On Protection

The tree’s roots reach deep

Through winter’s solid frozen soil

Shelter for soul’s spark

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On Drowning

Drowning is silent; there is no grand cinematic splash, flail, and scream.  True drowning is insidious and deadly. The once confident looking swimmer is suddenly gone with no yell for help and no sign of distress.

I am a fiery, powerhouse mother of two children with disabilities and I feel like I am drowning.  My drowning is as silent and insidious as the real thing. My drowning is slow and it looks well groomed and smells of perfume accompanied by bubble bath; it gets to school on time; volunteers for the PTA; then, arrives at home to face the mountain of responsibility and sinks below the surface into the dark depths.

Do not let my functionality fool you; I feel like I am drowning.

I look calm and cool above the surface while my legs frantically kick below to keep me afloat.  My legs are tired and cramped.  They have been kicking for years–since the day I sat cherry faced (from steroid shots) and smiling at my baby shower pretending to be carrying a healthy infant.  No one, save for a select few, knew the baby swimming around in my belly had a body riddled with tumors and would be born with the rare genetic disorder, Tuberous Sclerosis Complex (TSC).  I was drowning in grief, in fear, in appointments for myself and my baby; and, I was excited to meet my growing baby, surrounded by friends and family celebrating her.  A piece of me slipped below the watery depth that day.

My drowning is piecemeal.  It has happened bit by bit over the years.  I have lost pieces of myself to the crushing responsibility and lack of resources.

Today I tread tirelessly, a child in each arm, to keep us all above the surface.  I feel the tug of riptide–the school calls, the emergencies, the medical crises, the new diagnoses, the day to day battles, the behaviors, the therapies, the endless appointments. It threatens to pull us all under in totality and I tread on because I refuse to let this life claim my family. I am buoyed by my love for them–by our love for each other.

I am tired and I need help; and, I will continue to tread on. You may not know all that is happening below the surface. I look like I can do it all but one cannot tread water indefinitely without support. And this world is just not built to support families like mine–the multitude of need is far reaching. The cost thus far has been high. The truth is below the surface there are pieces of me slipping away bit by bit while I wait for someone, something to help.

Nevertheless there is a bothness to this world that is mysterious. I look the model of strength, calm, cool, collected togetherness while I feel like I am drowning. I am losing pieces of myself bit by bit while I gain new perspectives on this wide and wonderful world I would never be privy to without my beautifully complex children. The love, pride, and joy I hold for my family gives me great strength and requires strength from every fiber of my being. I may feel like I am drowning and I am kept afloat by the hope I hold for our future–no matter how small it may be at any given moment.

On Persistence

AtlasHave you ever felt on the edge?  A razor’s width away from the world crushing you?  Have you ever thought maybe you should let it?  Have you ever wondered what would happened if you stopped holding it up, like enduring Atlas, and let the sky fall?

Of course you have, because you are like me–blessed and burdened by circumstance; you are a parent of the extraordinary.  The weight is unimaginable and the task so tiring; for who can hold up the world and the sky?

Nevertheless, we persist.

What is the alternative?  For the sky to come crashing down?

It does that anyway; it falls  with every crisis, every diagnosis, every meltdown, every school meeting, every stare, every medication failure.  And, that is why it is our job to hold it up.  It is our job to make sense of it all every time the earth shakes and another crisis rips the heavens from the firmament.  It is our job to piece it back together–azure patch dotted by fluffy white, patent-leather black pin studded with shiny bright diamonds.

We must make sense of it for our blessed and burdened, extraordinary pieces of heart walking around outside our chests.  For, if we didn’t there would be no understanding, no up or down, no hope.  We would be crushed by nature.

Who makes sense of it for us–holding the earth and the sky, picking up the pieces, placing the stars back one by one?  Who makes sense of the nonsensical?  Who helps carry crushing burden when we fear it will flatten us?  When we are weary and we wish it to?

I do.  We do.  We shoulder our burdens together because we are the few who can understand the job–the immense burden and blessing.  We link arms and hunch shoulders to disperse the weight as we speak of the crises, and diagnoses, the meltdowns, and meetings, the stares, and medications.  We stoop low and scoop the scattered stars and shattered blue canvas of sky the next time it comes tumbling down and help to paste it back up again–and again, and again.

Nevertheless, we persist.

 

On Despair

despair

Meditation on Despair:

You are like a cold wind that blows through and rustles the last of the autumn leaves that cling helpless on the branches and herald the arrival of winter.  Winter, the season of death and dormancy, is your friend.  You seep through the cracks in our foundations like an icy chill.  Perhaps like water, soft yet strong and forceful, ready to freeze as the hopelessness of winter sets in and drive those foundational crevices into deep canyons of pathos.  And, as the sadness grows you feed on it; you grow ever stronger until your insidious presence can no longer be ignored.  Foundations of joy, happiness, love, and hope crumble at your feet until all that is left is the gaping abyss of you–despair and, your favorite of partners, hopelessness.  But, perhaps, not all that much unlike the cold winds that harken the winter white, you too shall blow past in turn and the world will bloom around you once again.  That’s the thing with seasons–they change; and foundations–they may crumble and fall but they can be rebuilt.  You too are important just as winter is to the world.  But you are only to be a season for which joy and hope can return once again.