrive when as you do or how quickly a bed becomes available.  However, I can 100% guarantee you that everyone is working as quickly as possible to care for you, no matter what brings you in. 

Just know that if you are waiting, it is because there are more critical patients requiring care and be glad that you are not one of them.  Be grateful that you aren't having a stroke, a heart attack, a brain bleed or have been in a life-threatening accident of some kind.  Be grateful for the wait. 

(Disclaimer: ER's are run by humans, who are imperfect just like you and me.  So if you are sitting in a waiting room and you genuinely feel that your symptoms are life-threatening, speak up. Don't wait.)

3 - Not all pain is physical.   The high number of suicidal intentions/attempts that end up in the Emergency Room is eye-opening and gut wrenching.  A LOT of people in this world are hurting hardcore and their stories will lay you flat.  Many of these patients are embarrassed to admit that they are coming to the ER because they don't want to live but I'll tell you how it looks from my view behind the front desk:

When the emotional pain is that intense, it takes sick amounts of strength to keep yourself above drowning long enough to wade your car through traffic, hold your breath at stoplights, fight the tide all the way to that ER registration window and speak those pain-drenched words, "I want to kill myself." In my book, anyone with the guts to do that is a fucking warrior and the world needs as many of those as it can get so I am overjoyed when they make it to our doors.  

If you or someone you know is struggling in this way, PLEASE be assured that there is compassion and respite awaiting you at the ER.  They are never closed, they never turn away and they can help.

4 - Attitude is everything.  I worked 13 hours in the ER last Christmas and I'm not going to lie - it big time sucked.  The blizzard outside kept my family from visiting on my lunch break and brought in record numbers of bedraggled humans needing care for snow/ice related accidents.  I'd been up late the night before helping Santa do his thing and up early the next morning to witness the joyful results of my efforts.  I was over-tired, under-fed, over-worked and under a snowy mountain's worth of stress when I went in to the room of Mr. Hollings (name changed). Mr. Hollings had hit an icy patch while driving on the freeway and spun into the barrier.  Mr. Hollings was hurt in several places and in a snowy mountain's worth of pain.  I tried to offer him some sympathy.  "Oh what a crummy thing to have happen on Christmas - I'm so sorry, " I offered sincerely.  His response stopped me cold. 

Wincing with the painful exertion of speaking, he said, "Oh no, I don't mind, you see I was on my way home from dropping off my son and his baby girl at their apartment.  I haven't seen him in over and year and didn't think he'd come by for Christmas, even though we invited him.  But at the last second he called and asked for a ride so I went out and picked him up and we had the nicest time together!  I got to hold my tiny grand daughter for the first time and she smiled when I talked to her.  I think maybe we'll get to see them both more often now so actually, this has been one of the best days of my life.  Nothing could ruin it."  By then I had tears slipping down my cheeks.  This man had been through much more difficulty than I had that day but he was choosing to focus the good.  I squeezed his hand and thanked him.

5 - Drugs. Will. Wreck. You.  I don't mean to sound overly dramatic here because, in all honesty, I've had enough personal experience to know that this is not a truism and yet very much the truth. I've seen heroine injection sites blown up like craters, beating hearts stopped by cocaine, bite marks and yanked fingernails on meth trippers. Worse still, many of these patients are repeat visitors, caught in a soul-sucking whirlpool of bottomless craving.  Dipping your toes in that pool is perilous game with sky-high stakes.  Tread carefully.


6 - To comfort is a gift.  Don't ever pass up an opportunity to offer a kind word, gentle smile, understanding nod or hug to a hurting human being.  Everyone who comes to the ER is vulnerable in some way so compassion is a skill I practiced daily.  I loved it.  I couldn't give pain meds or stitch up cuts, but I could reach out and give comfort.  I have held an elderly woman's veined, trembling hand while doctors worked to save her husband's life.  I have brought Dirty Cokes to sleepless mothers and sent sneaky winks to white-haired gentlemen in hospital gowns. I have spread many warm blankets and drawn many, many smiley faces on latex gloves filled with air.  The privilege of comforting someone in need is by far the best perk of an ER job and the thing I've missed the most since turning in my badge. 

Outside of the ER it can be harder to spot these opportunities - in the regular world we aren't required to report our hidden pains and no one wears name-printed armbands to signify their need for care.  We have to watch and listen carefully to our fellow "patients" and remember that we all are hurting in some way.  We have to reach out.  I hope I'm watching and listening.  I hope I'm remembering and reaching out.

