Honesty.

Why do I write?  Why keep this blog?  I guess in part because someday I hope to look back at the words I've written and see where I've come from.  Maybe see some progress even.  Little bits of joy and fun times possibly.  But right now, in the midst of everything, I am blind and deaf to the world around me.

Can't say I'm really happy about this.  It's just the honest to goodness truth.  And since I'm speaking about honesty, why paint a picture that isn't truthful?  Why pretend to brush my paper with vivid greens and bright pinks, warm yellows or brilliant blues, when I really just want muddy browns and dark greys?  (Gosh, does anyone remember when Sarah was like 3 years old and painted using only black paint?  I'd offer her an entire pan of watercolors and she'd only use black.  It was disturbing.)  There is no glitter or shine.  Only flat, murky chaos.

It's not getting better or easier.  I think I'm sinking even deeper.

I have no patience.  I have no focus.  There is no joy even though I have plenty to be joyful about--I'm not a completely irrational ingrate, after all. There is no direction.  There are no more dreams.  There is no hope, though my mind tells me that isn't totally true either.  My heart just keeps usurping all the power.

I have so much fear now.  Fear of the future.  Fear of the unknown.  Fear of remembering.  Fear of being alone.  Fear of messing up.  Fear of abandonment.    Fear of ruining my children.

I sit outside and can't feel the warmth of the sun even though I can see the light.  I don't hear the wind rushing through the leaves on the trees even though I can see them moving.  I look at the jasmine blooming outside my window but I can't smell its sweetness anymore.  There is no full cookie jar in my kitchen.  I used to think that a happy house must have, at all times, a full cookie jar.  No candles lit at the dinner table either.

I hate this place where I am right now.  It's dark and lonely and scary.  It's suffocating me and I'm unable to find a way out.  Maps (even Apple Maps!) are useless.  Advice falls upon my unhearing ears.  Kindness is like a life ring, thrown by those trying to help me escape the incoming tide, but I'm just too tired to keep ahold of it.

Weary.

Bill was my compliment.  He rubbed off my hard, pointy corners and made me softer and less pokey.  He helped wear down my scratchy and garish bits until I glowed with a beautiful, though aged, patina.  In his presence, you didn't notice the parts of me that had been broken off, worn away, repainted, or glued back together.

I'm not sure what's left of me now.

Happy Father's Day. Or Maybe Happy Solstice Day.

I won't lie.  Seeing all the Father's Day messages on Facebook brought me down pretty low today.  Well, that's not entirely true.  It wasn't me I was sad for, it was my kids.  I think from now on we might just have to put the emphasis on celebrating the Summer Solstice instead.  Well, that's not entirely true either.  I'm not a pagan or a Druid and I don't like to dance around naked, so maybe the Summer Solstice thing isn't quite the answer either.  Hmmm.

What I do know is that my kids had the greatest father ever.  Eternally patient.  Optimistic.  A realist who understood the need for magic.  Loving and supportive.  Playful and silly.  Full of wisdom and a wonderful teacher.  The greatest example of a godly man I've ever known.

Dear Bill, from the moment you decided we should start a family (I know everyone thought we were crazy and that it was my idea, but you and I know the truth!) sooner than later, you were already the best Dad.  You cried when I told you I was pregnant and had this goofy smile on your face for about 3 months.  You never balked when I asked for ginger-ale mixed with sprite and lime juice at 11:00 PM.  You made sure I had blueberry pancakes and mesquite-broiled shrimp at least once a week.  You were so calm and reassuring when I had Madeline.  You took to parenthood much easier than I did.  You'd just stick your pinkie in her mouth and sing Sinatra to her until she fell asleep.  You were the nighttime bather--always with baby lotion for a "ssage" after.  Madeline thought you hung the moon.  I was nervous and uptight and you were easy-going and joyful.  What lessons you taught me.

Then Jack came along.  Again, you sang Sinatra and walked the floor for as long as it took to get him to sleep.  Just that one time (remember?) did you lose your patience with the sleeplessness.  Thank heavens for the sound machine!  Remember when you dropped him at the beach and we had to take him to the ER?  I know how terrible you felt.  You let me sleep in the next morning and took him to The Pines restaurant for breakfast.  You never tried to sway the kids to a particular way of life, but instead encouraged them in their own interests.  Lucky for you that Jack loved backhoes, "yog" trucks, and baseball.  You taught him about it all the right way.  You also taught him to act like a man and be honest, responsible, hard-working, and kind.  You were the greatest role model.

