WriteRN Ramblings

Tonight we purchased an eight foot tall Frazier fir from a tent in a large home goods parking lot.

It arrived today by semi, culled from a tree farm somewhere on the border of Virginia and North Carolina.

Wrapped in twine, we cut it free to examine it, shaking it loose to let the branches fall down, away from its cocoon like wrapping.

We turned it this way and that, and found it to be acceptable. After cutting off a few low limbs and the sapped over stump, we had it netted, and brought it home.

It stands in my living room, a dark presence in the center of the bay windows.

The smell of it permeates everything. It feels colder, fresher, and more peaceful in here.

I like the dark tree.

It’s already sacrificed its life for the Christmas season. There is something in the purity of unadorned branches that draws me to it.

It draws up warm water from the stand, no longer growing in neat rows up north.

Now it silently resides here, with me. Alone.

I’ll vacuum up the tiny needles that fall in the weeks to come as it slowly fades away. I’ll smile and remember the first time I place an ornament my child made decades ago on its branches. I’ll lie under in the twinkling lights for hours in weeks to come, longing for Christmas past, and looking to Christmas future.

For now, though, I embrace it in my solitude. We are both alone. Bare. Silent.

As real as we can be, uprooted, transplanted, and repurposed.

Growing up, my parents may have had disagreements, but I didn’t see them.

My dad didn’t raise his voice at my mother, and he never, ever cursed her.

As children, we were expected to respect her. We were not allowed to talk disparagingly of her – we still are not.

This is the standard I expect. It’s the standard I grew up with.

When promise to love and to cherish, there is no cussing and disrespectful talk. It’s because there is self control.

It doesn’t matter if the other person pushes all your buttons. There are lines that shouldn’t be crossed.

Being committed to marriage means putting your spouse first. Loving them and honoring them means not yelling at them.

I leaned this the hard way through previous abusive relationships.

I will not accept that again.

I hope my children won’t, either.

Nearly twenty years ago, I was sleeping after a night shift. I was having a run of the mill dream – I remember dreaming, but the important thing was happening in the background.

As the dream wandered through my unconscious mind, occasionally I would hear a voice clearly speak the word “misogyny “.

The dream continued, and then again, a clear voice said “misogyny”.

At that time in my life, I had no idea what that word meant. When I awakened, this word was echoing in my head, so I went and looked it up.

Suddenly, everything in my life made sense.

I was in a relationship with a very abusive sociopath. I had gone to our non-denominational church and plead for help…I was rebuffed with the “wives obey your husband” crap.

Now I knew the root. My partner hated women – truly hated them, with a viciousness I had never before seen.

Worse,the “church” we attended promoted misogyny – the “Pastor” belittled his wife and mother in front of the congregation. The men were to be obeyed. The women were to take it.

Shortly after this dream I literally ran for my life, taking my children as far away from this pathology as I could.

Last night, a word interrupted my dream again. Much like that first dream 20 years ago, this word was being spoken clearly in the background. When I woke up, I again looked up the word – I was familiar with it, but was not applying it to my life.

The word was inexorable.

“Impossible to stop or prevent”.

I knew immediately in my soul what this referred to.

At first, I was discouraged. I began to pray for insight into what this meant.

I got it. This particular situation has been the same for over a decade. Despite the best intentions on my part from the beginning, there would be no changing the heart or attitude on the other side.

I know now without a doubt that this is a battle that must totally be fought on the spiritual side. The heart, mind, and will are inexorably set. Nothing will change it.

But God!

I’m a fixer and I’ve tried to be helpful. I’ve read dozens of books. I’ve studied the pathology. I’ve ignored. I’ve tried it all.

It’s out of my hands. It’s inexorable.

This is a part of my life, and although it is a frustrating and toxic situation, literally nothing I can do or say can or will change it.

So I am free at last. Free to turn it over to an all powerful God.

Free to put my energies into relationships that are open, healthy, and growing. Or at least have the potential to be so.

I’ll not fight against the inexorable march toward divisiveness and self destruction. The road to hell is indeed paved with good intentions.

