I’ve been at the end of my rope before, many times.
Circumstances created by me, or circumstances beyond my control- both of them led to an avalanche of detritus that assailed me as I clung to my proverbial rope, trying to hang on.
I tied a knot and hung on.
Usually, I can feel the slipping. The formerly steady ground starting to give. A slow, steady, slide into an abyss of overwhelming hopelessness.
When I feel it, I go into self care mode. I eat clean and mindfully. I exercise. Try to get enough sleep. Do my devotions. Pray.
Most of the time, I will get back on steady ground, and the sand and gravel that made my path a slippery slope are ground down, whisked away in the wind, and I’m on the path to calm, serene trust.
Right now, I feel as if I’ve been shoved off a cliff.
I grabbed the rope and tied the knot even as I swung through the air, and I’m clinging to it, even as I am being bashed into the side of the rock face.
Cold granite against my face, rough. My feet are dangling. My hands are stinging from the rough braid of the rope. My arms strain from the effort.
I wasn’t ready this time.
I hadn’t planned on becoming a rock climber, but as I catch my breath and center myself, I look up.
I’m sitting in my living room, surrounded by my dogs. There is no noise aside from the humming appliances, and the occasional flutter of wind chimes from the porch on this breezy spring night. No TV. No internet.
I’ve lived in this house for almost thirteen years.
Before that, my prior record was three years of consecutive dwelling.
Many, many times, I lived in a place for a year or less.
I’ve been through a lot. Made some poor choices. Did dumb stuff.
I’d like to think we all did.
I know this – I’m not going back to the chaos, havoc, and destruction of abusive relationships.
Been there, done that. Have the restraining orders and PTSD to prove it.
It was a lifetime ago.
I’m older and yes, finally, wiser.
Recently I was hooked into a conversation about those times. My blood sugar went through the roof. I couldn’t sleep. I was pacing.
Now, days and many conversations with my wise eldest son later, I’m sitting calmly in my home, reflecting while my very good husband works.
There is a thing called the sea of forgetfulness that God puts my sins into – I confess and repent, and He forgives and forgets. It’s like it never happened.
Those who know me and love me give me grace, and that keeps me humble.
Those who don’t – well, I’m sorry if you are angry, but I don’t have to dig up the past. I won’t. It was bad enough the first time.
I’ve made my peace with it – and for me, peace is what I need. For my emotional, physical, and spiritual well being.
I’ve had enough strife for a lifetime.
The years God grants me will be spent in pursuing love. Peace. Joy.
I’m moving forward, trying to grow and learn what each day has for me. Trying to be the person God put me on this planet to be – a better disciple, daughter, sister, mother, Nana, and friend.
Five lambs were orphaned around the same time when their mothers died at the farm.
They had to be bottle fed or die – there was no choice.
The farmers wife took on the task, awkwardly juggling bottles and lambs until, eventually, she was able to feed all five at once, bottles in each hand, and between her knock knees, fore and aft.
When the lambs no longer needed the bottle, they were placed on the grassy hill, but every time the farmers wife walked past the electric fence that penned them in, they would run after her as soon as they spotted her. “Ma! Ma!” they would bleat.
At one time, they threaded their way through the electric wires, and all got a mild zap as they escaped the pen, running after the farmers wife. Patiently she put them all back into the grassy pen.
The next time she passed, the little brown lamb had learned his lesson. One zap and he was not willing to chance the pain for the gain for a potential meal.
Two of the lambs would run along the fence, yelling at the farmers wife, as if their insistent bleats would cause her to stop and feed them where they were, in the comfort of their grassy hill.
One lamb didn’t care. He saw her, he remembered the nourishment he got from her, and he flung himself through the fence. Over and over again, he would escape what held him back, and chase down the one who had kept him alive.
I want to be like that little lamb.
I want to have that determination to chase down what the Shepherd has for me. I want to be insistent that He carry me when I need it, tell me what I need to hear, put me where I need to be…when I need to be there.
Don’t let me be the lamb that comes against a little pain and holds back from my potential. Worse still, I don’t want to be like the lambs making all the noise, wanting to be catered to in my comfort zone.
Let me recognize my Shepherd…know His voice, and follow hard after Him.
Some of my happiest memories are times spent outdoors, surrounded by trees.
I remember the Wasatch Front in spring with the fluttering leaves of the cottonwood. The Uintas in summer with the evergreens reaching all the way up to the stars. A Southern Utah drive down to the Grand Canyon in fall, when the Aspen quaked and shouted its golden beauty in between the green-black depth of the forest.
I recall flying to Ohio annually in the fall, just to see the leaves turning from green to orange, yellow, or crimson.
That thrill never leaves me!
Here in the Deep South, the trees have adapted to their hurricane blown environs. The live oaks are squat, with branches touching the ground or bending to get there, draped in Spanish moss, and covered in grey green assortments of lichen. Their leaves don’t turn colors in the fall – they drop by the thousands, small and firm from the battles they have done with the winds over the years.
My yard doesn’t have any live oaks – they are protected by law, and cannot be cut down once their trunks reach a certain diameter.
Nevertheless, there are trees – lots of them.
