WriteRN Ramblings

In April, the big tree in the middle of the back yard came down.

It was at least 40 years old. The branches spread over most of the back yard, rendering grass growing nearly impossible.

Squirrels nested high in its branches, and used the nearby tree limbs as an overhead highway.

My lawn was covered most of the year with the hard little brown leaves that these oak trees drop year round.

The roots knobbed up all over, tripping me if I wasn’t careful.

It’s sister tree broke in two a couple of year ago. In the dead of night, a huge thundering whoosh outside my window woke me.

Half the tree has cleaved off, fortunately landing away from the house, spanning across the fence and it’s lacing of confederate jasmine.

How that old fence held up, I’ll never know.

Late last year, we spent the afternoon at a nearby friends house, floating in their pool.

It was the beginning of an idea.

Covid sealed the deal.

We love to travel, and do it often. In the 15 years we’ve been together, we’ve gone all over the country…and on many cruises, and trips to Europe.

Grounded for over a year, we decided to get an in ground pool.

I knew this meant an end to the big tree in the middle of the yard.

I spent the days before the excavation looking up at the tree – standing at its trunk, gazing into the lattice of branches and leaves, squinting when the sun peaked through.

I ran my hand over the bark…I took pictures. I told the tree thank you.

I was sad when they took it down. First, the branches were pared off, leaving it barren, as if it had been stripped by a hurricane.

The next day, they dug up the root ball, and pushed the mighty trunk over.

Today, after a few laps in the pool, I floated for a while.

I studied the trees that run along the edges of our fence on two sides. I watched the squirrels come so far – and stop. I followed the birds as they flew overhead, and kept going – no place to stop in the middle. Dragonflies floated over. High, high up, a bird of prey glided easily on unseen wind currents.

Twenty years of my life, I spent time under that tree, and the sister tree whose unseen damage scored it in half one night.

Now, I spend my days floating in my hole in the ground.

And I remember the tree.

lol

Has there ever been a lonelier time to be alive?

I listen to my audiobooks as I drive five hours a week to get to my travel nursing assignment. To and fro, I’m immersed in times past.

These couple of weeks, the novel was set during the dust storm. It was a dire time of famine, hunger, desperation, death, and loss.

They had community. There were no devices to keep them in a fake world – they lived and breathed the world that they woke up to every day.

There were friendships – actual human, face to face conversations. They went to each other’s homes, broke bread, brought fresh produce, checked in on one another.

They went to church where the star was the Bible. They humbly served each other, and were in community.

For over a decade I’ve talked of the great big church, and the abject loneliness therein. The inner circle of country club Christianity- a scourge that gets worse by the year.

I sought connection as a young child, and found it in church. In community. In relationships with like minded people, who walked the walk.

For fifteen years, that has been missing in my life.

My days are spent alone. My phone rarely rings. I speak to my family, and I see my son and his family weekly when I babysit my grandson. The rest of the time, silence. Solitude.

Loneliness.

I’m purposing to spend more time with my loved ones – the ones who live an hour away, and the ones who are states away, I call more frequently.

The vast, vast amounts of my time are spent alone…and yes, lonely. I commute to work for days. I’m home and see my husband when he gets off work, and on weekends I’m home.

I’m tired. Tired of being lonely. Tired of fighting for community. Exhausted in striving to get the Body to do what it should do…but won’t.

Coupled with my depression, the loneliness compounds the negative narrative that tries to insinuate itself into my thoughts. My will to fight for connection wanes when I feel I can’t even get out of bed some days.

My dogs surround me. They bring comfort, as they know I am sad. Again. Still.

It’s not the same as community.

That’s what I need.

Marriage anniversary number 13.

Come January, we’ve been together 15 years. officially together longer than any of our previous relationships. Definitely happier for a longer duration in either of our historys!!

We are a blended family.

When we started this journey, I had 3 children, he had 2. Their ages ranged from 22 years old to 10 years old.

Since then? We lost a pregnancy. We gained another son, three daughters in love, a son in love, and six grandchildren. With two more on the way!

Has it been easy? No. Has it been worth it? Absolutely!

Persistence pays.

I’m feeling extremely blessed. I’m in love, and I’m loved – cherished, in fact.

It’s humbling.

Two people who had been betrayed by unfaithful spouses took another chance. Trusted God. Moved toward a happy future.

We’ve been able to go on lots of trips, traveling to Europe, Mexico, multiple cruises, weekend getaways, and just days on the beach.

Sometimes, it’s too easy to get distracted by the noise – the ones who don’t accept us. The ones that oppose our marriage – still! The people who should be on our side… but aren’t.

I’m learning to let go of those who don’t accept the fact that this happened, is happening, and will be happening, until death do us part.

We have learned to find those who love us, and we cherish them.

Other times, it’s the two of us.

That’s okay. Our relationship changes anf grows, and gets stronger for it.

We’ve taken our experience and try to help others who are starting down the blended family road.

The kids are grown – most are successful and happy. Some are struggling – but they are adults, with their own lives.

We are here for all of them.

Now, it’s him and I.

As it will be for what I hope is decades to come.

“And many more”…

Blessed, indeed.

