I saw a T-shirt today in the Charleston Visitors Center that read:
Carolina Girls Wear Flip Flops And Pearls
No wonder I love the South.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Hold It Close.
For a long time, going through her things was almost mechanical. Clothes, aprons, jewelry... they spread before me. I was calloused, lost, and unable to let it matter. Now, I hoard it all. I would I could harvest it all back, hold it close, gather it near. I want to touch the things she touched. I want to smell, love, and fabricate them as part of me. I want every teapot, every ring. Now I can deal with it. Now I can face it. The bluntness of the first introductions to her things without her has worn away like leather on a sofa. There is now room to acknowledge. There is now room to feel. There is now room to reminisce. There is now room to love. There is now room to miss. So of the things that are still left, of the things that are still present, I will carefully touch. Of things that are still hers, I will endear.
I Long For Water.
I long for water, really I do.
I put four creamers in my coffee
And I smile as I do.
I long for the breeze
Of looking at the sea
And seeing nothing but ocean
Staring back at me.
I long for water, really I do.
I put four creamers in my coffee
And I smile as I do.
I put four creamers in my coffee
And I smile as I do.
I long for the breeze
Of looking at the sea
And seeing nothing but ocean
Staring back at me.
I long for water, really I do.
I put four creamers in my coffee
And I smile as I do.
Most Intimate Gift.
To my friend Kate Vasey, since I know now exactly who is and who is not allowed to read my blog, I dare share this intimate story. I dare say you would be bashful that I do, but I take the liberty to share what an incredible friend you were to me this last weekend. So I guess, in a way, in effect, this is a letter to you... and only for my closest and bestest of friends to read. I hope its okay with you.
My dearest friend Kate Vasey came this past weekend. She flew in late on a Friday night, not feeling well, but not telling me that she had been in bed sick at home that week because she wanted to be able to come to me. It was a last minute flight, first enabled for November, but the emergency friendship took a flight of encouragement as tears billowed out of me on the phone the last couple of weeks. So she cleared it with her husband, booked a ticket, and within just over a week, was hugging me close and caring over me.
We went for walks, strode through Freedom Park, sat on benches and watched the ducks. We catered tea to each other, gathered apple ingredients, and sat for long hours at a time. She hugged me, held me, and cherished me. Letting my heart be my heart and my words be whatever they needed to be said. She released me from myself.
My counselor asked this week what grief was like at this time. I told her how much I cried and how often I simply was overwhelmed with the casting of emotions each day before Kate came and the days she stood at my side. Both my counselor and I knew why: Because I was allowed to just let it all down and be held by a friendship that carries no burden with the weight of me. So already my emotions had unraveled, just knowing that the intimacy of her friendship was coming to walk beside me.
So we sat there, we talked, we shared, we cried. Well, I cried. But this gift of friendships is most cupped in the story I tell below...
We had spent the evening doing everything fun. Doing walks, strolling stores, sniffing candles, and going to the grocery store. And somewhere towards the end of it, I was beat inside by the consuming character of mourning. I tried to hide it, and smile and discuss carmeled apples, but I finally had to admit my defeat. We went home and I crawled my way upstairs, trying to hide what was going on inside. She walked up just behind and I turned around and cried, and into her hug, she came beside.
She held my hand and led me to the bed, we laid on top white coverlets, and I cried. She said nothing, just held my hand. And forever the tears just wept down my pained face. I tried to find words to describe, or something to tell her, but rarely could anything come. Just the tears that fell unashamed down my face and the squeezing of her hand around me.
For a long time, maybe nearly an hour, time stood still. I have no idea how long, but I know in those moments I was given the most intimate gift. I was given the friend who simply slid beside me in silence and held my hand while I cried.
To a friendship like this, to a grace so pure, there is nothing that a blessing as such could moreso endure. To this I am thankful, to Kate, I am freed. To the other friendships like this, my heart is with you indeed.
Thank you for friendship, thank you for the gift. Thank you for the grace, to meet me in my need.
My dearest friend Kate Vasey came this past weekend. She flew in late on a Friday night, not feeling well, but not telling me that she had been in bed sick at home that week because she wanted to be able to come to me. It was a last minute flight, first enabled for November, but the emergency friendship took a flight of encouragement as tears billowed out of me on the phone the last couple of weeks. So she cleared it with her husband, booked a ticket, and within just over a week, was hugging me close and caring over me.
We went for walks, strode through Freedom Park, sat on benches and watched the ducks. We catered tea to each other, gathered apple ingredients, and sat for long hours at a time. She hugged me, held me, and cherished me. Letting my heart be my heart and my words be whatever they needed to be said. She released me from myself.
My counselor asked this week what grief was like at this time. I told her how much I cried and how often I simply was overwhelmed with the casting of emotions each day before Kate came and the days she stood at my side. Both my counselor and I knew why: Because I was allowed to just let it all down and be held by a friendship that carries no burden with the weight of me. So already my emotions had unraveled, just knowing that the intimacy of her friendship was coming to walk beside me.
So we sat there, we talked, we shared, we cried. Well, I cried. But this gift of friendships is most cupped in the story I tell below...