7 - Hug your kids...and everyone else while you're at it.  Life is vastly more delicate than we realize and a few short hours working in the ER will slap you upside the head with that truth. Car accidents, strokes, brain bleeds happen every day and more often than not they permanently alter their victims.  If you love someone, tell them, tell them, tell them - tell them with your words, your actions, your choices, your gratitude.  Whether it's painful or embarrassing or awkward - whether they return your words or turn away - TELL THEM.  Time wasted holding on to those words is simply that: Wasted.

Kind Children

It is snowing, but that doesn't stop us; it doesn't even slow us down.  We are Utahns.  We fear no winter.

Swings, slides, seesaws all lure with a siren's call and we answer as only small children can - abandoned backpacks line up at the edge:  Rainbow Brite propped up against Bravestar, Jem and Optimus Prime waiting patiently as their owners indulge in early morning revelry.  We race, flipping over iced monkey bars, tottering across oversized tires.  We are circus acrobats, Olympic medalists, the world's greatest daredevils. We giggle and shout, shining with the exhileration of being young, cold, strong, alive.

Nobody notices the ball...the ball by the schoolroom door, the ball of faded blue cotton, the faded blue cotton of an old coat, the old coat covering a girl, the girl curled up so tight and so tiny that she looks...like a ball.  Nobody notices and she likes it that way.  She hugs her knees up to her chest, tucking in her worn tennies and pulling a thinned hood down hard like a shell.  Think invisible thoughts, she tells herself.  Think small.  Think still.

The flakes are fattening now, tenaciously sticking in our hair, clinging to their own mortality, reminding us of ours.  I pause my play to retrieve the purple mittens I'd ditched at the curb.  They offer little relief so I rub and blow at my fingertips.  It takes only a moment but its just enough to look around and notice.  The ball that's not a ball, the ball that's a coat, the coat that's a girl, the girl that's my friend.  Katie. I run over.

Katie and I sit across from each other in Mrs. Thurston's 3rd grade classroom.  Katie, with the soft voice and the kind smile and the lovely long brown hair.  Katie, who taught  me how to spell Mississippi. 

"Hi Katie!  Come climb the jungle gym with me." I say to the small, still ball.  Light blue eyes peek cautiously out of the shell.  "Oh hi Lauren," she whispers.  "I'm fine here."

"Katie, it's really not that cold when you run around and I wanted to show you my new trick and we can practice our states and capitals and the bell's gonna ring soon so we don't have much time." I always have a lot to say.

Katie does not move, but opens her mouth, preparing to protest but another child's voice speaks first.  "Lauren, come play jump rope with us!" yells Andrea from a few feet away.  I know Katie won't play - she never does - but I try one last time.

"Ooo, Katie - let's go jump rope!  That will warm you up for sure."  I hold out my mittened hand.  She purses rosebud lips together and shakes her head, shining eyes silently begging me to let her go back to being a ball.  It's too late.  Andrea is next to me now, talking as she arrives.

"We need you, Lauren!" she side eyes Katie. "But we only have room for one more person..." and all three of us know what is meant and why.  Katie has vanished under her shell again.  Andrea tugs my arm.  "We can take turns, " I argue, stubbornly forcing us all deeper into trouble.  "I want Katie to play too."

Andrea's 8-year-old patience reaches its limit.  She lowers her voice, but not nearly enough, and says "Why do you like her?  She smells and her clothes have holes and I heard," her voice drops again, still insufficiently, "that her dad's a polygamist."

The ball does not react.  This is old news to her.  This is why she is a ball - a small, still, invisible ball.  A ball has no feelings.  A ball doesn't care what kids say about it.  A ball can't hurt.

I, on the other hand, am at my very first crossroads.

Katie and I will find ourselves in situations like these frequently over the next two years.  Most of the time, I stay by her side.  Except when I don't, because every once in awhile the desire to be "liked" overwhelms the desire to be kind.  I'll admit to being proud of the fact that I was a friend to Katie when no one else was, but deeply ashamed of the fact that I wasn't always.  These are painful memories that have taught me about goodness in The Most Unlikely Places - goodness in doing hard, scary things, goodness in losing "friends", goodness in sitting next to someone on a snowy day.