They have provided shade for the backyard during the sweltering summer months.
They hold the nests of the squirrels that my German Shepherd loves to chase every day when the screen door squeaks open.
They wave furiously during each tropical disturbance, flinging lose acorns, leaves, and branches all over the yard as proof of their battle.
My son carved his initials into the largest tree, in a spontaneous act that now serves as a growth marker.
Right now, that tree is being felled.
After two decades in Florida, and a year of Covid time out, we decided to get a pool, and to make our back yard our own oasis.
Three trees will be felled to make this suburban dream come to pass.
I’m wincing as each large branch hits the ground. I can’t help but think of the years I have sat on the back patio, grilling dinner, watching the dogs, throwing the frisbee…all under the watchful branches of these three trees.
A couple of years ago, a mighty, muffled noise awoke me in the middle of the night. I ran outside and saw one of these trees had cleaved itself in two, and fallen in half – thankfully, away from the house. I ran my hand over the scar of the freshly torn wood, smelling the life of it strong in my nostrils, bare white wood glowing in the moonlight.
Piece by piece it was hauled off, but I wanted to keep the largest portion, perfect as a bench to sit by the fire pit.
Even as I spoke this wish, though, the humidity and moisture that is coastal Florida was working on this log. Rot would soon set in, and bugs were heading in for a feast on the dead wood.
The chain saw is buzzing furiously, and I don’t want to see these three go. I know there is a season for everything – and even as land is being laid bare and burned just a few miles away for new housing developments, I know I will miss the trees.
And yes…I hugged them all, and gave them all a prayer of thanks.
It was a toughness born of persistence. I kept falling down, and I’d get back up.
I understand the pathology that led my to early adolescent choices – choices that led me down a long road of abusive relationships, poverty, struggle…and worse.
Year by year, through much therapy and prayer, I have slowly put a life together.
The tough girl is gone, though.
This woman can knuckle down and power through when I need to – those rough hewn survival paths are forever etched in my soul.
On the outside, I can appear whole. Still. Together.
I am not.
I am broken.
Oh, most days, I do well. I have my routines, and they carry me from minute to minute, hour to hour, day to day.
Like the beautiful Kintsugi pottery, each little crack from my shattered life has been painstakingly put back together again.
Until.
The past came harkening last week. It wanted to dig, and it wanted to put a microscope on each and every hard fought mile this weary soul has endured.
My first instinct was to defend myself.
Then I realized I cannot.
I don’t have to.
Although whole, I am a more fragile vessel than the one I was when I endured abuse, torment, pain, and adultery. And so much more.
I don’t want to go back to the days where I was so hard that the implosion that finally wrecked me left me shattered.
Piece by piece, loving relationships and a loving God have put me back together.
I’m whole.
I’m broken.
I know my limits.
And just as I’d set a fragile piece of pottery on a high shelf to protect it, so I must protect myself.
As the plane descended through the grey haze that occluded my view of the landscape below, I could feel my anticipation build.
Suddenly, there it was – farms and countryside, church steeples and baseball fields, and the great Smoky Mountains.
An hour drive from the airport, and I’m on a barely paved road that bumps and jostles me around the corner and up a hill, where I park my rental wherever I can find a spot near the farmhouse perched at the top of the hill.
The kids run to great me, carrying puppies and carefree as they can be. Friendly smiles break forth from the two Woofers, and I wave as I inhale deeply, taking it all in.
A big dinner is being prepared, soon served generously, family style. The kids are friendly and shy by turn, and we talk about our favorite books around a big wooden table.
The kids scatter, and the dogs head outside to join us on my tour of the farm.
Fruit trees are blossoming, or budding with promise to. The sheep quietly munch their fresh patch of grass while the lambs bleat “Ma! Ma!” We walk along, crunching through gravel and dodging scat, while the rascally lambs jump through electric fence, in search of a bottle to suckle on.
Over here, a pond. There, the rolling hen house, surrounded by dozens of chickens and roosters, milling about and giving a low warning “awwwww” if we get too close.
The air cools by the minute as the sun wanes as the breeze picks up. Daylight savings gives us time to sit on the porch, talking openly and honestly for as long as we want, and it’s as refreshing to me as the sweet country air.
I sit in the quiet stillness in the hollow of the hills. Night has fallen, and I want to bottle this feeling and carry it South.
I’m country – I know it in my bones. I’ve traveled the world, and spent most of my life moving every few years.
This I know, though – where there are mountains, farms and fields, dandelions and katydids, daffodils and lilacs…this is home to me.
Until the day I can come back and set my roots, I’ll cherish every moment I spend here, no matter how brief it is.
The swimmer was out just a little bit from the beach – halfway from here to the horizon.
Everyday, the swimmer ventured to this same spot – far enough to be a challenge, but not so far to be in danger.
The swimmer taught themselves how to swim. No one had ever shown them – the swimmer had to observe. Practice. Learn the hard way.
The swimmer started in the shallow water, alone, while all those around them played, running in or out at will. The swimmer had a goal.
Occasionally the swimmer would look longingly at those around them, laughing, grouping, eating, playing. The swimmer knew they had to learn to survive,though…so they went out a little deeper.