Before Jonny, there was the baby.  You cried right along with me through it all.  You understood enough to not question my need to repaint the bedroom that week.  Even when I chose purple.  And you spoke the words of truth that helped me understand it all.  And now you get to be with that child and tell him about his Mama and his siblings and how someday we will all be together again.  I know you'll tell all the right stories and teach all our family's traditions.

And then came Jonathan.  Easy pregnancy.  Easier birth.  You were with me, again, through all of it.  Kind of an old hand at this parenting stuff by now.  We were so in the groove that we took a vacation when Jon was 10 days old.  I remember it wasn't a great time.  But you took it all in stride and made the best of it.  It was about this time that you moved us to Virginia.  How you loved it there and how you worked so hard making a home for us.  I think it was there that we truly became a family.  Jon, so different from the other kids, loved to listen to you read.  Or talk about the Civil War.  Or hear about fishing from Frances Ames's books.  You would set up elaborate toy soldier battles with Jon or play guns with him outside in the woods.  You were so patient and attentive to his presentations.  Remember how you slept by his crib for months after we moved just so he wouldn't wake up and be afraid?

Sarah.  Our baby that you delivered at home.  And then you saved me.  Too many words to express that night so let's forge ahead.  The only one of our babies that preferred me.  I think you were disappointed to have your streak broken!  Sarah was definitely my baby, but you picked up the slack with the other kids effortlessly.  Sure, you might have fed them garbage from time to time and let them watch way too many episodes of "The X-Files" but you were always there and always loving.  Sarah loved to listen to the "Speakaboo" stories when you put her to bed.  You were lucky when she'd crawl up on your lap for a snuggle.  I know you savored those times.  She did too, even if she acted otherwise.

So many things, some big and some little, that you instilled in our kids.  I see it every day.  In Madeline's laid back attitude, Jack's laugh,  Jon's sense of humor (and his eyes!), and the silly twinkle in Sarah's eyes.  It's all you.  I thank God for the reminders of you that I see in each of them.  You gave them so much.  Some of the seeds you planted won't be harvested for years yet to come.  But I know your influence will always, always be apparent in their lives.  Little glimpses of you throughout their lives.  Oh, how I look forward to each and every one.

You were the best Dad.  I'm pretty sure you knew how special you were.  How incredible you were.  I only wish there would have been more time.  But the time you did have was amazing.  I'm ever so thankful for it.

20

Pine Valley Lodge.

Wallowa Lake Lodge.

My favorite house in Cornucopia.

Today is my 20th wedding anniversary.

Twenty years ago I walked down the aisle, changed my name, and became some one's wife.  I remember it thundered and poured down rain while Bill and I stood before our friends and family saying our vows.  You know how fickle June weather can be in Oregon.

We drove to The Dalles that first night as Mr. and Mrs. Pennick.  We stopped in Woodburn at the Burger King because neither of us had eaten since the morning--which would prove to be a really poor idea.  I spent the next night throwing up.  Newly married, wearing one of the cute nighties I had received as a gift at one of my bridal showers,  and barfing in the bathroom.  Bill had to run to the little store at Wallowa Lake to buy me ginger ale and crackers.  I'm pretty sure I slept on the hide-a-bed in the living room of our little cottage too.

We divided the days of our honeymoon between a tiny chalet at Wallowa Lake and a funky bed and breakfast called, Pine Valley Lodge, in Halfway.  Funny thing, that short stay in Halfway really impacted and influenced our future.  How many times did we say to each other over the years, "Is that what Babette would do?"  Or, "How would Babette make this better?"  I remember sitting on the porch one night, eating dinner by lantern light, watching the bats pour out of the attic of the old church across the street.  Hundreds of them!  That church later became Babette's art gallery. This year I will be purchasing a print from her titled "Cornucopia" so I can always remember our first days as a married couple.  (For those of you who don't know the story:  Babette Beatty, the inn-keeper at the B&B, was the first Sports Illustrated swimsuit model and a really cool lady.  She infused the world around her with the perfect combination of rural living, fancy living, and graciousness.  She had such an ease about her.  Bill and I both wanted to be like her when we grew up!)

In the 20 years of our marriage, I've been pregnant or nursing a baby for more than half that time. Because of that, our anniversaries have never amounted to anything grand.  Most of the time we spent the day with our kids doing something highly unromantic.  At least probably not what others would consider romantic.  To us, we were content to be doing the simple, domestic tasks of our life.  Our first anniversary (I was pregnant with Madeline) was spent at Bob's Burgers on Commercial St. in Salem.  It rained.  In the past few years, I think we always celebrated at a baseball field.  I remember last year (spent at Keizer Little League Park) Bill bought me a lawn chair and a piece of cake from Konditerei.  He knew me well.