This is Gabby.  This girl has been my sunshine for nine truly awesome years and I love her more than eating waffles with James McAvoy in Disneyland.  That's right - you heard me. A LOT more.

Gabby, along with her brothers, began attending a new school on Monday.  It's one of those think-outside-the-box places that believes in play and creativity and self-mastery and mutual respect.  She's going to rock it.  Though the thought of losing my sunshine for nine hours a day five days a week is crushing me, I'm super duper excited for her.  I'm also...nervous.  Will she feel joy?  Will she find fulfillment?  Will she remember the love waiting for her at home and will that make her happy when skies are gray?  Will she be treated with kindness and, and, and, so importantly...

Will She Be Kind?

When she sees "Katie" sitting alone, when she hears "Andrea" judge or exclude, when she encounters one of the many crossroads that all children face on the playground, the bus, in the lunchroom - when she has to choose between being kind and being liked what will she choose? 

Have we prepared our kids for those moments?  Do they know how hard it might be but how crucial it is that they choose kindness, inclusion and love over the flash of popularity?  Because it doesn't just matter to "Katie" - it matters to Gabby too.  As our children form their character by the experiences they encounter and the choices they make, it matters that they understand what true love for another human being looks like.  It matters that they know how their actions in those crossroad moments can either lift another up or hold them down.  And it matters that they know that those crossroad moments will either become personal badges of honor or painful scars.  Because the more they make one choice over the other, the easier that choice will become in the future.  Have we prepared our kids to make kind choices naturally or cruel choices comfortably?

We are having our Family Back-To-School Night this weekend and I'm stoked. We talk about our first week - teachers, new friends, hopes, worries, goals.  And we prepare to be kind, to be brave, to be the change we wish to see in the world.  I'm linking below the best resources I've found, in case you are looking for a way to have those important conversations about bullying, empathy, courage, choosing good friends and crossroad moments. I'm deeply grateful for for the wisdom of others and their willingness to share so that my family can benefit, your family can benefit, this world can benefit from children who know how to love.

Momastery: Have This Conversation Before You Send Your Baby Back To School

Huffington Post: Raise Nice Girls, Instead

Above Average: The Importance Of Kindness

NCPC: What To Teach Kids About Bullying

Being Human

 

It's hard to admit we have flaws.  Yearning for perfection is a natural human trait.  And yet, to our great dismay, we are bound to discover that our imperfections are actually the most human thing about us.  To deny them is to deny our own humanity - our freedom to choose, our ability to grow, our desire to rise above, do better, be more.  I suspect imperfection is the reason for our very existence.

Still, I sit across from one of my favorite people in the world - my therapist - and demand to know why I continue to screw up.  Why do I feel so weak?  Why am I such a loser?  WHY?  I politely ask her to please fix me, make me perfect, because I'm tired of spinning my wheels.  I mean, that's her job, right?

Wrong.  Once again, my human-ness is showing. 

I'm now 33 weeks pregnant with an already-loved baby boy who will be called Malachi, Micah or Gideon.  And when he arrives we will go through the checklist: ten fingers, ten toes, eyes that see, ears that hear, lungs that work overtime to scream when the little man is cold or hungry or uncomfortable or even just lonely.  If he has all those wonderful working parts that make up a human, we will declare him Perfect.  It's only natural.  It starts with the doctor.  "It's a boy, and he's just perfect!"  Then Brett will look at me, eyes all teary after meeting his child for the first time and say "He's beautiful.  He's absolutely perfect."  And those who come to ooo and awe over our sweet babe will offer - "Oh my, isn't he just the sweetest, most perfect little thing!" 

But the truth is, he won't be.  He won't be perfect, even at the start.  Why?  Because he is human, and one of the strongest things that defines us as such is our imperfections.  Otherwise, we'd be SuperHuman and a fleet of poorly-made Marvel movies clearly demonstrate that even that gig isn't all it's cracked up to be.  Spiderman,  WonderWoman, Professor Xavier - they've all got their weaknesses.

So right from the start this little one will echo my lament, "why must I be so flawed?" - and within the first few years of his tiny existence will naturally enter into the longest and greatest struggle of his life; The Quest For Perfection.  Which presents a daunting parental task:  how to teach a child to accept their own humanness - that they will never, in this lifetime, obtain perfection - while encouraging them nonetheless to strive for progress it a nurturing, practical way? 