I’ve let it go. At last! God, it’s in Your hands. I release it to You.

Oh, what a relief it is.

It’s Black Friday. All over the country, people have been camped outside of big box stores, or getting up at the crack of dawn.

Traffic jams are all around malls, and people are racing through the aisles of stores, looking for bargains.

Not me.

I do not have the shopping gene.

If you asked me my top ten least favorite things to do, shopping would be up there.

I shop rarely, and tactically. I have a goal, I go straight in to get it, and I leave.

None of this lingering around, looking at things, browsing the end caps.

Even at the grocery store, my eyes rarely leave my list. I know where everything is, and I get it and go.

Part of this is due, I’m sure, to my introvert nature. Less people, less chance I’ll have to talk to someone. I’m uncomfortable talking to strangers. Small talk in line gives me hives.

I’ll admit most of my non-grocery goods are bought off the internet. It is what works best for me.

I’ve never gone shopping on Black Friday- and that’s just fine with me.

I’m in the midst of a debilitating depressive exacerbation.

I’ve never had this happen on Thanksgiving. November is a loaded month for me, but I was doing great. Just last week I was enjoying New York City for the first time.

I came home, exhausted, on Sunday.

By Monday, the cloak of depressed had fallen heavily on my shoulders.

I then had unexpected bad news, and it sunk me even lower.

By Wednesday, I was on the edge of the abyss. I contacted my psychiatrist. He told me to do what I needed to do to take care of myself. I talked to my husband. I prayed I would feel better today.

I didn’t.

So I came into a busy day of cooking and I was running on empty.

Between yesterday and today at 1pm, I had cooked a feast for eleven people.

Make that ten. Because as soon as I got done cooking, I retired to bed. Where I remain.

I’m thankful my family and friends came and broke bread, and I’m thankful for the home and groceries to do it.

I’m thankful for the southern cooking my mom taught me, so that I could get through the big meal prep quickly and deliciously.

I’m thankful I had the intestinal fortitude to do what I needed to do to avoid a toxic situation that would have further damaged me while I’m vulnerable.

I hate depression, and I hate that it’s back with a vengeance.

But I’m thankful that this, too, will pass.

Hopefully, by then, I’ll feel like eating.

I hear I made quite a feast.

When I had my youngest child, I was newly separated from a wayward spouse.

Going to nursing school full time, pregnant, working full time, I had to move from my two story home into an 800 square foot apartment. Just two bedrooms, my sons shared a room, and I had the baby crib in my room.

I was a thousand miles from my family, and didn’t have much more than a crappy car and a few possessions to my name.

And three children under the age of ten.

Hard times, to be certain.

The irony is when things are that difficult, you don’t have time to focus on your feelings. It’s pure survival mode.

I had a newborn to nurture, a three year old who was very bright and active, and a ten year old going through an acute illness.

Too much? No choice.

I was running morning, noon, and night.

I cannot remember details of this time of my life. There are bits and pieces that will flash through my memory…asking the father for formula and diapers, only to be denied. Having no way to buy either. Carting the kids and the laundry through the snow to the laundry mat. Praying for my car to start on more occasions than I can remember.

Everything I had and was went into my children. I was trying to better myself so they could have a decent life.

No child of mine ever had a nursery – hand me down bassinets had to do. Cribs came from the church. Three kids, and only one baby shower between them, thrown by my church when I was a desperately poor mother of two with a baby on the way.

I look at the abundance that my grandsons have now, I am happy for them.

More importantly, they are all being raised in intact families, with parents committed to marriage and fidelity.

My fervent prayer is that it will ever be so for all of them. May the blight of divorce end here.

(Latona and Her Children Apollo and Diana, by W.H. Rinehart, currently on display at the New York Metropolitan Museum of Art)

Things change when you’re grown.

They change even more when your kids are grown.

I really miss my three kids and bonus son on the holidays.

My middle child and his pregnant bride have been nearby, and involved in all holiday events. It’s been great – I love my growing family.

I miss my other two. Painfully.