No one paid attention to the swimmer – not really. They might wave. Nod a head. Say “how are you”, while their head was already turning away.
The swimmer moved further into the deep. It was inevitable.
Eventually, the beachgoers might glance up from their frolic and watch the fumbling strokes of the swimmer. They would shake their head – make comments on how poor a swimmer they were.
No one came out to show the swimmer how to correctly swim.
On rough days, the beachgoers were no where to be seen. The walkers would see the swimmer in that same spot, and shake their head. “Fool! Don’t they know how dangerous it is?”
No one yelled to the swimmer to come in.
No one warned the swimmer of the potential danger.
No one went to save them.
The swimmer kept trying. Kept going out to that spot. Kept swimming.
One day, the swimmer was not on that spot midway to the horizon.
I am home between travel nursing shifts, so I treated myself to a pedicure.
I settled into the massage chair, and emptied my mind if the stresses of travel, Covid, weather…etc.
I spent some time watching the nature scenes in the screen on the wall across from my chair.
The scenes were seasonal, rotating from spring, summer, autumn, and winter.
Over the course of less than half an hour, a year’s worth of seasons flashed by.
I glanced to my right. A little girl had come in with her grandmother, and was getting her nails painted. She was probably 5 or 6, flipping her ponytail around exuberantly. Her shirt had a unicorn, in contrast to her camouflage leggings. I smiled as she prattled on about anything that crossed her mind. She reminded me that I, too, was once a little girl who would talk constantly- to anyone, about anything.
To my left, a woman in her 80’s. She, like me, was getting a pedicure. Her legs were pale, and spider webs of purple veins traced near the surface, where age spots dotted her calves. Her skin was paper thin, and her toe began to bleed as they clipped her nail. “I take blood thinners”, she explained.
I looked down into my lap at my own hands…fingers still long and slender as they were when I was younger. Now, though, the skin on the back of my hands is getting the tell-tale pattern of fine lines that increase as I age, no matter how much hand lotion I slather on regularly.
My hair, long and well kept, no longer has the youthful fullness and rich natural color of little miss camo unicorn.
I’m sitting between the extremes, watching the seasons flash by, and for a minute, vertigo overtakes me, causing me to close my eyes to steady myself.
Time relentlessly moves forward.
With a sigh, I close my eyes and relax in the massage chair.
I have friends. A very small circle, and most of them live in other states, far away from me. If I ever need anything, they are just a phone call away.
I’m alone most of the time, as I’ve written about in a previous blog. Many things factor into this, but one of the reasons is betrayal.
It’s very difficult to think someone cares about you, only to find out they have been stabbing you in the back.
Today on my Time Hop, I reviewed some pictures from several years ago. The pictures show me happy, smiling, enjoying myself. At the time, I was.
Now, as I look at the pictures, it causes me pain. While was participating in those fun adventures with so-called friends, the majority of them would soon be talking about me in official documents, saying horrible things.
The most painful regarded a miscarriage I had just experienced, a very traumatic physical and emotional ordeal.
These women, who should have had sympathy for their alleged friend and fellow female, instead insinuated or outright declared that I had not had a loss – that I was lying about it.
It added insult to deep psychological injury.
Everyone heals in different ways. For me, getting up and moving forward, running as exercise with tears running down my face, was one way I dealt with the pain.
Instead of comfort, I was given skepticism and accusations.
I try to take people at face value. Unfortunately, sometimes that leads to genuine, long lasting pain.
This Time Hop is one that has caused me fresh pain. My smiling face belies the betrayal that was to come.
Two years ago, a similar insult came from a family member. I overheard a phone call that the caller did not know was on speaker. As they cut me to shreds to their family member, I stood in the kitchen, my heart dropping. I thought this person truly cared about me. For several minutes I was hearing things that I couldn’t believe were being said, in a tone of sheer contempt.
While I know now that all the alleged care for me was probably an act, it doesn’t make it feel better to know it.
The truth always comes out, though….and taints all the memories that came before the revelation.
I don’t know how he came to be in possession of the wedding ring set he gave his ex wife.
The divorce gave her the entire contents of the house except for the kids rooms, and a sigh of relief for my husband after years of turmoil.
Considering the circumstances that led to the demise of that marriage, it was fitting that she hand him back the rings he had given her in good faith.
What to do with them, though?
They had a daughter. I certainly didn’t want that ring set in my house, so I suggested he repurpose it – make it into a pendant. The one good thing in his eyes that came out of those long years was their children.
I suggested he give it to his daughter for her high school graduation gift. What brought him pain could bring her happiness.
The plan was made – he followed my advice, and made the wedding set into a pendant with a chain. He presented it to his daughter, along with the story behind it.
She cried. She was touched.
It didn’t last long – the necklace, that is. Shortly after going to college, in a story which is blurry around the edges, the necklace was lost.
Cue dramatic music as she ran through the rain in the early morning hours on campus, looking for the lost, beloved necklace that had slipped from her grasp.
It was never to be found again.
Everything happens for a reason.
It was the final loss after years of catastrophic losses, encapsulated in a piece of jewelry.
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