Jude, my oldest, age 8, is already so unbearably hard on himself that when he makes a mistake I rarely get to speak before he launches into merciless verbal floggings.  More often than not I find myself interrupting the self-punishment solely to ease him off the edge.  "You made a mistake, bud.  That's called "being human" and it's perfectly normal.  What matters is how you fix it.  When we feel guilt after screwing up we can either let it eat us up and weigh us down or we can let it motivate us to put things right.  Fess up and apologize - genuinely, honestly.  Fix it as best you can.  Think about what you can do differently next time and then move on.  That shows what kind of metal you're truly made of.  That's how you grow."

Merrick, currently my youngest (age five), is the hardcore opposite.  If he's in a bad mood for some inexplicable reason - his oatmeal too hot or cold, his comfy pants in the wash, he sleeps on a pea, whatever - he'll kung-fu anyone unfortunate enough to wander past him.  No amount of lecturing, time-outing, loss-of-privileging, positive-behavior-reinforcing or even scary-faced-threatening can convince this kid that smacking the crap out of people is not cool.

In our discussions thus far I have gathered that Mer doesn't consider this violent attribute to be a flaw.  Rather, it gets him swift results and, as the littlest in our family, it is the most direct route to fulfilling his needs.  Or so he thinks.   But he's not seeing the undesirable consequences that come along with those results.  Sadly, I can relate.

Having grown up in a home where imperfections were met with condemnation and rage, lying became my primary source of survival from an early age.  I clung to this coping mechanism long after it ceased to serve me because it had become my way of life.  As an adult, I turned a blind eye to the many undesirable consequences that came along with the results I thought I was getting.  I could not see my flaw.  Eventually, my dishonesty threatened to destroy the most important things in my life and I realized that I'd been slowly sinking myself all along.  I was in a boat full of holes and bailing with a spoon.

I see Merrick in a similar boat: surrounded by sharks, water level rising, rising, rising - and he just keeps bailing one spoonful at a time.  He wants his siblings to pay attention to him so badly that he's lashing out in the one way they can't ignore.  This gets him his immediate intended results but ensures that they will like him less and less in the future.  It's a vicious cycle which inevitably ends underwater, all the while still bailing, bailing, bailing.

My challenge here is different than with Jude.  I'm trying to help  Merrick see that his flawed thinking is causing flawed actions -  he is "being human".  He has an imperfection and until he sees it for what it is, he's stuck bailing.  It's not exactly a parenting moment I relish.  But I recognize that (when done gently) this is a form of love - of mercy, really.  Because the sooner he understands this the sooner he is freed from the burden of pursuing perfection and empowered to seek learning and progress.    Like all of us, he will never be perfect and that's ok.  I want to enable him to accept and love himself as-is, looking for opportunities to grow while still retaining the inner strength to pick himself back up again when his own imperfections knock him down. 

Summed up, its an impressive task that looks something like this: Know your weaknesses, do your best to improve, put things right when you make mistakes, then let go and move on.  All the while love, love, love who you truly are and where you're truly at.  Easy peasy, right?

Ugh.  Being Human.  Let's all agree that it sucks, right?  But boy, when we embrace it we also unlock the potential gifts our humanness holds in store for us - freedom to choose, ability to change, to rise above, to do better, to be more -  and we discover a beautiful metamorphosis of the soul in the most unlikely places: Imperfection.  And we realize that being human, while hard, is also very, very sweet.

 

.

A Little Life

I have heard that first tiny Cry, strong, fierce and sweet, just three times in my life.  It is my favorite sound - the culmination of many choices, many chances, many struggles and many many miracles.  It represents those first unkind moments of entry into the cold world in which we all arrive naked.   Furthermore, this first Cry is the very first lesson we learn about our time here on earth; human existence summed up in one poignant declaration:  Life is not fair.  Not by a long shot.  

But. 
There is warmth and comfort to be found, which teach us the beauty in opposition.  It is then, in the Quieting of that first Cry, that we learn our second, yet infinitely more important life lesson:  We all possess the power to ease pain, give refuge and fill another's world with love. 

I'm hoping to hear this precious sound again - the Cry and then the Quieting - in the murky, melting days of late February to come.

There is a life inside me.  An actual life.  It is not a random mass of cells that randomly grew based on a random act done under cover of darkness one random night.  It is a life, a tiny but strong little life, growing, feeling, and defying the odds at all turns thus far.  Its first miraculous performance occurred when its presence had only been known to me a few days.  After being in existence just five weeks, a mere 35 days, this life had not only grown itself a heart but had set it beating in perfect rhythm, a wholesome flutter much quicker than my own.