We had spent the evening doing everything fun. Doing walks, strolling stores, sniffing candles, and going to the grocery store. And somewhere towards the end of it, I was beat inside by the consuming character of mourning. I tried to hide it, and smile and discuss carmeled apples, but I finally had to admit my defeat. We went home and I crawled my way upstairs, trying to hide what was going on inside. She walked up just behind and I turned around and cried, and into her hug, she came beside.
She held my hand and led me to the bed, we laid on top white coverlets, and I cried. She said nothing, just held my hand. And forever the tears just wept down my pained face. I tried to find words to describe, or something to tell her, but rarely could anything come. Just the tears that fell unashamed down my face and the squeezing of her hand around me.
For a long time, maybe nearly an hour, time stood still. I have no idea how long, but I know in those moments I was given the most intimate gift. I was given the friend who simply slid beside me in silence and held my hand while I cried.
To a friendship like this, to a grace so pure, there is nothing that a blessing as such could moreso endure. To this I am thankful, to Kate, I am freed. To the other friendships like this, my heart is with you indeed.
Thank you for friendship, thank you for the gift. Thank you for the grace, to meet me in my need.
Anything to Anybody.
Today I am not going to be anything to anybody. I am not going to be a listener. I am not going to be a supporter. I am not going to be a friend, a confidant, a carer. I am not going to be on my cell phone; I am not going to be on my e-mail. I am not going to care or be carrier of others, or wonder what that looks like for them. Today I am going to take care of me. Today I am going to absorb myself in myself and completely block out all others. Today I am not going to worry if I am saying too much, saying too little, or caring if I ask reciprocal questions. Today, I am just going to care about me.
~~
PS -- and to all of you who do read this, I do appreciate how much you continue to care for me in these months, and how much you do let me care about me. Thank you for the gift of grace.
~~
PS -- and to all of you who do read this, I do appreciate how much you continue to care for me in these months, and how much you do let me care about me. Thank you for the gift of grace.
Sabbatical.
I'm taking myself on a Sabbatical today. And you have no idea how good it feels. I write from a little bakery and cafe, tucked away in some unknown town in South Carolina on my way to Charleston. The seat cushions are decorated with cheerful colored strips, bright colored gerbera daisys are potted in collaberating clay vases, woven baskets are hug from above, and boutique-style mugs and trickets shelved for sale line the walls. It is the most beautiful, refreshing place I have been since leaving for Charlotte.
Pastries and delicacies spread through cream flats, sprawling their way beneath the glass, lined for onlookers to behold and dream and wonder and glimmer as they pick their chosen out. I find a grace stretch across me, catering to this place and letting it awash me. The fifty year old woman aproned behind the counter endearing, polishing off orders and delights for customers, and caring enough to come around and chatter with me. The others spread service with contented smiles and add a few extra creams to my coffee, just for me. And my apple tart and blueberry muffin sit beside me, asking me to be delighted. To see possibility in them, and reclaim this piece of the day.
So it is morning. The beginning of my grace, the beginning of my sabbatical. It is morning, the part of the day where I have turned my phone off, released myself from duties or being, and simply am walking away to free me. To let myself rest, to smile when I want to, and frown when I need to. To gather treasures in a basket and link and sew them away, back into my heart, and piece together what is broken. This morning is the first day of my sabbatical. And today I will be free to be me.
Pastries and delicacies spread through cream flats, sprawling their way beneath the glass, lined for onlookers to behold and dream and wonder and glimmer as they pick their chosen out. I find a grace stretch across me, catering to this place and letting it awash me. The fifty year old woman aproned behind the counter endearing, polishing off orders and delights for customers, and caring enough to come around and chatter with me. The others spread service with contented smiles and add a few extra creams to my coffee, just for me. And my apple tart and blueberry muffin sit beside me, asking me to be delighted. To see possibility in them, and reclaim this piece of the day.
So it is morning. The beginning of my grace, the beginning of my sabbatical. It is morning, the part of the day where I have turned my phone off, released myself from duties or being, and simply am walking away to free me. To let myself rest, to smile when I want to, and frown when I need to. To gather treasures in a basket and link and sew them away, back into my heart, and piece together what is broken. This morning is the first day of my sabbatical. And today I will be free to be me.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Lipstick.
I'm wearing lipstick for you today, mom. I haven't been able to wear it besides your death. But today, I'm wearing lipstick.
You and Kelly would be proud of me today, mom. My purple jacket bought for me on the sidewalk sale in South Haven last year is donned. Calming, strengthing, and prideful I wear it, decorated with your choice of purple, gray, and silver beaded pearls from Premier.
I wear it proudly.
My stance is tall today, my head is held high. In your purple jacket, your pearls, and your lipstick on my lips.
You would be proud. And that makes me proud.
~
I add to this the verse that went through my head this morning: "She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come." Proverbs 31: 25. This is the verse the Lord wore over me this Friday.
You and Kelly would be proud of me today, mom. My purple jacket bought for me on the sidewalk sale in South Haven last year is donned. Calming, strengthing, and prideful I wear it, decorated with your choice of purple, gray, and silver beaded pearls from Premier.
I wear it proudly.
My stance is tall today, my head is held high. In your purple jacket, your pearls, and your lipstick on my lips.
You would be proud. And that makes me proud.
~
I add to this the verse that went through my head this morning: "She is clothed with strength and dignity, she can laugh at the days to come." Proverbs 31: 25. This is the verse the Lord wore over me this Friday.
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