I wake up in the late afternoon for my drive to work.

I’m a travel nurse, and I am deep in southern Georgia, driving country roads to and from my rural hospital assignment.

Summer is just around the corner, and already, the eastern sky is an angry grey, pop up showers visible along the horizon.

I get off the main road after 2 exits, and spend the bulk of my 25 minute drive running alongside the railroad tracks. To my left, miles and miles of farmland.

Right now, early corn is already tasseling. The large irrigation systems are sprinkling the fields, moving slowly, row by row. On my right behind the train tracks, newly planted fields curve and twist along the edge of stands of southern pine.

I smell rain, and soon my windshield is splattered with a few minutes of rain, even as the sun is waning.

I spot a farm stand on the right, and the barn door is open, so I pull across the empty road, bumping across the red clay, parking next to the worn concrete foundation.

On the long covered slab, a farmer has pulled up a tractor, its scoop full of zipper peas. Methodically, he and his wife feed the peas into the shelling machine, and I’m excited, knowing I’m going home with fresh shelled peas.

Inside the big worn doors, a variety of fresh picked produce awaits. Corn, tomatoes, green beans, yellow squash, cucumbers – I sigh with happiness as I peruse the offerings.

The intoxicating aroma of fresh peaches calls me, and I pick up a box after checking them, holding the fuzzy fruit to my nose, and inhaling deeply. “They were picked yesterday!” the young woman tells me – as if I couldn’t appreciate the wonderful fresh glory before me. “I’ll take a box” I respond, rattling off my order.

A barefoot little pigtailed girl walks up, half eaten fruit in her hand. “I’m eating a peach!” She smiles up at me, presenting the fruit proudly, her hand dripping juice. “I love peaches!” I respond. She’s pleased, and runs back out to watch her grandparents shell peas.

I talk to the young woman a few minutes as she tells me the story of her twin girls birth – I work with her cousin, and we talk, as women do, about babies and birth, and the miracle therein.

I tell her I’m driving home tomorrow. She tells me if I ever need produce and they aren’t open, just message her and she’ll get Mama to set some back for me.

Arms full of produce, I place it all carefully in the back of my Jeep, waving happily as I head on in to work.

I’ve bought enough fresh produce to eat, give to Mama and my kids, and put up fresh for the long summer months without farm fresh goodness.

I pass the grain mill, slowing as I hit the edges of town. I turn at the second of two lights, passing historic downtown as the road quickly heads into the small neighborhood that borders the farmland heading out of town.

Back at the hospital, I bring in the produce for safe keeping overnight.

And every time I pass the box of peaches, the sweet nectar wafts past me, making me smile all over again.

I’m immediately going to age myself by posting this.

I feel compelled to anyway.

Dear 99% of people with internet access: you are never, ever, ever going to be famous.

Quit Facebooking, and get some face to face time serving others.

Clock out of Tiktok, and spend time getting a trade that will support you, instead of depending on others to do so.

Tip toe away from Twitter, and spend more time listening.

Seek wisdom, not attention.

You are never going to be famous. Or even well known.

You’ll just be broke.

Sincerely,

Every generation before the Internet.

Pregnancy is truly a miracle.

The growing of another human – or humans! A precious few months. Anticipation. Excitement. Nervousness.

The private moments of the mysterious movements beneath your skin. The taps. Hiccups. Bumps.

Then one day, birth. We are told the pain is coming – some of us take classes to prepare.

There is no real preparation for the pain – we want to run away from it, but we can’t. So we focus, breathe, and after some time…the tiny human is removed from us. The cord is cut.

The first separation.

Years of snuggles, one on one care. Never more than a fingertip away. Carrying them because you have to…and you want to. Smelling sweet baby scalps, kissing elbow dimples, watching and waiting for firsts…first smiles, laughs, or words. They are totally dependent on us.

Then slowly, they are not.

Chubby legs that kicked as they lay in their crib start to crawl. Hesitantly, they stand…balance…walk. All too soon, they are running.

Foe the next few years, we are chasing them.

Trying to protect them from dangers seen and unseen. Clasping their hands tight as we cross the street. Hovering close as they play in the park. Escorting them to the bathroom.

Then they start school. We smile reassuringly as they climb the enormous steps on the bus.

Then we walk back into the house…alone.

Our baby is now in the hands of strangers all day. We wait to see them, excited to hear their tales, and cherish the papers they bring us.

Fast forward, too fast, to high school graduation. We remember our own ceremony, and our gut clinches as we look at the future looming ahead – a future they barrel into, fearless, even as we dread it.

They are legal adults now. Making decisions that are good, and bad. Our parent hearts rejoice when they succeed, and we spend sleepless nights in anxious worry when they go off on a path we know will not end well.

Each milestone is a further separation – marriage. Having a family. Moving out into their own lives.

They always remain attached to our hearts, though….that’s the one place the cleaving is never complete.

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’ll keep my head up.

I’ll start my ascent.

I’ll trust the Lord.

He’s got me. He’s never let me go.

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.

I’m done with the pain of those decades.

As they say – I don’t live there anymore.

It’s one step in front on the other…

Forward.

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.

I’m an unabashed tree hugger.

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.