I understand my daughter and bonus son can’t be here – she’s married to a fantastic military spouse, and my bonus son serves in the military, living up north with his family. I support their service, but it makes it hard on my heart when I can’t see them, their spouses, and my grandsons.

I always miss them, but I miss them all the more on holidays.

My oldest child, who I basically grew up with and had a very close relationship with, has not been at my table for many years.

I love him. We talk often…but this is complicated. It’s no less painful every year that he doesn’t join us.

Holidays…so much joy, yet so much pain.

Thanksgiving day is just three days away, and I’ve made my grocery list, and have the meal planned. Different family members are set to bring their specialties, and cooking will begin the day before. Bring it on!

Long before there were food shows and television channels, I learned to cook at home, in the kitchen, with my mom showing me how it was done. The recipes for turkey, gravy, and dressing are not written down anywhere- I learned by standing next to Mama.

Everything is made from scratch, and butter is used…never margarine. Timing was also taught – when to do what, and how to get it all to come out together for a hot dinner.

I still can remember the first time my gravy came out as good as Mama’s. I was in my 20’s. It was a great day!!

Being the Southern cook that I am, I have come up with my own made from scratch recipes – a better fresh cranberry sauce, a new way of doing sweet potatoes.

It’s not thanksgiving without Mama’s cornbread dressing and white gravy, though.

I taught all my kids how to cook by example. They have a basis to form their own family traditions now.

Having the family tradition recipes helps us have a piece of home, wherever we are.

Ah, November. You are hard to bear!

I have trudged through nearly two thirds of this month, staying out of the dark side, for the most part.

I had a great few days exploring New York City for the first time, with all the wonderful art, food, culture, and energy. My hubby and I ran around like we were much younger.

Today I’m home, and I’m exhausted.

This afternoon I received confirmation of some expected, but still disheartening, news.

I also learned I’ll have to be dealing with something this week I don’t want to, and had no idea I would have to.

Plus, it’s November.

I’m letting go. It’s intentional. I know I don’t have control over any of this.

I forgive. Intentionally…but I still have a hurting heart.

I will continue to do my devotions, exercise, eat right, and avoid all toxic things…and toxic people as well.

I am grateful for my discernment, and I’ll use it to keep myself safe. And sane!

This week will pass. I will be thankful for my blessings. I will pray for my enemies.

I will overcome.

I’ve been in my car for seven and a half hours.

At approximately one o’clock this afternoon, it began to snow in the northeast – the first snow fall of the season.

By the time the class we were attending was over and we walked outside, the snow was falling heavily, and two inches had already accumulated. We began our 43 mile journey to our hotel, delighted to see snow, and enjoying the beauty of it. We made plans to go into the city for dinner, and to see the sights.

The first four hours, we were fortunate to avoid running off the road, spinning out, or colliding with other vehicles or curbs.

We were blessed to get behind a snowplow as it went up a hill, and stared amazed at the handful of stuck cars, their passengers standing by their cars, at a loss as to what to do.

We got into the city, a mere mile and a half from our hotel, and breathed a sigh of relief. We were there!

Or so we thought.

As I sit here, I’m amazed at the traffic nightmare I’ve witnessed the last three hours.

At no time is anyone obeying the traffic laws. Every intersection is a melee – evidently it’s mob rule here in this large Northeastern city. People drive into intersections against red lights, two lane roads are shoved into three lanes. We sit through cycle after cycle of traffic lights, while cross traffic illegally blocks the right of way, or cuts the traffic off. Over and over.

Horns blare for no apparent reason, with nothing moving in the direction we are traveling in.

I wonder, did the snowstorm bring this out in these drivers, or is there always absolutely no regard for the law? Or even courtesy?

Our gas is running low. My insulin pump is suspended – I’ve got to maintain my type one diabetes for an uncertain time period. We have a half a bottle of water, and a box of granola bars.

As the eighth hour in traffic approaches, the snow is long gone, replaced by a steady light rain.

I just want to make it another 0.9 miles before we run out of gas, food…or both.