So where do I go from here?  How do I celebrate now?  Do I celebrate?!  I do remember.  I will always remember.  Bill was my best friend.  I chose wisely.  (Remember that line from "The Last Crusade" where the knight is guarding the Holy Grail?)  I really did.  I suppose the best thing to do is celebrate like we always have.  There's just one thing missing though.

Bill, I finished your list.  That's my present to you.

College. Mother Earth News. Words.

Today I helped Madeline register for college classes starting this fall.  It was a pretty simple and straightforward process.  A strong proficiency for independent learning is one of the benefits of homeschooling so I believe she'll have little trouble acclimating to this new education experience.  It would make Bill swell with pride knowing that his daughter will soon be attending college. Helping Madeline, as well as our other kids, find their paths, their vocations, their passion, is my most important job.  It's daunting, really, this immense responsibility.

I had the opportunity to spend a few hours at the "Mother Earth News Fair" in Albany this weekend.  So many inspiring ideas and products!  Though most things were seriously out of my price range.  It seemed funny to me that this modern push for self-sufficiency comes with such a high price tag.  How is that encouraging self-reliance?!    The highlight of my time at the fair was meeting Taryn and her family from the blog, "Wooly Moss Roots", as well as Amanda Soule, the author of the blog, "Soulemama". How fun to speak, face to face, with these lovely women after visiting their blogs for so many years.  Definitely the highlight.

So I've encountered a new domain in this new life of mine.  And I think I should preface these words with an explanation.  These words are not meant to illicit sympathy or pity from anyone.  I am not asking for renewed involvement or forced interest.  I'm simply sharing the feelings and experiences I come upon while traveling this path.  This is my journey and these are my musings.  So to quote a friend, "Take all I say with a grain of salt."  (Yeah,  I told you you'd never live those words down, my friend.)

In the past several weeks, it seems like the world around me has begun to move away from the original shock and sadness that was felt after Bill's death.  The phone calls have diminished.  The letters and cards have stopped arriving in the mailbox. (The exception being my dear friends from afar who encourage me regularly--usually when I'm at my lowest.  How do y'all know?!)  Help is no longer offered as readily.  I'm not complaining.  Quite the contrary, as I value the quietness and solitude that whispers to me from the margins.  It's just fascinating to me that there seems to be an unspoken time frame for this grieving.  It's not such a harsh and jarring transition.  It's much more subtle.  And I do realize that there is no malicious intent in any of it.  Life just moves on.  And I'm genuinely glad that others can move forward.  It can be exhausting trying to assure people that everything is "okay."

But I'm not ready.

I still feel the shock and the intense sadness.  If anything, those feelings have only gotten stronger with time as I begin to realize the depth of our loss.  The realness starts to sink in, plunging so deep into my soul that it's hard to understand where, or if, it can possibly end.  My world, our world, will not ever be the same.  Not ever.

I believe that this path will force more changes upon us yet.  New people will travel along with us and others will choose to turn off and go in a different direction.  But I don't have that choice.  I must continue on this path.  It is my reality.  I don't get to turn around and retrace my steps or venture to the north or south. east or west.  Nope.  I just have to keep plodding along, praying that there are no villainous predators lurking in the shadows ahead, ready to mock us or hurt us.  That, instead, there is the occasional kind soul who offers us a piece of chocolate or a drink of water.  One who speaks words of encouragement that originate from a place of genuine love rather than originating from their own selfish intentions.

So for me (or us), life does not just go on.  Where I have been before, I may no longer be welcome.  Where I never thought I'd be, I may, indeed, now reside there.

Again, these are my words and my feelings shared for no other reason than to help make sense of this life I'm living.  If you disagree with my words or dislike how it makes you feel, then don't visit here anymore.  But, I must tell you there will be an upcoming post about using chalk paint.  It won't be a downer.  On the contrary.  That chalk paint is awesome stuff.

This Night.

As I write this, Sarah is snuggled next to me, asleep, holding her Daddy's picture in her arms along with her beloved Taggies.  And this is after she explained to me that sometimes she pretends he's sitting in the living room reading a book.  Or that sometimes she talks to him when she's playing.  And that when she gets into bed she pretends that he's lying next to her.  And at baseball games she forgets that he's not in the dugout.

Tell me, how do you respond to that?

Me, I just cry.  Silently, but the tears still wet my pillow.