At that point we called it a raisin.  Gabby would run up to complete strangers and announce jubilantly, "There's a raisin in my mom's tummy!  And it's making her really sleepy."  She left out pukey, grumpy, achy, dizzy, and perpetually miserable.  For a solid two months.  Just think - a raisin that can do all that!  Impressive, no?  Magical! Miraculous. And it gets better.

Our raisin became a jellybean, pinto bean, then grape.  Peach pit.  Plum.  Pickle, Popsicle, Hot Dog, Banana.  That's how my kiddos and I have measured the growth of this little life.  It made for a good laugh when Merrick's nighttime prayer included a plea that no one would eat his hotdog baby.  Or when Gabby whispered into my tummy, "hello little pinto bean.  I love you, even though I don't love pinto beans.  Please grow bigger so we can call you something else."  The food imagery has been thoroughly entertaining, if a bit ironic, considering that I consumed almost nothing during those early days.  Good thing this little life knows how to get sustenance, even when I cannot.  See - another miracle.

This is not me.  But I kinda wish it was.

The life has now been growing for 19 weeks.  In that time, that short, brief, tiny, infinitely minuscule period of time, arms have formed. Arms!  Imagine it!  And Legs.  Ears, Eyes, a Tongue.  A Chin.  Ribs.  Toes.  Fingers.  Beautifully jointed, dexterous, vein-lined and muscle-bound fingers.   But even more importantly than all of those: A Brain.  A brain that controls all these amazing things going on inside this little life - a brain that will soon make it's small body completely independent of mine.  It will breathe, grow, seek food, seek warmth, feel things, learn things, and even make decisions all on its own.

And while this little life may currently find refuge a few inches below my belly button, let's be clear: it is not a part of me.  It pumps its own blood, wiggles its own fingers.  I do not own it or control it, nor do I wish to.  

So I sit here typing and simultaneously providing room and board for the tenant I invited in.  I hope it's a cozy home, a safe place to work a few more miracles before it enters the world.  There will be kidneys kicking into gear, a tummy readying for nourishment to come and lungs lulling themselves along until forced to expand at first breath.  Is it asking too much for these last few miracles?  For the mere days that may mean the difference between thriving, surviving or even emerging alive?  I beg for it.

In the past I've proved to be an inhospitable hostess, a most unlikely place for life to find refuge.  Little lives have come and gone from existence, bereft of the miracles others are granted.  My body is imperfect, my girly bits particularly so, and the womb can be a cruel entity when the many cogs don't turn as they should.   This is not a failing on anyone's part - simply a manifestation of creation's profound delicacy.  And, in contrast, a profession of the extraordinary process that results in human life.  Life, in all its infinite, breathtaking complexity. 

My ears yearn for that first defiant Cry, my arms ache to provide that first tender Quieting.

Grow, baby, grow.

and when he is here at last I will sing this to him

 and weep with gratitude that we are finally together.

Going Rogue (Why I Pierced)

FAQ for Lauren's Recently Acquired Eyebrow Ring

"Did it hurt?"

Yes.  Especially the last part, when the fat needle broke through from the inside out.  The dude with the abundant dreds pulled back in a neat bun on top of his head called me "honey" and told me to breathe in deep and since he'd already driven the point in I figured the worst was over and I was wrong.  But my brother and sister-in-law held my hand, which was both tender and comforting.  Thanks, T and K.

I'd also like to say that I was super hardcore and did not even wince.  However, my deep breath was very breathy.

"Does it hurt now?"

Nope.  Except when Gabby crawls into bed with us after a nightmare and snuggles her tiny body up against mine and dozes for a short while before needing to shift positions, at which point she flings her arms wildly to give her roll-over the proper momentum, her left hand connecting with my cheek, forehead and, most unfortuantely, my left eyebrow.  Then it hurts like hell.

"What does your husband think?"

He says it's sexy. 
But then again, I am his only source of carnal revelry, so he aint no fool.

Here I feel I should add that his opinion regarding my eyebrow ring is one of the very few I care much about (aside from my own, of course) so the rest of you are welcome to hate, love, envy, despise or entertain a weird desire to lick it, for all I care.  It mattereth not to me.

