One Week Out

I cried my way through last Monday. HUGE hiccuping sobs that seemed to come out of nowhere even though I knew their origin exactly.

I wanted to go back. I wanted to be where I was seen and heard and felt in a way that every moment felt like home. The hours with the boys at school felt so lonely it was excruciating. The week seemed to crawl by with no amazing staff to make my meals, no teachers to guide me to create works of art, no friends by the fire at the end of the day to ask me what I'd done or how I felt. Simply back to the grind, making lunches; helping with homework; driving to soccer practice, music lessons, the orthodontist; permission slips; Parent Night; laundry; grocery shopping; the usual day to day.

But then Friday night I attended a fundraiser for Girl Power 2 Cure in Washington, D.C. and I met some amazing families who are struggling with the loss of their beautiful daughters to Rett Syndrome: little girls who were born perfectly normal, but over time lost their voices, lost the use of their legs and their hands, began having trouble eating, having seizures. They are trapped inside their own bodies with NO WAY OUT. All tests and studies indicate that they are perfectly normal, and in fact in many cases, above average in intelligence. So it seems that they are completely aware of their plight. Worst disease ever. Robbed of life before they really started.

Disappearing slowly before their parents eyes. Horrible.

.

Instantly I regained perspective. It's easy to feel lonely or angry or scared or sad when we have experienced something as wonderful and sacred as Squam. But we got to experience it. That's the beauty. There are a lot of little girls out there, like Sarah, who would give anything to be able to walk the rocky paths, swim in the lake, talk and paint with their friends by their side. And so we'll go back again, even knowing we might flounder for a while when we return home, because those moments are so precious, so tender, so joy-filled that it would be worse not to get the chance to experience them at all.

Thank you to my friends who donated their beautiful artwork and some amazing items for the auction. Thank you to my friends and family who couldn't be there but who made monetary donations for the cause. And a special thank you to my family and friends who made the trip with me to be there on Friday night and who make my life a very special place to live.

I am blessed. And I know it.

Providence

So this is the image I will have forever in my mind when I think of Providence... I feel like it represents my journey there to visit Elizabeth. See those cracks on the sidewalk? That is the last few months of my life. Cracked. Broken. Spilling open.

And the walls on either side? Yep, got a few hundred of those built up around me, too. They're coming down. Brick by brick, stone by stone. I've begun to tear them apart and made a space to let the light in.

The light. See it there, in the background, surrounding that tree? That light.

It's the hardest work I've ever done. The most intense. Gut wrenching. Soul searching. Dark side of the moon. Blood letting. Shape shifting. Life changing. Facing down my demons. Scary scary stuff. . . .

And then Providence.

I knew I was going to end up there. We had been tossing around dates. I was supposed to head up a few weeks ago and the timing wasn't right. I thought I'd go next weekend. It wasn't clear. I didn't really have a set plan. I read Michelle's post last week during my daily blog meanderings. And a day or two later I had a complete breakdown. The kind where you end up a puddle in a strip mall parking lot talking to a couple of geese who are trapped in the little patch of grass in front of Barnes & Noble. And I knew immediately where I needed to be.

I needed to be with a woman like me. Like the one Michelle described so well. A woman who had discovered her own inner wisdom, her intuition. giving way to a clear understanding that she really does have all the support she needs – family, friends, spiritual beliefs. That she can trust.

And so I headed north to Providence and found her there; the woman who had already walked through the flames and knew just what I needed. She knew how to provide a sanctuary. A respite. Without being asked. A place where I could read and sleep and dream and talk and talk and talk and talk and walk and talk some more. Where we could eat if we wanted to--and whatever we wanted to! Nap if we wanted to. Snuggle beautiful dogs. Feel the breeze. Write. Stretch our legs. Sit in silence. Maybe take a shower. Or talk some more. Intuitive and comforting and safe.

The perfect balance of fire and water. Providence. "A safe haven for those seeking the light."

So this weekend I ran with gazelles...

Gazelle is derived from the Arabic ghazăl. Appreciated for its grace, it is a symbol most commonly associated in Arabic literature with female beauty. One of the traditional themes of Arabic love poetry involves comparing the gazelle with the beloved, and linguists theorize that ghazal, the word for love poetry in Arabic, is related to the word for gazelle.

I spent this weekend in New York with a herd of gazelles. Like seriously, hard core gazelles. These women are compassionate and thoughtful and kind and deep. They ask questions and really listen to the answers. They are grateful for their friendships. They are grateful for the blessings that have been bestowed upon them in their lives. They are equally grateful for the times they have faced difficulties and for the lessons they learned from those dark moments.

They are not afraid of growth and they embrace change, both in themselves and in the people around them.

They are not afraid to set intentions.

They are not afraid to ask for what they want.

They are not afraid to say thank you.

They embrace love and light.

It is an amazing feeling to be surrounded by strong, self-empowered women who own their beauty and confidence. I know that they haven't always and don't always feel this way. They are human and all of us struggle (daily) with our demons, our doubts, our insecurities. But this is why the herd is so important. This is why we need to carve out time with people who allow us the space to nurture the best life has to offer. To walk the streets and follow our hearts. To stop and look and listen and take pictures and read poetry and eat good food and laugh and talk and nap and and soak it all in. This is high quality self care and many women (and men) do not ever take the time to do it. But I believe that it's just as important as air and water and shelter.

This herd, well, this is a herd I am proud to be a part of. This herd is a gift I have been given. And I am so grateful for these particular winter days when I ran through the city streets with beautiful gazelles.

Day 17: The Light of Friendship

I joined this challenge today. A photo from the archives and gratitude for the friendships that sustain me. . .




" Light and darkness. Darkness makes us feel that we are nothing and can do nothing, that we are useless. Light makes us feel that we are everything, that we can do everything, that we can become everything. " --Sri Chinmoy

Friendship Bread

Amish Friendship Bread is more than a recipe--it's a way of thinking. In our hi-tech world almost everything comes prepackaged and designed for instant gratification. So where does a recipe that takes ten days to make fit in? Maybe it's a touch stone to our past--to those days not so very long ago when everything we did took time and where a bread that took ten days to make was not as extraordinary as it seems today.

I remember my mother and her friends passing bags of friendship bread back and forth when I was a kid. I associate the smell of yeast and cinnamon and sugar with this bread. It reminds me of the best parts of my childhood, of feeling warm and loved.

It reminds me of sustenance and the way bread feeds us and nourishes us. Sometimes when there is nothing else, evan just a piece of bread will go a long way for someone who is hungry.

But most of all, it reminds me of friendship between women. Women who lovingly share this bread with the other women in their lives. Who share it in order to spread good cheer and love and extend a hand to someone who might be needing it. To say be well or I'm sorry or I love you.

It reminds me of hope. And help. And the very best parts of life.

Squam: Where to begin?

Seriously, where to begin? I feel as though it will take me days, months, maybe even years to sum up all that Squam was and is and will be in my life. But I've got to start somewhere and this is as good a place as any.


I lay there
melting into laughter,
splintered wood under my back,
breathing cold dark air.
A star slid across the sky
and I thought,
this is it
this is life
as it's meant to be lived.
Here.
Now.
Blanketed by the Milky Way
and the love of good women
who never fail
to teach me
touch me
surround me with love;
heal me.

I closed my eyes
and those stars,
that lake,
the faces of those women
burned bright beneath my eyelids,
their imprint solid--
a night sky I can carry home
with the acorns in my pocket.