 And lastly, my father's broken-hearted imploration:  "Why Lauren?  Why?"

Oh my.  For starters, I'll tell you what I told about a hundred of my neighbors and friends last week when my ecclisiastical leader was courageous enough to give our family the pulpit for an entire Sunday meeting.  My explanation went like this:

"You may have noticed that I recently acquired a new piece of jewlery which I understand some of you might not agree with.  That's OK.  Believe it or not, it is serving as a much-needed source of emotional therapy for me.  So if it helps, feel free to think of it as a medical device, there to improve my mental health."
Ba-dum-bum-ching!

 

 

 

(me and my sis being major dorks.  she's also good for my mental health)
 

That's right, ladies and gents.  My sister's not the only funny one in the family.  Don't forget to tip your waiters!

But honestly, it's a pretty accurate explanation.  Here's another one: about six months ago I broke.  Shattered, really, into a million tiny, jagged edged pieces.  I broke so hard, in fact, that I could no longer piece myself back together again (as I have been doing for as long as I can remember).  At first it was unbearably frightening.  My world withered, drained of its color, filled to overflowing with pain and I couldn't explain why.  No matter where or how hard I searched, I could not find joy or comfort or even peace.  I could not quiet the incessant panic, could not fight the dark and dragging, could not stop the black hole that had opened in me from sucking away every ounce of the precious hope I had once held in safe harbor.

And when I looked in the mirror, I could not recognize myself.

Who was I?  Was I who my parents needed me to be?  Who my church leaders wanted to see?   Who I thought my husband deserved?   Who I wished my friends to want?  Was I a million different things to a million different people, and nothing to myself?

So it goes with those robbed of childhood, when others' needs are how you learn to define yourself.  (Here I'll let you create a palatable elaboration of your own because anything said on such matters would only serve to distract from my point, as well as deal needless blows.  Use that marvelous imagination of yours to fill in the blanks)

The very first time I met my therapist she looked straight at me and said, "This has been coming at you for 30 years, hon.  You're damn lucky not to have fallen farther, hit harder, splattered right onto the proverbial pavement after walking the plank that you did for so long."  Lucky... not exactly how I felt at that moment, if I'm being super honest.   I'll admit I dragged my heals finding the silver lining, but I've got my eye on it now and yes, am grateful that my broken bits were given refuge in the most gentle, most merciful and, without a doubt, most unlikely places.

I realized that I had spent 33 years defining myself by the things I hoped would bring me the approval of others.  It was a pursuit which had left me exhausted, empty and full of loathing for both myself and the world around me.  Worst still, it was a lie, a sham, a hastily-made shelter I took refuge under that slowly became too heavy to uphold - pressing and crushing until there was nothing left but rubble.  In the strong arms of those who truly loved me, I curled inward and found rest.  respite.  rescue.

The winter passed.  And the spring.  I went to school.  I went to therapy.  I went to Oregon.  I went to 2-hour yoga classes.  I went to the Sundance Film Festival.  I went to the Snow Patrol concert.  I went to the Holi celebration.  All the while, looking for myself.  Finding a piece here - a piece there.  Gathering, collecting.  Soon enough I was ready to rebuild.

But my fears remained.  Was I headed back to the easy path, creating the girl the world wanted me to be?  The temptation to willingly do so was great.  The possibility that I would end up there without realizing it was even greater.  I had to truly let go of my need for acceptance.  I had to know that however I rebuilt would be good enough for me.  Just me.

 I decided to force my own hand.  I did something I've always wanted to do, but never felt I could because I feared rejection.  When I was 15 there was a girl in my debate class with an eyebrow ring.  She was beautiful, kind, confident, open-hearted and soooo uber-cool.  She was everything I wanted to be but didn't know how.  I secretly suspected that her (super) power came from her eyebrow ring, because it was bold and unique and said to the world that she didn't need their approval.  She liked herself.  And I wanted that.

So, 18 years later, I pierced.
 

I'd like to say it's been nothing but sweet smelling, perpetually blooming, red red roses ever since.  There have definitely been high points, for sure.  But there have also been lows -  difficult conversations, the loss of a few friends, some cold shoulders.  Not everyone is capable of accepting something they find unacceptable, even in someone who's heart they know.  So be it.

 

I figure, if you can't love me with one tiny little hoop on my face, you never truly loved me in the first place.  Better to know and go my own way.